Dreams of Another Tomorrow: A Tale of Love and Lies in Lahore

By J.S Rajput

When the young star of Harvard Faculty, Raza, visits the ‘land of living saints’, romance is the last thing on his mind. Until, he chances upon his long-lost love, now married to a ruthless business tycoon. In a society where anachronistic honour codes are still the norm, they are tempted to embark upon a seditious affair, despite the daunting perils.

Raza’s childhood friend Fareed, a swashbuckling aristocrat, introduces him to the flamboyant ways of the rich and powerful –a sharp contrast to the deeply conservative social milieu threatened by extremism. Exploring the dynamics of this decadent dispensation, Raza gets embroiled in the gripping games played by relentless men and rebellious women – fighting to forge their own identities – offering great temptations but treacherous consequences.

A mystery girl brings hope to his startling journey of self-discovery. Only, she could be a fatal attraction. Will Raza light up the old flame? Or allow himself to love again? This fascinating novel presents an insightful peek into the patriarchal orders of the East.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Oct 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781803138305

J.S Rajput

A graduate of leading universities in the US, J. S Rajput has had a noteworthy public career in Pakistan, which allowed him a ring side view of the roller-coaster ride of incredible intrigues and dramatic events the country witnessed in recent decades, and the privilege of knowing many of the movers and shakers of the elitist society. He has a keen interest in literature, arts and political economy of development. 

Book preview

I

Past is Prologue

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Whereof what’s past is prologue; what to come,

In yours and my discharge.

William Shakespeare

1.1

Present

Why can’t I have the right to my own body? Why can’t I choose who to love, when to love, when to leave? she almost yelled. Her pale face flushed with emotion as she spoke and her wide-set eyes wore an uncharacteristic truculent expression. Her bare shoulders, in all their sculptured beauty, tensed as she spoke.

I didn’t say a word in response. Those were rhetorical questions after all.

My body, my choice. I am all for the women who have made it a battle cry in this country. They are the suffragettes of this primitive-minded society. And they are being maligned the same way as their historical counterparts, or worse. Her expression took a slightly softer turn as she spoke. Where do you stand on this by the way? she asked me rather abruptly.

Um… I stand where I sit. With you. The seemingly casual but carefully chosen words evoked a momentary grin. Do I have the right to kiss you though, whenever I want to? I asked, pressing my lips gently against her neck.

Yes, because I like you to, she said, stroking my hair. And then voiced an afterthought somewhat mischievously, for now, at least.

I seemed to have succeeded in bringing back her trademark ability to smile with her eyes alone. It was my favourite mannerism of hers, but she didn’t let me digress from our impassioned discussion any further.

But seriously, do you know how many women are killed in the name of honour in this land of the pure, every single year? Do you know how many have acid thrown in their faces? People have won Oscars shooting videos highlighting their disfigurement, but not enough has been done to stop the heinous practice. Her eyes bore into mine as she waited for me to respond.

It’s horrendous, I said, agreeing with her, yet only part of the story. You know, young boys can be even more vulnerable sometimes. I paused for a moment to see her expression change to reflect increasing disquiet.

But then it’s not just prevalent here. I continued, savoring the feel of her silken hair on my face. In the West too, there have been widespread practices of this sort. All those scandals of choir boys in churches or thousands of women trafficked every year in Europe and the US, for what can be labeled sex slavery.

So, what’s your point? she asked, raising her head a little from my shoulder where she had been resting it. While upset to hear of the suffering I encapsulated in my words, she wanted to bring the focus of the discussion back to where it belonged, in her view.

The point is it’s not just about gender discrimination. It’s a matter of societal evolution over rights. Different societies are in different phases of development, if we can use the word development in this context, and have different sets of issues relating to rights. Even in the most developed societies, rights are denied to certain segments of the population. And it’s not always based on gender. It’s the absence from the power structure and the lack of financial resources which creates vulnerable segments in a society. And even where there has been much progress in terms of a more equitable diffusion of power and resources, it’s not always a linear progression. The beautiful sensation of her lips on my neck made it difficult for me to concentrate on what I was going to say next and I paused for a moment to relish the feel of her warm skin against mine.

