1

 

United Kingdom

1982

The first explosive bangs sent shockwaves through the house, rattling the window frames as if they were dancing to an unexpected rhythm. Zayn’s gaze darted towards the door, yet his reaction wasn’t one of alarm, but of a resigned acceptance. Despair had overtaken him, numbing his ability to feel anything else. Soon, a second barrage of bangs reverberated through the walls, their heavy thuds echoing up the stairs, causing an uproar among the other residents. Panic was no stranger to this house whenever someone dared to knock on the door. After all, more than half of the nineteen men who found refuge within its cramped, three-bedroom embrace were in the UK without legal permission. Some had mysteriously arrived, as if defying the laws of logic, while others had acquired fake passports. But for most, they had simply overstayed their welcome, their presence now a precarious secret. However, Zayn had an instinctive feeling that this was not a matter concerning them, nor was it the Immigration Office demanding entry. No, this disturbance had one purpose—him.

 

“It’s the Police! Open up!” a commanding voice boomed from beyond the door, its authoritative tone demanding immediate attention.

In that instant, time seemed to halt as everyone within froze, like bewildered animals caught in the blinding glare of approaching headlights. Their gazes fixated blankly, unsure of what lay ahead.

“What’s going on?” Khalid whispered, his voice barely audible, as he cautiously edged closer to Zayn, who had positioned himself near the front door. Khalid’s complexion had turned pallid, drained of its usual vibrancy, while his weary eyes drooped with the weight of exhaustion. The parched cracks on his lips spoke of a relentless dryness, as if he had aged five years in a single night, burdened by an unseen weight.

“They’re here for him!” Afzal hissed, his voice low and raspy, laced with a hint of menace, as he spoke from behind. Zayn didn’t need to see his face to know that Afzal was pointing directly at him. Who else could be the target of their attention? There was only one person accountable for the imminent disruption, the arrival of the police, and the trouble that now loomed over them all.

“Chup kar! Shut up!” Khalid sprang to Zayn’s defense, but the act of protection only served to exacerbate Zayn’s inner turmoil.

“No!” Afzal retorted, his voice filled with bitter defiance. Zayn could almost envision his tightly clenched fists and resentment-filled eyes. “I’m done staying silent. We were fine before this troublemaker showed up. I warned you about him countless times!” There was a brief pause, bursting with tension, before Afzal’s words erupted from behind gritted teeth. “This son of a bitch has ruined everything! Zayn! Are you even listening? You did this, you kutah, dog!” The venomous words struck with precision, mercilessly unravelling the layers of guilt and shame that Zayn had struggled so desperately to suppress.

“Open the door now!” the voice thundered once more, its tone escalating in both volume and menace. “Or we’re going to break it down!”

Zayn found himself transported back to his childhood, fleeting memories of his mother reading him the story of The Three Little Pigs resurfaced. Images of the menacing wolf saying, “I’ll huff and puff and blow your house down,” flashed through his mind. The same shudders that once ran down his spine as a child now coursed through him again. However, unlike the fairy tale version his mother had shared, this was reality. And in the real lives of Pakistanis living illegally in the UK during the ’80s, rarely had happy endings.

“We need to do something!” Khalid’s voice trembled, yanking Zayn back to the present, to the imminent danger that surrounded them. “Try to escape through the backdoor or something.” Khalid’s lower lip quivered, mirroring the fear etched across his face. The sheer trepidation in his friend’s expression and voice intensified Zayn’s self-reproach, causing an overwhelming desire to disappear into oblivion. How could he have inflicted this upon everyone? Upon all the individuals in the house? Upon his trusted friend? The weight of his own actions bore down on him with unbearable force, leaving him feeling utterly reprehensible.

‘We shouldn’t have to do anything.’ Afzal spat, ‘They’re after him! I know they are!’

‘You’re not helping,’ Khalid said, ‘This isn’t the time to be pointing fingers!’

“Afzal’s right!” another man’s voice erupted from behind, resonating with frustration. “This has nothing to do with us! We’re being dragged into Zayn’s mess!”

Zayn strained to recognize the unfamiliar voice. With the constant influx of new faces appearing at the house every month, it had become increasingly challenging to keep track of who was who. The only common thread among them in recent weeks was their animosity towards Zayn, holding him responsible for the troubles they now faced. And he couldn’t entirely blame them. For five years, young Pakistani men had come and gone from this house without encountering any significant issues. Their shared goal had been simple: cram themselves together like sardines, toil tirelessly in factories, and accumulate enough money to eventually return home. None of them had intended to stay; this place wasn’t their home, and they didn’t belong here. They were regarded as cheap, hardworking labour, the UK’s short-term solution to a long-term problem.

Until a few months ago, Khalid’s uncle’s house had been deemed a safe haven. It was registered under his name, with all the necessary paperwork in order. He had been cautious, only accommodating individuals from their village in Pakistan—people he could trust and who possessed the proper documentation to work legally in the UK. However, the challenge arose from the intricate cultural hierarchy that prevailed within their village. The village elders held ultimate authority, their decisions superseding all others, regardless of their significance. Although Khalid’s uncle was adamant about not allowing illegal residents into the house due to the inherent risks, the village elders commanded him to house anyone who claimed to be from their village, regardless of their immigration status. Once the elders had spoken, their word carried the weight of law. Khalid’s uncle had no choice but to open the door to anyone who arrived, declaring themselves as fellow villagers from Pakistan. It was the price paid to maintain allegiance to the clan. In their village, everything revolved around clans and tribes. To defy the elders would be an act of treason, leading to expulsion from the tribe. Exile was considered worse than death—an isolated sheep left to be devoured by the lurking wolves.

Zayn felt a sense of gratitude that Khalid’s uncle had temporarily returned to Pakistan for a few months, sparing him from witnessing the chaotic situation unfolding in his own house.

