Beyond the Dreams

By Rehan Alavi

Hamad and Shad were two brothers who fled the war-torn region of North Waziristan near Pak-Afghan border. The elder brother took a dangerous sea journey that ended in the Christmas Island detention centre in Australia. The younger brother with his extreme views reached a moderate business family living in the southern city of Karachi. The family member Rub and his business partner Fazal were close friends, but a dramatic scene emerged when they were trapped in a scam knitted by their business rival. Hamad explored a treasure of books in the house that brought him into direct conflict with his extreme views and led to a heinous plot. The grandfather of Rub was Hamads mentor, but the revelation of a secret in the grandfathers life opened a Pandoras box of love and hate with a high risk of identity theft and fraud. Hamads brother Shad met Badar in Australia. He listened to his story. Badar grew up in a lavish Indian mansion but was curious about his hated Pakistani father who disappeared after a few years of marriage with his mother in Sydney. Many other characters sneak in that stretched the story from Mansehra to Java, Sydney, America, Bangkok, Karachi, Lucknow and Jhansi. Each character appears with dreams. The combination of all set the landscape for an unfolding of social and political drama titled as Beyond the Dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Mar 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503504004

Rehan Alavi

Rehan Alavi is writing fiction for more than two decades. He came across with thousands of real-life stories during his career as radio journalist and executive producer since he migrated from Pakistan to Australia fourteen years back. Professionally, he is an IT operations analyst in an American multinational. Rehan graduated from University of Technology, Sydney but equally loves to live behind the microphone besides writing on social and political topics. Rehan has contributed articles and blogs to a variety of magazines and written many short stories. Several of his popular fictions are published in Urdu language. He spends his time mixing with and writing about some of the shadiest characters of real life. He loves social drama and the artistic suspense of breaking moments that reflects in his stories and grips the reader. Rehan is married and settled in Sydney with his wife and two daughters.

Book preview

Chapter 1

‘D id you recently speak to your brother H amad?’

Badar’s question prompted Shad. ‘No, I did not. Why you thought about him?’

‘I found several vacancies for nurses and paramedical staff in yesterday’s newspaper, besides news about higher immigration points for nursing professionals. Why do you not advise him to apply for Australian skill immigration?’

‘He won’t agree. Yes, if someone else will advise, then he might consider… but leave this topic. Let me know about your mother’s health. How is she?’

‘Still alive,’ Badar said with sorrow.

‘I know that Parkinson destroys the link between brain, nerves and human response. I have seen many Parkinson’s patients in the nursing home,’ he shared.

‘My mother was a very active lady in her young life.’

‘Was she born in India?’

‘Yes. Her father (my grandfather) is an influential and prosperous business person in India. He is from the ruling family of Nawabs (last ruling class during British Raj).’

I called my mother’s father Nanajan (Grandfather). He had a retinue of servants. His home was a large lavish mansion. My mother was the only daughter of Nanajan, and so the beloved. She used to manage female servants, commonly known as Mama or Khadma.

The Nanajan’s home was equivalent to a mini-palace and called Bari Haveli. Government officials, business persons, and influential politicians felt proud to establish friendship with him. Political parties always attempted to reach him to grab Muslim votes. He was one of the richest in the region, so influential.

His Bari Haveli (large mansion) was partitioned into many portions, including an accommodation for permanent servants at the back. The front lobby opened into the main guest reception hall, sitting room and dining hall. A middle corridor led towards women and gents sections, respectively called Zanan Khana and Mardan Khana. Both sections had separate staircases at the foyer that joined upper-level bedrooms. There was a large garden called Pa’en Baagh at the back of the main building that created a buffer between the guesthouse section and the servant accommodation. Even in the great-grandfather’s time, the guest rooms were equipped with lavish furniture, annexed washrooms with hot-cold water facilities and stylish corridors that were decorated with traditional bronze and silver pottery and utility pots such as ‘Pandan’ (petal pot) and ‘Ugaldan’ (spittoon). A set of fountains could be seen from each back room gazebo. Main building side door access reached towards storage where ‘Sara-e-Aam’ (public staying area) was used for casual servants. These were mostly used during celebrations and festive days, including Eid, Baqer-Eid etc. A large kitchen became vibrant during the events, rattled by large cooking utensils such as ‘Karahi’ and ‘Dayg’ to facilitate celebrative varieties of menu.

Shad was astonished, listening as Badar sketched a scene of a fairyland.

‘Wow. What a palace. Where is it located?’ Shad asked curiously.