Don’t stop Raza, she murmured. I loved the way my name sounded on her tongue.

Change, at best, is a gradual process. A society has to achieve a certain level of political maturity and economic prosperity first. And as laws, and the criminal justice system, and watch dogs such as the media strengthen, the exploitative practices diminish gradually, though pockets continue to exist in most places.

So you think we should just relax, keeping our fingers crossed? she asked with a smirk.

No. The struggle for rights is a dynamic process and needs contribution from most members of a society to bring about meaningful change. But you can’t expect spectacular results overnight, without educating society as a first step.

Right, Professor, she said with mock deference before leaning in to kiss me. On a serious note, yes, education can help. But even the most educated people here have antediluvian notions. They believe the virginity of their unmarried sisters or daughters is a matter of family’s honour. They also seem resigned to the idea that women are not to be treated equally in law. She paused for a moment to emphasise the point. If they can’t think any differently on these core values of gender equality, with all their Oxbridge and Ivy League degrees, then what hope do most women here have for their future?

Rights don’t ever come easy, unfortunately, and it’s not about gender always, like I said. In honour killings, for instance… you know about the practice of Karo-kari. Right?

Her blank stare impelled me to elaborate upon the concept. In some regions of the country, if a couple falls in love and tries to abscond and marry without their family’s permission, they are both declared fugitives and can be killed by any relative or member of the tribe who finds them. Barbaric as it is, there is no discrimination based on gender.

Perfect. No discrimination over who gets killed first. And, by the way, what a timing to bring this up, she said with a sarcastic smile.

Before I could respond, we were both distracted by the sound of a whistle getting progressively louder. It was her mobile’s ringtone. I couldn’t hear what was said from the other side as she took the call. But her face turned ashen instantly, and the phone almost slipped out of her hands.

They know, she said in a tone that matched the rising worry in her beautiful eyes. We have to leave the country. Tonight, she added, hastily buttoning her shirt.

My heart sank and panic threatened to overwhelm me.

••••

1.2

Four Months Ago

Looking out of the aircraft window, I could see nothing that would suggest we were approaching a city of ten million people. It was almost pitch dark with only flickers of light here and there as if a few fireflies were trying to light up the vast expanse of Serengeti. As the Boeing 777 continued its descent, the faint hints of light increased, but only marginally, their feeble strength insufficient to banish the darkness. The tired, monotonous announcement by the crew about the clear skies and slightly chilly weather in Lahore, on the early morning of 10h January 2014, did little to inspire the passengers’ confidence in their destination. Finally, as we were minutes away from landing, I saw several illuminated buildings and streets, which even a medium-sized city in the American Midwest would not be proud of.

The plane landed with a large thump that made me bounce slightly in my seat, and taxied along the runway that seemingly lay in the middle of nowhere. Any first-time visitors would have been disappointed by the lack of a hallmark of modern civilisation and development: illuminated high rise buildings. However the airport itself was more modern than many would have expected after such a discouraging arrival.

The presence of uniformed personnel just outside the air bridge, holding a placard with my name, was comforting. They effortlessly brought me through the hurdles of immigration and customs, further cheering my spirits. It was only when we were leaving the terminal building that I realized we had forgotten to collect my checked baggage, even as they had asked for, and received the luggage tags from me.

Don’t worry, Sir. It will be delivered to your room, the younger of the two informed me in a deferential tone.

A diamond black Range Rover with tinted windows stopped ahead of us as we pulled onto the exit road tailed by a Toyota Land Cruiser. Four men in camouflage uniforms with trouser bottoms tucked into their boots exited the second SUVs. One of them opened the door on my side, while the others stood alert and scanned the road. A tall, well-built man wearing a black leather jacket and grey jeans stepped out of the Range Rover. Even the lack of adequate lighting couldn’t hide the fact he was unusually handsome, with a marked resemblance to Hollywood hunk George Clooney, as he was at 30.