Without casting a glance over his shoulder, Zayn steadily approached the door. He understood that he had to confront the unavoidable. Every man knew that the choices made in life, and the repercussions they carried, would eventually catch up with them. Zayn was no exception. It was time to endure the consequences, whatever they may be.

‘Zayn!’ Afzal hissed, ‘What the hell are you doing?!’

‘Zayn,’ Khalid called in a loud whisper, ‘You don’t have to do this. I’ll distract them, and you can get out the back.’

Zayn paused for a moment, a faint internal smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Khalid was a true exemplar of goodness—a steadfast friend who, despite everything, remained willing to assist others in the house. It seemed as though Khalid regarded every individual who sought refuge in the house as family, as his own responsibility.

However, Zayn knew he couldn’t run. That option was no longer viable. If he chose to flee now, he would be running indefinitely, forever haunted by fear and misery.  Living as a fugitive was not a life he desired. Zayn   refused to endure such an existence. Death would be a more peaceful alternative.

His mother’s voice echoed in his head, ‘You can’t run away from your problems. You must face them even if they wound you. And remember what Rumi once said, The wound is the place where the light enters you.’

What he didn’t tell us was that some wounds cut so deep that they pierce the heart.   

As Zayn cautiously turned the handle on the door, he could hear the sounds of men shuffling and hurried footsteps, desperate to distance themselves from the impending danger. This was the moment—there was no option to retreat, no means of escape.

When Zayn glanced back into the room, it was empty, devoid of the familiar faces that had once filled it. Most of the men had managed to slip away through the back door, seeking refuge in the shadows of anonymity. Those fortunate enough to possess genuine paperwork wisely remained hidden.

Acknowledging the truth in Afzal’s words, Zayn accepted that this was a burden he had to shoulder alone. As much as he loathed Afzal, he couldn’t deny the validity of his claim—the police were indeed here for him. By opening the door now, he could potentially avoid a forceful entry that would expose the hidden reality of the house, a shelter for countless undocumented immigrants.

Zayn felt a deep sense of indebtedness to Khalid and his uncle. They were genuinely good people, undeserving of the consequences that would follow if the truth were revealed. He couldn’t be the cause for shattered dreams and crushed aspirations, stealing away the hopes of escaping poverty and forging a better life for their families. It was his responsibility to protect them.

The door exploded open, the force propelling it inward. Red-faced police officers stormed into the house, their batons raised like swords, their presence overwhelming. The ground seemed to tremble under the weight of their heavy boots as they advanced, a formidable battalion on a mission. Shouts filled the air, mixing with the cacophony of glass shattering.

In the chaos, Zayn barely had time to react before he felt a brutal blow against the side of his head, pain searing through his senses. A blinding flash of light momentarily engulfed him, only to be followed by an overwhelming darkness and silence. Consciousness slipped in and out, his body limp as he was dragged away from the house. The persistent high-pitched ringing in his ears intensified, causing his head to throb with unbearable agony. Pain mingled with confusion as he strained to comprehend the devastating words that pierced through the fog of his disoriented state.

“Zayn Khan, you are under arrest for murder…”

 

2

 

Sulkhot Village, Pakistan

1972

There was an elusive quality to the mornings in Sulkhot village, an intangible essence that infused the air with something extraordinary, something indescribable yet undeniably magical. It couldn’t be captured in words, seen with the naked eye, or heard with the ears alone. But for those who had the fortune to rise early and position themselves in the perfect spot, at the perfect moment, it was something that could be felt deep within the core of their being.

Seeking refuge from the overwhelming noise, Zayn sprinted towards the only sanctuary that offered solace—the hidden haven where his mother had once spun tales of wonder and enchantment. It was a secret place, known only to the two of them—a tranquil spot nestled beyond the boundaries of the sprawling corn fields.

He embraced the stillness around him, surrendering himself to the symphony of nature. The melodious song of birds filled the air, a testament to their resilience and gratitude for surviving the darkness of the night. A gentle breeze, tender and warm, whispered through the landscape, its soft caress barely audible. The long strands of golden grass swayed and danced to the rhythm of the wind’s gentle touch.

A sweet, alluring fragrance emanated from the earth and the blooming flower bushes, suffusing the air with its ambrosial essence. Majestic mountains stood tall and proud in the distance, their presence like giant guardians watching over this sacred sanctuary.

With closed eyes, Zayn sensed the sky transitioning, as if the very fabric of the heavens shifted to a lighter shade of blue. The sun, ready to bestow its scorching warmth upon the earth, prepared to illuminate the world. And in that precise moment, he felt it—a profound sense of serenity, peace, and safety enveloped him.

Memories of a time almost forgotten trickled back, inducing a smile on a face that had smiled very little in recent days. At this point, he would realise that his happy place was not a place at all — it was a time, and that time had passed. A chapter of existence where laughter was plentiful and innocence painted the world in vibrant hues. It was a time when his mother’s enchanting tales wove a tapestry of wonder, igniting his imagination and carrying him to realms beyond the grasp of reality.

Thirteen years of age marked a significant transition in the village – Zayn was no longer regarded as a boy but as a young man. And yet he secretly came here every morning imagining he was being cradled in his mother’s arms, listening attentively as she read. Her accent differed from the villagers, her voice possessing a soft, angelic quality that resonated deep within his soul. Oh, how he longed to hear her voice once more, to bask in the warmth and comfort it brought.

Opening his eyes, Zayn welcomed the caress of the sun’s gentle rays upon his face. He settled beneath the colossal tree that had long provided shade and solace to both him and his mother. Its branches had witnessed their laughter, their shared moments of happiness and delight. Though unable to speak, the tree carried their profound connection within its silent embrace. It knew the depths of her love for him, and it understood the immensity of his love for her. In the sacred stillness of that place, their bond remained alive and vibrant, an enduring testament to the profound love between a mother and her child.

True. Unconditional.

****

Zayn’s eyes shimmered with fascination as he observed his father’s noble task of delivering letters to the houses scattered throughout the village. His father, a source of pride as a diligent farmer tending to the crops and caring for the animals, also held the responsibility of being the designated letter bearer whenever missives arrived from the city.