‘Nana was from Lucknow. Even before British Raj, Lucknow’s culture had great influence on the entire Indian society. Many subcontinent cultural and traditional values, including Urdu and Hindi language, still have great influence on the moderate and cultural values of Lucknow. This historical city had fame for its sophisticated art and gentle values. This city was the cultural hub in the entire subcontinent. Nanajan’s business took him to Jhansi where he built this Haveli. Jhansi is in the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh and part of the Bundelkhand District. The Bundelkhand District is just in the middle of India, and it is divided between the northern state of Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh. Lucknow is the capital of Uttar Pradesh (UP), the most populous state of India.’

‘I heard the population of UP is more than Pakistan’s and has the largest Muslim population,’ Shad interrupted.

‘The population of UP is around 220 million. It has the second largest Muslim population after Kashmir.’

‘You mean Indian-occupied Kashmir?’ Shad tried to correct him.

Badar ignored Shad’s comment and continued, ‘Its district, Panna, is famous for diamond mines while Khajuraho has ancient Buddhist ruins and monuments.’

‘Like Mohenjo Daro and Herpa of Pakistan?’

‘Yes, but not as large as Texila and Mohenjo Daro.’

‘My Nanajan had a keen interest in history, especially about the region. Munshi Baba (secretary), a senior servant, also shared several historical stories. Nanajan used to tell me stories of upper and ruling class while Munshi Baba shared tales related to ordinary people who gained fame. Nanajan’s library had a large collection of historical books. I used to hear stories from Munshi Baba by sitting in his servant’s quarter. His seven-year-old granddaughter, Resham, used to hear these stories with interest while hiding behind the carton.’ Not sure how but young Badar could see the fear in her eyes. Nanajan did not like Badar in the company of lower-class people like Munshi Baba.

‘Your Urdu is very fine. What language people speak in Jhansi?’

‘Budelkhel native language is Bundeli, but our home language is Urdu. Most of our family members, including my mother and myself, studied in Lucknow University.’

‘Is Jhansi not the same place where a princess gained fame due to her bravery?’

‘Yes, Rani Jhansi, and she tried to seek assistance from a lawyer to retain her assets against the East India Company. Interestingly, this lawyer was Australian John Lang. He was known as the first Australian novelist. Unfortunately, Rani could not ever begin this case and died in battle with the British. John Lang was from Sydney who died in Masuri, India, at the age of forty eight, and his grave is still located in the Camel Back cemetery.’

‘All these stories must be shared to you by your Nanajan?’ Shad repeated his query.

‘The John Lang story was told by Munshi Baba, but Nanajan did not like any story from the servants’ quarter. If you will spend time at the coal furnace, you will get smoke, ash and amber, however, if you will sit in a perfume shop, you will get fragrance from the environment. Environment and surroundings create great impact on you, he advised me. He told me the story of Emperor Shah Jahan’s daughter Jahan Ara. In the story, the Mogul princess stayed overnight in this district while travelling to the capital, Delhi, and the king of this region, Chatar Saal Dulara, fell in love with her, though the story ended in tragedy where no one could get each other because Mogul princesses were not allowed to marry a non-Mogul and the king became demented and left the kingdom.

‘You should be proud of your Nanajan family and his ancestors. All of them were great people. Fair supervisor and highly praised dignitaries of each time’ Nanajan advised me calmly. I know a lot about your family, but very little about family on my father’s side. Do you know about the family background of my father? I mean… was he Pakistani? I asked reluctantly. Pakistani! Bloody Pakistani. I hate those who divided us and made us weaker here. Granted large properties in claim against our assets, but I equally hate this new generation. Low-grade bas——ds who flirt with wealthy innocent girls and when failing to get her wealth left her for the next hunt.’

I had not found Nanajan with this much anger ever. Nanajan looked me with red boiling eyes. Since then I never dared to ask any question about my father’s family. As Badar remembered, he himself was puzzled and confused on those days. In this palace-type mansion, why was his mother sick and sad? Why were Resham’s eyes dipped in fear?

Badar could not forget that evening when he was passing by Nanajan’s room and from the outside heard Munshi Baba’s crying voice from the room. Yes, it was Nanajan and Munshi Baba who were talking about Resham’s father. Badar just hid under the entrance pillar and could not be seen by anyone, but he was able to hear the conversation clearly.

‘Sarkar (Boss), Resham’s father is sordid. I cannot leave Resham with him anymore.’

Badar could recognise Munshi Baba’s voice.

‘Did you not think about his cusses when you gave your daughter to him?’