Somebody not familiar with the ways of the rich and powerful in Pakistan would have been terrified by this Mafia-styled appearance of someone looking the part. But I knew the person approaching me better than anyone else in the world.

You son of a bitch… you made me get up three in the morning. Fareed pulled me into a bear hug and almost lifted me off the ground.

After a few more expletives, expressing the depth of affection between us, we were on our way out of the airport. As we left the airport complex, two other SUVs joined the tailing convoy. While the road was smooth and wide with greenbelts on both sides, like in most modern metropolises, the lack of adequate street lighting was quite conspicuous and gave the city a rather desolate look.

After a few kilometres, the roads became wider and relatively well-lit. The city was not as ordinary as it had seemed from far above. The layout reminded me of Rome. Although most roads were wider than Rome’s narrow streets. There were fewer highrises than you’d find in a typical American city, but there were architectural gems scattered here and there. Fareed told me it was the country’s ongoing energy crisis keeping the outskirts of the city dark and gloomy.

How is Saira Bhabi, Erina and Rayyan? I asked on the way.

Very upset that you are visiting after such a long time, Fareed said without mincing his words.

I know. Joining the faculty has been tough. I’ve been working… like sixty hours a week… to prove they didn’t make a mistake hiring me. I tried to explain away the long break in my visits to my hometown.

Shut up. Who asked you to write all those books, which nobody in their right frame of mind would pick up to read? That probably takes most of your time, he said with a smile.

I’m sorry. Won’t happen again. No more writing. And a visit to Lahore every year to test the limits of your hospitality, I chortled.

There’s no hospitality involved. You’re family, Fareed said looking into my eyes.

I know. That’s why I’m here for longer than any of my previous trips. I want to make up for not visiting all those years, I said with a hint of emotion.

Anything less wouldn’t have been accepted, he said with a gracious smile.

While I was being updated on the wellbeing of some mutual friends, we arrived at the Upper Mall area called Scotch Corner, even as strict prohibition was being enforced across the country. It was close to Lahore Gymkhana, one of the oldest country clubs in the city. Our convoy stopped outside a compact bungalow, which had been built on a large plot of land belonging to a colonial-era house. Impeccably furnished and serviced, with two guards standing at the entrance, this would be my abode for the next few months. Fareed deposited me there and departed shortly after, with another bear hug and a command to sleep well, to be fresh for the multiple engagements he had planned for me in the coming days.

I wasn’t surprised about the guards placed outside the house. The country was grappling with an unprecedented wave of terrorism, with occasional kidnappings for ransom. In the northwest of Pakistan, large scale military operations were being conducted against the militants. They retaliated by perpetrating acts of terror in the big cities.

It wasn’t long after I received my luggage, as promised, that I sank happily onto the bed and descended into the mysterious realm of dreams. After all, I had been travelling for the last 24 hours, including a short stay in Dubai where I had caught a connecting flight onto Lahore.

••••

1.3

In one of the oldest blocks of Gulberg, the once posh residential suburb of Lahore rapidly transforming into a semi-modern downtown, old money still reigned supreme. Fareed’s neck of the woods was named after the nearby Forman Christian College, or FCC, established by the Presbyterian Church of Lahore. It had recently been handed back to its original owners, after decades of decadence when it was nationalised and run by the government of the Punjab. The FCC Block still boasted many of the original houses with their several acres of land. While some leading political and business families had left the area to build even larger homes in the exurbs, such as Raiwind, many iconic residents like Syed Babar Ali and Fakhar Imam still maintained residences in the area. Their original colonial facades had been left intact, but they had remodeled and refurbished interiors that could rival any mansion in the US.