Every so often, a tall figure clad in trousers and a blue shirt would make his way to the village, clutching a bundle of letters in his hands. Among the villagers, Zayn’s father had been chosen for this honourable duty, not due to his reputation for integrity but mainly because Zayn possessed the ability to decipher the names and addresses inscribed on the envelopes.

A mischievous flutter tickled Zayn’s stomach as he pondered the contents concealed within each letter. Whether they held sentimental messages, humorous anecdotes, good news, bad news, or formal announcements, the letters carried an air of mystery known only to the sender and the recipient. It ignited his imagination and prompted him to play his favourite game, which he had named Guess What?.

Silently and without divulging his secret amusement to anyone, Zayn played this game in the recesses of his mind. It was a personal game, a private realm where he conjured wild theories and made imaginative guesses about the hidden messages within each letter. While others perceived him as a dreamer, lost in his own thoughts, Zayn was, in fact, stealthily engrossed in his playful pursuit.

In the small, tightly-knit village where familiarity reigned, Zayn’s game of Guess What? was enriched by the intimate knowledge he possessed about each household. As his father went about delivering the letters, Zayn contemplated the recipients, posing questions about their identities, occupations, and connections to family abroad. These considerations, along with seasonal nuances and upcoming celebrations, served as vital clues in unraveling the potential contents of each letter.

Over the years, Zayn’s discerning eye had become well-acquainted with various envelopes and stamps. He could easily distinguish the telltale signs of letters arriving from distant lands, those bearing local origins, and even official correspondences from authorities. This part of his game was rooted in logic and grounded in factual observations. Yet, it was the imaginative aspect, the guessing of what lay inside, that truly sparked his joy.

The possibilities were limitless, stretching beyond the boundaries of Zayn’s village and imagination. A soldier pouring out his heart to loved ones, sharing the gritty realities of his experiences. Joyous news of a new-born baby welcomed into the world. A government notice shaping the destiny of the villagers. A threat hidden within cryptic words. Or even the tender whispers of a love letter, professing emotions so deeply felt. The magic lay in the uncertainty, in the endless array of possibilities that each letter contained. It was this very sense of wonder that made the game of Guess What? so marvellous, allowing Zayn to explore realms of human emotions, dreams, and aspirations, even if only in his vivid imagination.

Not so long ago, the opportunity to read one of the letters finally presented itself. Uncle Jameel, not an actual relative but a familiar face in the village, had received a letter written in English. Frustrated and unable to decipher its contents, he turned to Zayn, the young boy known for his ability to read the foreign language. In that moment, Zayn’s excitement soared, his pulse quickening like a wild horse.

Eagerly, Zayn snatched the envelope and unfolded the neatly folded paper, his hands trembling with a mix of curiosity and nerves. This was his chance to unravel the mystery he had so often contemplated during his secret game of Guess What?. As he held the letter, a peculiar fusion of hunger and queasiness stirred within him, accompanied by the sudden urge to relieve himself.

The brown envelope bore a few high-value stamps, positioned at the top right-hand corner, unequivocally indicating its origin from abroad—specifically, England. Zayn’s earlier speculation, while playing the game in his mind, had led him to believe it might be from a family member. Now, he would have the answer right before his eyes. The sheer luck of this moment felt almost unbelievable.

The paper exuded a sense of luxury, its weight and texture distinguishing it from the common wrapping paper used by street vendors. It felt substantial and substantial and demanded attention. As Zayn’s fingers gently glided across its surface, he could discern the subtle embossed logo at the top—a bird perched upon a hammer—an emblem of significance. This was no ordinary letter; it held an air of immense importance that resonated deep within his being. A surge of both excitement and trepidation coursed through him, an inexplicable duality of emotions.

The text, printed in black ink on creamy white paper, hinted at the use of a typewriter—an intriguing machine his mother had described in vivid detail. Bringing the letter closer to his face, Zayn inhaled the distinctive scent of the ink, a sensation that enthralled his senses. It possessed a remarkable allure, unlike anything he had encountered before. Although he was well-acquainted with the comforting scent of books and the aromatic allure of their pages, this was an entirely different experience altogether.

However, as Zayn’s eyes scanned the message, his heart sank. The true essence of the letter lay not in its premium envelope, luxurious paper, or captivating ink but in the heart-wrenching message it contained. No amount of embellishment or fragrant allure could conceal the anguish that reverberated through every word. The letter hailed from England, a place many in the village regarded as the land of dreams and prosperity. Yet, this letter carried no such grandeur. Its contents bore a devastating blow.

It was a communication from a company—an English steel factory—expressing regret and informing the old man that his son had met with an unfortunate accident at the factory. Tragically, the son had succumbed to his injuries while in the hospital. Zayn’s breath hitched, his knees weakened, as the weight of the news settled upon him. This was the cruellest outcome, the worst letter in the game.

The death letter.

‘Is it from Haroon?’ the old man’s eyes filled with nervous anticipation and a hint of excitement, ‘He is in London. Working.’ He said proudly. ‘Why did the rascal write to me in English?’ He chuckled, exposing the gaps in his toothy grin, as he continued, ‘Always was a little jester, that one. Begairat, shameless. He knows I can’t read English, the scoundrel!’

The peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach intensified, mingling with a sense of profound unease. Nausea churned within him, threatening to overpower his composure. How could he find the words to tell the old man that his beloved son had passed away? How could he convey the crushing reality that this letter held the most tragic outcome in the game of Guess What?—the Death Letter.

He couldn’t tell him — he didn’t have the courage. He should never have read the letter. It was a mistake, a big ugly mistake. The letters were better as a mystery. The game was harmless — even the Death Letter didn’t seem so bad while playing. But real life was cruel and unfair. Something Zayn was learning the hard way.