‘He was a laborious young farmer. I thought he would be able to take care of my daughter. But drought changed everything. Farmers are looking to the sky for three years. Animals are dying, and the farmer’s kitchen is cold. Families of poor farmers near to death. Land is arid and parched. Until he had earnings, he was supporting his family, but now every farmer is passing through the phase of dryness. Now even his own daughter is scared of him. His debt doubled in the last six months, and his demands kept increasing every month. He thinks I am an owner of this Haveli. He forced his wife to come here and ask me for help. Daily verbal abuse has extended to physical abuse. Now my daughter has not agreed to return home. Neither she wants Resham to stay with her husband anymore,’ Munshi Baba summarised in a sobbing voice.

‘But you crossed all limits this time and attempted to axe him. If I would not interfere, you would have gone to jail. Can you explain why you attacked him?’ Nanajan’s anguished voice echoed.

‘Sarkar (Boss), pardon me, even if you were there at that time, you would have done the same.’

‘What?’

‘Sarkar, I know. The truth I want to reveal today is shameful enough to die before I talk about it. But I have to tell the full story. After three years of drought, my daughter’s husband, Mujjo, forced her daughter Resham to join the Khaddi (handwoven) home factory. Majority of farmers were doing the same and sending siblings and children for child labour jobs. This was the only earning source for hundreds of farmer families. Several children’s rights activists, children support groups and NGOs were demanding abolishment of so-called child labour. Foreign governments also increased pressure against child labour and forced to declare it a crime. Campaigners demanded to boycott the products that involve child labour. In the end authorities took action against all industries where children can potentially be working. Besides severe punishment, consumer boycott schemes were initiated for those who practised child labour. Police raided cottage industries and small factories, and thousands of children were losing their jobs. At the end, their homes were left without a single earner. Hunger surrounded their families. Farmers started committing suicide. Mujjo was also left with nothing but hunger and awaiting death at his doorstep.

‘Government agencies, social organizations, NGO or campaigners could not ever provide any alternative source of income. No one brought forward any scheme to save them from poverty, hunger and death but ceased the source of income in the name of children’s rights, without thinking that in the absence of alternate options children will be the first to be impacted. Farmers were forced to see helplessly their dying children.

‘Mojo used to force out my daughter along with a résumé as routine, but this time he sends my daughter back to my home without Resham. He kept Resham to do the chores and errands. I was marvelling and surprised and suspicious when my daughter returned home without Resham. The next day I decided to go to Mujjo’s home. I had taken a shortcut from inside the farms’ walking path in between many farmlands. Near the roadside kerb, I saw a small crowd of farmers. All had circled someone. When I reached closer, I found Mujjo’s friend who was holding his thirteen-year-old daughter in his arms. His financial situation was not different from Mujjo’s. His daughter also ceased working at Khaddi (hand weaving) with Resham.

‘What happened to your daughter? I saw blood on her pyjamas while seeing dark shades of fear on the farmer’s face. Girl was semi-conscious and traumatized. Go away. She has fever. I gave her medicine from the clinic. You all get lost. Go away. Everything is all right, the farmer shouted with anger and frustration. The crowd dispersed. Heavy vehicles, truck, trailers, busses and Lorries were crawling on parallel running this bumpy part of the national highway. Heavily loaded truck containers transport goods to other states on this highway. Speed barker also forced them to slow down. Some drivers were gazing out of their vehicle windows.

‘The girl’s face was white, and sleepers also had drops of blood. I was not settled with the farmer’s story. Tell me the truth. What happened with her? I suspiciously asked. Tell me the truth or I will take your life. The farmer was frightened, but his eyes were crying for mercy. He slowly opened the fist of the semi-conscious innocent girl. There were four notes of hundred rupees.

‘Baba, hunger and poorness forced to do the most mean and humiliating deed. This is the only way to save dying family. A poor farmer cannot imagine earning this much by any other means. That driver was kind enough to give this much, otherwise, farmers told me that rupees three hundred rate is standard. Farmer was speaking in an emotionless voice. He was not in his senses. I started hitting him with full force continuously, but he did not stop me. I suddenly thought of my granddaughter Resham. Where is she? Where is Mujjo? I left the farmer moaning and wildly ran towards the highway. The speed breaker was still slowing down the traffic. I had blood in my eyes. I saw two shadows near the kerb. As I reached closer, those shadows converted into Mujjo and Resham. Mujjo was waving a hand to a mini-truck. I gripped my axe strongly. Resham saw me, ran away from Mujjo towards me and hugged me.