Fareed resided here in the same three-acre house his father and grandfather had lived in. As the Range Rover carrying us entered the majestic main gate, half a dozen Pashtun guards in grey Shalwar Kameez, resembling the Frontier Constabulary uniforms, saluted us. Some of the gardeners, drivers and yet more guards, further along the driveway, paid their respect in a more modest way by shouting Salam Sahib. Fareed nodded dismissively in response. At the end of the driveway, where several exotic cars were parked, stood a short, stout man, wearing an ill-fitting grey suit and a blue necktie. He could have been anywhere from forty to fifty.

Looking at him, Fareed said in a firm tone, This is the residence manager Ashfaq.

At this, the gentleman bowed his head in an affected manner and welcomed me with much deference. Fareed looked at him again and said imperiously, Inform Begum Sahib, Raza Bhai is here, and have lunch ready by 2 pm.

Ashfaq inclined his head slightly again and disappeared.

The traditional L-shaped drawing room was a sight to behold. The Burmese teak floor was appropriately covered with Persian and Turkish rugs and the furniture seemed to have been bought from Harrods of London, circa 1980. Besides some original paintings of Chugtai and Sadequain, the walls boasted antique guns and swords. A couple of original Tiger skins were prominently displayed in a corner. The ceiling had frescoes painted by the legendary artist, Guljee.

The hall could easily seat around forty, but one grand sofa was set up in a way that everybody gathered in the hall could see the people sitting there. Fareed headed straight towards it. As we settled, two bearers in white liveries brought a tray laid with an assortment of fresh juices and snacks.

Just as I started sipping the blood-red pomegranate juice that was a long-time favourite of mine, a beautiful woman in her late twenties, elegantly dressed and poised, entered the hall. With her light skin, light eyes and Caucasian features, she could easily pass for a Spaniard, someone like Penelope Cruz. That was where Pakistan was so different from other countries in South Asia. Like Brazil, a multitude of complexions, heights and physiognomies could be found in the melting pot the country had become through its unique history.

Saira Bhabi, I rose to greet her. You look gorgeous as ever. How have you survived living with this badmaash?

Hai naaa! I never thought I would tolerate him this long, but time flies. She laughed and hugged me.

Saira had earned a bachelor’s in Economics at Wellesley College. She was the first girl in the illustrious Hidayatullah Khan family to have been allowed to study abroad, but that had still not prevented her parents from marrying her soon after she returned from the US. Saira had never worked anywhere outside the home, other than heading some charities in an honorary capacity.

As we were catching up, she suddenly remembered something, and picked up the house exchange extension from the side table next to her.

Let me call Erina. She is so excited to have you visit, she said after talking to someone on the phone. It’s been what, five years?

Maybe four and a half.

Yes. Rayyan is seven now. He was just a toddler when you last saw him. Erina is in her last year of A-levels. She would have been at Uni by now had she not taken a gap year. There she is. Saira was very fond of her young sister-in-law. She had been like a Mom to her ever since her parents were killed in a terrorist attack several years ago.

What had been an outspoken fourteen-year-old when I last saw her, had grown into a stunning young woman, with black hair and dark brown eyes that were a perfect contrast to her glowing light skin.

She was wearing a ‘Philosophy’ top and a leather jacket, with a collar that shouted Burberry. Her stone washed Gucci skinny jeans were doing full justice to her 5’9" stature. In what was new for me, she was wearing delicate Cartier rimless spectacles.

Sir Raza, we thought we lost you forever, she exclaimed full of excitement, as she gave me a customary hug.

A moment later, a rather healthy boy with green eyes like his Mom and a shy smile, entered the room and hugged me bashfully before sitting beside us.

Erina had started calling me Sir since she was ten or twelve, as I used to teach her occasionally during my visits to Lahore, sometimes for a couple of months at a time.

I handed her a gift box containing a Chanel handbag, a different shade than the one I bought for Saira, and a smaller one with her favourite Grand Cru chocolates inside. She seemed more excited about the chocolates than the handbag. Rayyan, who had just joined Aitchison and was set to start riding lessons soon, was happy to get another gaming console. It always amazed me how kids his age could master those gadgets.