‘Well? Boy! Speak! What does it say?’ The old man looked uneasy. It was as if he had intercepted Zayn’s thoughts and knew his son was no more. Zayn could see beads of sweat forming on the old man’s forehead. He unravelled his white turban and used it to wipe the moisture from his face.

Zayn tugged at his father’s arm, and when he lowered himself, Zayn whispered into his ear. His father’s face turned red as he heard the news. He had a look of sorrow, suggesting that he regretted allowing his son to read the letter delivering such awful news.

The old man’s eyes shifted between Zayn and his father with a haunting intensity. There was a profound understanding in his gaze, a knowing that transcended the need for words.  He knew. He knew everything. They didn’t have to tell him. He knew. Zayn could sense it. Stupid letter! Why did he read the stupid letter? The Death Letter.

‘Is anyone going to tell me what it says or…’ The old man’s voice cut through the heavy silence. He snatched the letter out of Zayn’s hand. He was only asking for verification. He, without realising, just played Guess What? and won. Not a victory he would be celebrating, however.

As Zayn’s father swallowed heavily, his own emotions swirling within him, Zayn found himself unable to bear witness to the old man’s anguish. Overwhelmed by a flood of conflicting emotions, he turned and fled, his feet carrying him away as fast as they could. Each stride propelled him further from the heart-wrenching scene, the echoes of the old man’s cries and wails haunting his ears.

The sound of a grown man’s cries reverberated in Zayn’s mind, intertwining with his own memories of loss and sorrow. It wasn’t only the old man’s tragic loss that tore at his heart; it was the familiarity of that pain, the intimate understanding of the agony that comes with losing someone dear. Zayn knew all too well the anguish of irreversible separation, the anguish of bidding farewell to loved ones with the knowledge that they would never be seen again. It was a torment that echoed through the depths of his soul, a glimpse into the depths of human suffering and the relentless grip of sorrow.

Zayn, accustomed to concealing his tears, adeptly hid his emotions to shield himself from the judgments of others. In the village, there was an unwritten belief that men should not shed tears, for tears were seen as a sign of weakness. The notion of a “real man” was tied to strength, decisiveness, and an unwavering stoicism. But Zayn knew that true strength was not defined by the suppression of emotions.

Within the confines of their home, Zayn had witnessed his father’s tears, glimpses into the vulnerable depths of his heart. His father’s moments of sorrow would come unexpectedly—when memories of Zayn’s mother arose, or when he knelt on the prayer mat in solitude. During those times, tears would flow freely, sometimes for what seemed like an eternity. When his father emerged from those emotional episodes, he would often appear physically and emotionally drained, with swollen, red eyes. The aftermath was unpredictable—his father’s mood could swing either way, from a glimmer of happiness to a pervasive sense of desolation.

On one occasion, summoning his courage, Zayn ventured to ask his father if he had done something wrong, if that was why his father seemed angry. In response, his father’s smile mingled with watery eyes as he gazed upon Zayn, uttering heartfelt words, “You look so much like her.” A tear slipped down his face, encapsulating the bittersweet blend of joy and sorrow that coursed through his heart. Then, his father turned his gaze away, fixating on the wall with a vacant expression, ‘Sometimes that makes me happy… and sometimes it makes me sad.’

Zain spent nights staring in the mirror, desperately grasping at fading memories of his mother. His heart ached at the realisation that her face was gradually slipping from his mind, slipping like sand through his fingers. The reflection before him offered little solace, failing to capture the vibrant essence of his mother’s beauty. The dull complexion, sunken cheeks, crusty lips, and lifeless eyes reflected at him did no justice to her radiant presence.

His mother’s skin glowed with a natural luminosity. Her eyes, large and round, held a depth that seemed to hold galaxies within them. The dimples that adorned her cheeks were like joyous craters on the moon, a reflection of her infectious and captivating smile. Her very existence had the power to illuminate any room, filling it with warmth and goodness. She had been the embodiment of all that was right and pure in his world.

When the unkindness of the world had cruelly snatched her away, it had taken with it all the vibrancy and colour that had once graced Zayn’s life. Though he was not entirely alone, as his father’s love remained steadfast, it was a practical love, focused on providing for his basic needs and imparting discipline. The tenderness and emotional connection he had shared with his mother were irreplaceable.

In the aftermath of his mother’s passing, Zayn’s father underwent a profound transformation, withdrawing from the world and isolating himself from his friends. The vibrant charisma, confidence, and contentment that once defined him seemed to dissipate, replaced by an intense emptiness. Zayn became his father’s sole companion, entrusted with the task of turning away those who sought his father’s presence, even Zayn’s uncle, Uncle Faizaan.

The cruelty of the world had not been satisfied with claiming only his mother. It had also laid its grip upon his father, eroding his spirit and stealing away the essence of who he once was. In the span of a short time, the toll of grief and solitude had rendered him a frail and hollow figure, aging at an accelerated pace. His once-dark hair and beard were now adorned with streaks of grey, a visible testament to the weight he carried. The lines etched upon his forehead seemed more pronounced.

Zayn grabbed his trusty bucket and made his way to the backyard. It had been an entire week since he last washed himself, and he knew it was high time to cleanse his body before his father caught wind of his negligence and unleashed his fury. Oh, how different things used to be when his mother was around. She had always been the guardian of his cleanliness and appearance, ensuring that he carried himself like the handsome prince she believed him to be. “You’re a prince, my darling,” she would whisper with tenderness, “so never let your appearance resemble that of a lowly peasant.”

Fortunately, Zayn’s grandfather had been one of the first in the village to have a well in their own backyard. Even the thought of having to trek for half an hour in the scorching heat to the river and lug back a heavy bucket made him tired. It was a privilege he often took for granted.