‘Mean, vermin, bastard. You were renting innocent tiny flowery daughter of your own. I gathered all my force and hit the axe to his head. He attempted to stop the axe, but he was too weak at resisting due to hunger and starvation. My Resham was saved on that day, but I saw many other farmers were going with girls towards the same speed breaker. Farmers are still committing suicide. Underage girls are still rented to passing drivers on hourly rates. No NGO, no organization and no child support group are running any campaign about this unsightly curse. Tell me, Sarkar, where will these poor take their petition? Who will hear their hungry, weakening voices? Munshi Baba was sobbing. And Badar was motionless standing outside the room and felt himself under the huge weight of mountains.’

"Badar Bhai, your station.’

Shad’s voice pulled Badar out from his Nanajan’s Haveli to the train station. He had tears in his eyes.

‘Badar Bhai, are you all right?’ Shad was looking at his expressionless face. They both exited the train and started walking towards the nursing home.

After a few days Shad was travelling by train and Badar also sat next to him. Badar asked several questions about Pakistan, and at last Shad could not resist asking Badar about his father.

‘Your father was Pakistani, you’re born in Sydney, and your mother was from India. I have difficulty in joining your family triangle. Can you make it easy for me?’ he asked with such innocence that Badar could not hold his smile despite the painful nature of the question.

Badar looked at him thoughtfully for a while and changed his mind. He decided to release his burden.

‘My mother was too keen about education, and despite all opposition she got permission from Nanajan to get admission in Lucknow University. One visiting professor from Australia advised her to apply for Australian university scholarship. Luckily she got it, but Nanajan did not allow her to go abroad. I think he was right. She should get married and then she can do whatever she likes but not travel abroad while single.’

Shad shared his traditional views.

‘Many other relatives and Nanajan’s friends also advised the same, but Ammi’s (Mother’s) assertiveness and her Australian professor’s convincing left little room for Nanajan to hold her. Then Nanajan also surrendered.’

‘Your culture also relies on capture and surrender?’

‘It is only an idiom or expression.’ Badar paused for a while but again was lost in thought.

‘My parents met in Sydney during their studies. In the final year of university they married in a court. One day my father left forever. I was only two. My mother attempted to find him and even received one gift parcel delivered at the doorstep but without clue of my father’s whereabouts. In the meantime, Nanajan sent his son to take me and Mother back to India. Nanajan never accepted my father. A stranger met abroad, married to his daughter and left her with a two-year-old son without any further traces. All this was sufficient for him to stamp my father an opportunist and fraud.’

‘What was your father’s name?’

‘Khaliq Khan. I saw this name in my school admission form in the column of the father’s name. I had grown up in India. Mother’s health deteriorated since then, and that led to Parkinson. I do not know much about my father as his name was forbidden in Nanajan’s Haveli. Mother was unable to speak much due to Parkinson. She showed me a family ring of my father.’ Badar rotated the ring around his finger while talking. ‘That is the only thing associating me with my father and made me further curious to find out about him.’

‘Did not you try to trace your father?’

‘I did all efforts but could not trace. Entire Internet search, googling references and many other ways were tried. I am not sure if he was really from Pakistan or anyother part of Indian sub continent. Some clues directed me to Kashmir.’

‘But which one, occupied Kashmir or independent Kashmir? I mean, was he from Indian Kashmir or Pakistani Kashmir?’ Shad tried to rephrase the sentence for Badar.

‘Really not sure. But frankly speaking, I do not trust Pakistanis nor does my Nanajan,’ Badar bitterly confessed.

‘Did not your Nanajan declare your father an ISI (Pakistani secutity agenty) agent?’

‘No, not at all, the same way as you did not declare me an Indian security agency agent.’

‘Do I look extreme Muslim league member to you?’

‘No, you look Taliban to me,’ Badar said jokingly.

‘If you would have said this a few years back, I might be proud of it, but . . .’

‘Yes! After coming here, you converted to a moderate Pakistani.’ Badar completed his sentence with a satirical smile.

‘Where is Zaid Bhai?’ Shad changed the topic.

‘Who is Zaid Bhai?’

‘Oh, you forget, marketing manager who is working for software development of nursing home. I introduced him last week in the same train. He is also from Pakistan’ Shad reminded him.

‘Yes, now I remember Zaid of FRG. I met him in a nursing home yesterday when you were not on duty. He had plans to take all of us to rugby. Even his American engineer will join, who is currently on a visit here.’ Badar shared the news with Shad.

‘I am pretty sure passes would be arranged by Kelly. He is a die-hard fan of stupid game of rugby.’