Although he had the luxury of using the well for personal washing, Zayn still made regular trips to the river to tend to his and his father’s laundry. He enjoyed observing the skilful hands of Uncle Riaz, the dhobi, washerman, as he immersed the clothes in a large bucket filled with water and soap. With his strong, capable hands, Uncle Riaz would expertly spin and squeeze the garments, coaxing out dirt and grime until the water transformed into a murky testament of his diligence. Then, with a precision honed by years of practice, the clothes were rinsed in the gentle flow of the river, before Uncle Riaz deftly bashed them against a large rock. The sound of wet fabric slapping against the unyielding stone brought a sense of satisfaction to Zayn’s ears, a symphony of cleanliness and renewal.

‘Ah, you cleaned up,’ his father said as Zayn walked back into the house, ‘Just as well. I have something important to tell you.’

Zayn’s heart sped up. He had the uncontrollable urge to scratch his scalp. Washing usually made his skin itch.

It wasn’t another letter, was it? He didn’t want to play the game anymore — he couldn’t tolerate another letter, especially a Death Letter.

‘Here, sit down,’ his father pointed to a wooden stool, ‘There is a good school,’ Zayn remained silent and tried not to show his excitement. A school? ‘But it’s not in the village. It’s in the town.’

A surge of anticipation coursed through Zayn’s veins, the seed of excitement taking root in the depths of his stomach. What could this mean? Was his father finally considering letting him go to school? While Zayn had only ventured to the town a handful of times, he remembered the bustling streets and vibrant atmosphere. It was a place teeming with energy, a stark contrast to the serene calm of the village. His father, however, held reservations about the town, believing it to be an unsuitable environment for women and children.

Zayn’s friend, Hussain, lived a few houses down and went to the town regularly, sometimes accompanied by his mother and other times on his own. Hussain often told Zayn with tales of the town’s wonders, claiming there was always something exciting happening there. Yet, when Zayn shared these stories with his father, his reaction was far from approving. Anger tainted his father’s words as he disparaged Hussain, labelling him a bad influence and discouraging Zayn from spending time with him. The disapproval was clear, a disheartening reminder of the divide between the village and the town.

In the village, there existed a term for children who roamed the town’s streets — Lofars.

‘Although, I’m not happy about you attending a school in town,’ his father said, ‘Your Uncle Faizaan seems to think it would be good for you. And I am beginning to think he is right.’

‘Really?’ A wide smile spread across Zayn’s face, but his mind wrestled with doubt. Could this be real? He questioned the authenticity of the moment, wondering if his overactive imagination had once again woven a embroidery of hope out of thin air. Countless times before, he had allowed himself to be swept away by the whims of his imagination, only to be disappointed by the harsh reality that followed. The prospect of attending school in the town seemed too good to be true, causing a flicker of scepticism to overshadow his excitement.

‘There’s no point you sitting around here doing nothing, and you refuse to come with me to post letters after,’ he paused for a moment, ‘you know, after the letter incident.’

‘So, you mean it. I can go?’ Zayn asked, still in disbelief. A school. A real school where he would be able to read and study books on different subjects.

His father nodded, ‘But don’t you dare be hanging around the town like some Lofar! I won’t have any of that, you hear?’

‘Yes!’ he hissed, ‘Of course,’ he said, trying to look serious, ‘I understand.’

‘I mean it!’ His father’s brows raised, and forehead creased—which meant he was not messing around.

‘I promise,’ Zayn said, ‘No lofaring.’

‘Good.’ His father’s brows returned to their normal position, ‘Now, go and look for something smart to wear.’

‘Now?’ Zayn asked in shock. As in, right now? Was this a dream? Would he wake up to his normal day of trivial tasks?

‘No time like the present. Your uncle has already enrolled you and made all the necessary arrangements.’ His father reached into his pocket and removed a few coins. ‘Take this,’ he handed him the shiny coins. ‘This will cover your bus fare. I’ll take you to where the bus will pick you up. It’s a few minutes from here, and you’ll have to do it on your own after today.’

Zayn nodded and made for his room.

‘Zayn!’ his father called, stopping him in his tracks, ‘Straight to school and straight back home! Understood?’

Zayn nodded again.

‘And your uncle bought you some stationery. I left them in your room.’ More excitement. More disbelief.

Zayn’s conviction solidified as he defiantly pinched himself on the arm, the sting of the pinch leaving a temporary mark. The pain was a visceral confirmation that this was not a figment of his imagination. This was real. A surge of exhilaration coursed through his veins, filling him with a newfound sense of purpose and determination. The long-awaited opportunity to attend a school in the town was finally within reach, and he was determined to embrace it with open arms.

He glanced at the stationery scattered on the bed. A silver pen, polished to a shine. A sharp pencil, poised for precision. And there, nestled among his possessions, were the blank books awaiting the stories, thoughts, and dreams that he would fill their pages with.

Zayn knew immediately that one of the books would serve as his journal, a treasured vessel to collect his thoughts, reflections, and observations along this educational path. It would become a sanctuary for his innermost musings, a testament to his growth and experiences. As he held the crisp, untouched pages in his hands, he felt a surge of gratitude for the opportunities that lay ahead.

The bus was packed and smelled of petrol and sweat. Being one of the shortest passengers on the bus, he struggled to catch even a glimpse of the view outside, the world passing by as a blur through the window. Packed like sardines, the bus seemed to teeter on the brink of bursting at the seams.

At the back rows of seats, a loud group of boys monopolised the space, their boisterous laughter and animated conversations filling the air. Their attire spoke volumes, smart shirts neatly tucked in, trousers adorned with a single, precise crease that ran down the length of their legs. These sartorial details served as a visual marker of their affluence, setting them apart from the rest. Zayn, aware of the stark contrast between their privileged backgrounds and his own humble circumstances, made a conscious effort to keep his head down, blending into the sea of faces that surrounded him.

His father’s words echoed in his mind, a reminder to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. It was best to go unnoticed, to navigate the social complexities with caution. The unspoken rules of societal hierarchy were ingrained within him, reminding him to tread lightly in the presence of those from more prosperous casts. Eye contact was to be minimised; interactions kept to a minimum. To attract attention could potentially invite trouble.

As the bus rattled along its route, Zayn remained a silent observer, keenly aware of the invisible divisions that permeated the crowded space.

‘It doesn’t matter what you see, what they do, what they say. You don’t say anything to them. Don’t talk to them, and don’t make eye contact with them. Nothing. You’re nothing in their eyes, less than nothing. And that can be a dangerous thing if you’re not careful.’

But it was hard not to look at them. They laughed loudly and banged on the windows and the seats like wild animals. The driver looked into the rear-view mirror at the boys but didn’t say anything. He looked as anxious as everyone else.

Zayn’s father explained that casts were important in Pakistan — each acting superior to other. But it wasn’t superiority; it was about wealth because wealth equated to power, and power meant everything. No wealth meant no power, and no power meant you were the prey.

Stepping off the bus, Zayn was immediately hit with the pungent fumes of the bustling town mingled with the alluring aroma of street food, creating an intoxicating fusion of scents that seemed to dance in the air. It was a paradoxical blend of awfulness and amazement, capturing the dichotomy of urban life.

As Zayn took his first steps into the town, he felt as though he had stepped into a whole new world. The streets teemed with people, moving like a synchronized swarm of bees, each with their own purpose and destination.

Realisation dawned upon Zayn, flooding his mind with a newfound awareness. All his thirteen years had been spent within the confines of the village, surrounded by sprawling fields and majestic hills. In his younger years, he had naively believed that beyond those hills, nothing existed. The village had been his entire universe, a self-contained microcosm that sheltered him from the outside world. Yet, his mother had told tales of the vastness that lay beyond, speaking of cars, airplanes, and people traversing vast seas to explore diverse cultures and lands. Those stories had always felt like fantastical tales, distant echoes of a world beyond his reach.

Zayn’s mother was a captivating enigma in the village, a woman who seemed to possess a world of knowledge and experiences beyond its boundaries. Unlike the villagers, she came from the city, Karachi, a place that existed in Zayn’s imagination as a vibrant place of life and opportunity. Her father, a professor at a college, represented a profession and institution that held a certain aura in Zayn’s mind.

As a young boy, he would incessantly question his mother about her city life, the concept of a professor, and the wonders of a college. Her patient and thoughtful responses only served to ignite his curiosity further, sparking his imagination with visions of bustling streets, towering buildings, and a realm of learning that seemed distant yet alluring.

Physically, his mother stood out among the villagers, her fair complexion shining like a beacon against a backdrop of sun-kissed faces. Her captivating blue eyes held a depth that seemed to hold the secrets of a thousand stories. She was a lover of literature. Poetry flowed effortlessly from her lips, and she would sprinkle quotes from famous authors into everyday conversations, as if her life were intertwined with the very essence of literature itself.

In contrast, Zayn’s father embodied practicality and a sense of constant worry. A man grounded in the realities of village life, he was unable to read, and his perspective was shaped by his experiences and the weight of his responsibilities. Yet, somehow, the magnetic pull of their differences drew them together. Their conversations were a mixture of laughter and animated discussions, as if their stark contrasts enriched their connection rather than creating division.

Zayn often found himself caught between their worlds, his mother’s ethereal presence and his father’s grounded nature shaping his own identity.

Zayn silently screamed in shock as he fell to the ground, barged by people rushing past. Desperately attempting to regain his footing, Zayn struggled against the tide of people surging around him. Each time he tried to rise, he found himself knocked off balance once more, like a fragile insect trying to navigate a treacherous path. The towering figures of people seemed to loom over him, their hurried strides threatening to trample him beneath their weight.

Zayn’s gaze fixated on a boy ahead, captivated by his agility and grace amidst the towering figures that surrounded them. Despite his dishevelled appearance, with a worn and torn shalwar kameez and unkempt hair, it was the boy’s bare feet that caught Zayn’s attention. They moved swiftly and effortlessly, navigating the bustling crowd as if the giants were mere illusions.

 How? He was superhuman, must be!

Zayn tried to copy the superhuman boy’s manoeuvres, but he was back on the dusty ground before he knew it. He crawled to the side of the road and leaned against a wall, catching his breath. His eyes darted around the crowd, searching for the boy, but he had disappeared into the chaos. A pang of uncertainty seeped into Zayn’s thoughts. Had the boy been a figment of his imagination, conjured from his longing for a guiding presence amidst the overwhelming town?

As he observed the seamless dance of the crowd, he realised the key to navigating this chaotic town lay in becoming invisible, a ghost among the giants. Remembering his father’s words, he summoned the advice he had imparted on countless occasions.

“Blend into the background, Zayn,” his father had said, his eyes filled with a mixture of caution and concern. “Be like a shadow, unnoticed by the thronging masses. Watch and learn, but don’t attract attention. It’s a cruel world full of people who do horrible things! We all have monsters buried deep inside us, son. And sometimes, the monsters come out, and ugly things happen. So be careful of the monsters. And be even more careful of the monster inside you!”

His father’s frequent warnings about human nature, specifically the importance of facing one’s inner demons, resonated deeply with Zayn. The memories of those enchanting nights, when his father spun captivating tales, remained etched in his mind as he weaved through the bustling streets of the town. The imagery from those storytelling sessions was vivid, each flickering flame of the makeshift tandoor mirroring the fiery depths of Zayn’s imagination. While his mother busily prepared the flour for chapattis, his father would regale them with elaborate stories of love, war, betrayal, and the profound moral lessons they carried. These narratives stretched the limits of Zayn’s imagination, leaving an indelible impression on his young heart and igniting an unwavering passion for the transformative power of storytelling.

His mother, deeply moved by his father’s tales, often expressed her conviction that he must have been a prominent novelist in a past life. She believed he possessed the ability to craft stories infused with wisdom, capable of motivating soldiers on the brink of battle, rekindling the passion between star-crossed lovers, and inciting rebellions that could reshape the world. Yet, his father would laugh, gently dismissing her praise. He acknowledged his talent lay solely in the oral tradition of storytelling, humorously reminding her that he lacked the skill to write. Writing, he maintained, was a pursuit reserved for the educated few, a privilege he had never enjoyed. Growing up, Zayn’s father had worked on his own father’s land, a responsibility he dutifully carried into adulthood, defining his life’s path.

But his incredible stories, like his warm character, were no more after Zayn’s mother died. It was like the best parts of him had disappeared with her.

Getting up from the ground, Zayn dusted off his trousers, determined to blend in and remain unnoticed. His sole focus was reaching the school without any mishaps. Inhaling deeply, he dove into the bustling crowd, his heart pounding with anticipation. He swiftly positioned himself behind a man heading in the same direction, mirroring his steps meticulously. If he couldn’t navigate through the throng of people on his own, he would emulate someone else until he reached his destination. The strategy worked. Zayn shadowed the man’s movements, carefully manoeuvring through the twisting maze of bodies. After a few minutes of this careful dance, he finally arrived at the school gate.

As he stepped through the entrance, Zayn couldn’t help but think of his mother. Her pride would overflow if she knew he was attending a proper school. The thought brought a smile to his face, imagining her glowing with delight. He could almost envision the slight tremor of nerves mixed with joy at the corners of her lips. His mother saw so much potential in him, far more than he saw in himself. Despite the overwhelming fear he felt, he knew he had to push through. It wasn’t just for his own sake, but for her as well. Her unwavering belief in him provided the reassurance and confidence he needed to take on this challenge.

3

 

For almost two months, Zayn grappled with the adjustments required to navigate his daily journeys to and from school. The experience was vastly different from the lessons his mother had imparted when teaching him the basics of reading and writing. The school environment proved to be intense, overwhelming him with new knowledge and challenges. In his village, Zayn had been regarded as exceptionally intelligent, a reputation that only grew once he began attending school. However, within the confines of the classroom, he found himself lagging behind, constantly struggling to keep pace with his peers.

Undeterred by these difficulties, Zayn displayed remarkable determination. After each class, he would linger behind, seeking guidance and support from his teachers. While his persistent requests for assistance might have tested their patience, they couldn’t help but admire his unwavering tenacity and infectious enthusiasm for learning.

After a year of relentless effort, Zayn managed to ascend to the pinnacle of his class. His insatiable curiosity led him to ask probing questions that extended far beyond the confines of traditional academia. In no time, he found himself engaged in philosophical discussions with his teachers, delving into subjects such as societal issues, the economy, and even politics. Much of his knowledge stemmed from the books he borrowed from the school library.

Zayn’s remarkable progress didn’t go unnoticed by the entire school staff. He became widely recognised as the brilliant yet impoverished boy from the village, and his reputation only continued to soar. The teachers admired his exceptional intellect and dedication, fostering a strong bond with him. However, his rapid ascent to success created a stark divide between him and his peers. While the faculty held him in high regard, jealousy and envy simmered among the other students, making him an outsider among his own classmates.

Most of the students in the school were from wealthy families. It was the kind of institution that required considerable financial means to enrol one’s children, making Zayn’s presence all the more conspicuous. His father simply could not afford such expenses, struggling even to provide him with adequate footwear. However, Zayn never voiced any complaints. He understood the hardships his father endured and firmly believed that destiny dictated one’s wealth. It seemed to him that everyone received precisely what was written for them, not a rupee more or less. This perspective was the only explanation for the stark contrast between individuals who toiled relentlessly yet earned meager incomes, while others exerted far less effort and reaped greater financial rewards. Zayn couldn’t help but reflect on how some individuals were fortunate enough to inherit vast fortunes, unearned but bestowed upon them by birthright.

The world at large appeared shrouded in a similar enigma. Certain regions possessed an abundance of resources, others claimed the lion’s share of the world’s water supply, some harbored densely populated areas, while certain pockets amassed the majority of global wealth. It seemed as though equilibrium was absent, perpetuating a sense of mystery and imbalance across the planet.

Zayn’s enrollment in the prestigious school had little to do with wealth and owed much to the influence of his uncle, Faizaan. Despite not being exceptionally affluent himself, Faizaan possessed valuable connections that played a pivotal role in securing Zayn’s admission.

The stark contrast between Zayn’s modest appearance and the noticeable affluence of the other boys in school was impossible to ignore. They sported expensive shirts, belts with gleaming buckles, and adorned their wrists with shimmering watches. Many arrived in cars, further highlighting the economic disparity. Despite their division into social groups based on caste, they shared a common target of disdain — Zayn. He was the poor, unassuming boy with short, scruffy hair who wore the same clothes day after day. Instead of shoes, he wore worn-out sandals, and he often went without eating throughout the day. Though he resembled a homeless child, Zayn possessed an impeccable command of the English language, excelled academically, and enjoyed the admiration of the teachers. Unfortunately, these very qualities made him a target, prompting him to avoid the playground and remain within the watchful gaze of the teachers.

The desire to embrace the comfort of using a seated toilet instead of the unsanitary, insect-infested holes he had been accustomed to in the village was strong within Zayn. However, he refrained from using the school toilets after a traumatizing incident. The last time he attempted to do so, a group of boys attacked him, subjecting him to physical assault and attempting to dunk his head into the toilet bowl. Fortunately, one of the teachers intervened upon hearing the commotion, saving Zayn from further humiliation. The boys departed with smirks on their faces, escaping any consequences for their actions.

Wealth meant status and power.

The teachers seemed to hold no sway over the powerful individuals in the school; in fact, it was the complete opposite. Some students were afforded special treatment, causing the teachers to tiptoe around them and turn a blind eye to the most objectionable incidents. Zayn keenly observed these dynamics, gradually unravelling the complex nature of people. Their caste, place of origin, and esteemed family name seemed to dictate their behaviour and the treatment they received. Those from higher castes conducted themselves with an air of entitlement, as if the world existed solely to fulfil their desires.

Curiously, despite their wealth, power, and status, these individuals appeared perpetually unhappy. They were under constant pressure to prove their superiority over others. Rich and powerful as they were, they remained trapped in the suffocating grip of pride. The more Zayn observed the world around him, the more he became convinced that equality and happiness were mere illusions.

He realised that those with little possessed a profound sadness stemming from their lack, while those with more harboured an insatiable desire for even greater wealth. The possessions one owned became inconsequential in the grand scheme of life. The price of existence extended far beyond material wealth—it was intertwined with suffering. In such a life of perpetual suffering, happiness seemed elusive and unsustainable.

Abandoning the pursuit of happiness, Zayn found comfort in the pages of literature. He immersed himself in the works of authors like Charles Dickens and George Orwell, discovering a deep connection to their writings. Poets like Rumi resonated with him, as if they possessed a profound understanding of human nature. Their works provided him with additional context, shedding light on the behaviour of those around him, including the teachers who feared speaking out against the privileged children and nephews of wealthy business owners and politicians. Despite their knowledge and wisdom, the teachers paled in comparison to those from affluent backgrounds. An invisible war raged between the rich and the poor, with neither side wholly good nor evil, and neither capable of emerging as the victor or loser. They simply existed, and nothing more. The rich projected an air of superiority based on their wealth, while the poor clung to a sense of nobility born out of their poverty.

The concept of polarisation dominated Zayn’s thoughts, exposing the blunt injustices ingrained in society.

The additional hours of picking at his teachers’ brains and hacking away at English, Mathematics and Science textbooks up until the late hours of the night paid off in Zayn’s first set of major exams. After a while, his father stopped complaining to Uncle Faizaan about the amount of oil Zayn was burning in the lantern at night to read through textbooks. Of course, it helped that Uncle Faizaan was forever convincing Zayn’s father that this was the best thing for his nephew, that he would thrive in an academic environment. And when Zayn’s father would protest that he was getting old and could do with help when tending the land, Uncle Faizaan would gently remind him that this is what Zayn’s mother wanted for him.

It rang true in Zayn’s mind; he recalled a conversation he had inadvertently overheard between his mother and father. A conversation about him and his future, one they were unaware he had been silently witnessing.

“Zayn is such a curious and bright boy,” his mother’s voice echoed in Zayn’s memory. “Working on the land will never ignite his mind the way formal education could. He has the potential to achieve something great in his life if given the opportunity to attend school and college.”

These words never offended his father, for he, too, understood the limitations and challenges of working the land. He often grumbled about the difficulty of the labour, particularly under the sweltering heat. Deep down, he recognised Zayn’s lack of interest in the land. While he enjoyed running through the fields and interacting with their few animals, his fascination never extended beyond that. Instead, he would return from the land with fresh ideas, seeking to streamline the laborious daily tasks and make the work more efficient. However, his father dismissed these ideas as mere laziness, perceiving Zayn’s quest for shortcuts as a means to evade the demands of a hard day’s work.

‘He’s a thinker,’ she continued.

‘That’s great, but the world runs on doers!’ his father responded. ‘Thinkers tell fairy tales and trick people into believing ridiculous ideas. The land provides us with the food and resources we need to survive. This is real, not some delusional dream for the foolish.’ He placed his face in his palms and then shook his head.

‘Since when was life solely about survival?’ his mother asked. She sat next to him and placed her hand on his knee, ‘Surely, living can’t be just about surviving day to day. I want more for Zayn. I want—’

‘Listen,’ Zayn’s father interrupted and looked up at her, ‘I need the boy to understand how this all works in case something, God forbid, happens to me. He will need to look after you.’

‘I can look after myself!’ his mother snapped boldly.

‘What? By teaching children how to read and write?’

‘What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with children getting an education?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ he said in a softer tone. ‘I know how much you love education and books, and that’s great, but you know what the folks around here are like. The neighbours have been talking.’

‘What do you mean talking? They’re always talking! They can never mind their own damn business!’ Zayn could see the vein on her forehead expanding. That’s how he knew when she was furious.

‘Some neighbours have been talking about you and your teaching — they don’t like it, especially you teaching the young girls. They don’t think it’s right.’

There was a short but uncomfortable pause before Zayn’s mother spoke.

‘I think there are a lot of intelligent and talented children in the village who could benefit from learning how to read and write. Especially the young girls!’

‘You’re probably right, but look around you; we’re not in the sort of place that will allow this.’

‘Allow this?’ She removed her hand from his knee. ‘What do you mean allow this?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I’m not sure I do… because it sounds like you are trying to tell me to stop teaching.’ There was a short pause before she spoke again, ‘So, you and everyone else in the village were fine when I was the quiet housewife, obediently getting on with serving the—’

‘That’s enough!’ Zayn’s father said authoritatively. ‘You are a brilliant woman, and it is something that I have always admired about you, but—’

‘But what?’

‘But I’m just worried that people won’t understand what you are doing, especially the type of people around here. They’ve never left this place and are so stuck in their ways that,’ he paused and took a deep breath, ‘Look, people do stupid things when they are scared or don’t understand things. People don’t like change around here, and you teaching young girls to read and write is a big change.’

‘You want me to stop?’

‘I just want you to be okay.’

‘What do you think is going to happen?’

‘Nothing. I… I don’t know. I’m just scared.’

‘Don’t be,’ she said gently. ‘I will stop teaching the children in the village.’

‘Thank you. I’m sorry—’

‘But on one condition,’ she interrupted, ‘Zayn gets an education. A proper, formal education. In a real establishment.’

‘Okay.’ Zayn’s father said after a moment, ‘But only after he has spent some time learning how to work the land. I can’t have him oblivious to how things work in the real world.’

‘Ok,’ she smiled, exposing her dimples, ‘Thank you.’

That was the last time Zayn caught a glimpse of his mother, as he discreetly observed through a narrow gap between the doors.