We all chatted for a while. Erina told me about the subjects she had studied at O level. For her A levels, Erina had opted for Literature, Economics and Political Science. She wanted to read Economics at Princeton or Yale, but she was also applying to some other programs. Fareed was endeavouring to convince her to seek admission to the PPE program in Oxford.

She had decided not to pursue her tennis career any further after being in the top national rankings, even though she had taken a year off from studying to pursue the sport.

In the US, people start early and the coaching standards are vastly better. At 16, they can compete internationally. I started at 12 yet won the national championship last year. Now I have to move on, Erina explained when I asked why she didn’t want to pursue tennis as a pro.

Besides her sports accomplishments, Erina had been part of the London Grammar College team that won at the last Harvard Model United Nations and had recently taken over as head girl there.

Enough checkmarks for an Ivy League admission, I said, smiling.

She was also asked to be the show-stopper in the Grammathon fashion show, last year, but Fareed said she could do it this year after her exams, Saira shared, gleaming with pride. One couldn’t dispute any of the reasons. Erina was beautiful and talented.

Saira and Erina both wanted to know more about my visit to Lahore. They seemed to have been well abreast of my academic career. At 25 I had received my PhD from Harvard, and became part of the faculty at Kennedy School, and the work I’d had published in developmental economics over the last few years created ripples far beyond the world of academia.

Erina surprised me when she said she had read some of my op-eds carried by WSJ, FT, The Far Eastern Economic Review and The Economist. She had even seen videos of several of my lectures at Brookings, and the World Economic Forum on YouTube.

I wish you would bring the first Nobel in Economics to Pakistan. The Indians have had theirs already, she said with a golden smile.

Now that might be too much of an ask, I protested.

Not really. By the way, I always wondered how Bhai could have someone like you as his best friend at Aitchison and Berkeley. You guys seem so different.

She had a point. At Aitchison, Fareed was two years my senior and quite a bully. It was only when we both got into the riding team that we became friends. Fareed was a far better rider than me and the team captain. He later took up Polo and had a gap year playing for one of the top teams in the country. We ended up going to Berkeley together, though he was only accepted because of his sporting achievements. After my parents perished in a highway accident during our sophomore year, he started treating me as part of his family. I finished my bachelors in three years and left for Harvard. He returned to Lahore a little later. Several months before his parents’ tragic demise, they prevailed upon him to marry our mutual friend from our school days, Saira, who Fareed had been dating for some time.

You mean to say Bhai is so anti-lectual… right? Fareed quipped mockingly.

Not exactly Fareed Bhai. After all, you have been rated as one of the brightest politicos in Pakistan by The Friday Times.

Everyone laughed at her reference to a satire the popular upscale weekly had recently published about him, which named him the puppet master tycoon, who pulled strings for many of the politicians in the country across the political divide.

Erina, your brother is brilliant. Only he is a doer, while I am just a thinker, who perhaps didn’t have what it takes to translate his thoughts into action. Who would you rather be? I smiled with a solemn undercurrent.

Don’t give such a gloss to what I do Riz. Politics is a dirty business here, and business in this country has been muddied by it. I have to have my feet in both, unfortunately. In his characteristic fashion, Fareed packed much meaning into seemingly simple words.

When Erina and Rayyan went back to their rooms, Saira said they had a surprise to share.

Are you guys having another baby? I said half mischievously.

Hell no. It’s about Erina, not me, Saira responded trying to control her laughter.

She’s got an early admission to…

You can only think about college and babies. Romance never comes to your mind, Saira admonished me lovingly as she cut me off.

Oh… so is she… Before I could say seeing someone," Saira cut me off.

She has gotten engaged to this friend of hers, she said a little tentatively.

The friend turned fiancé was nobody less than the scion of the leading political dynasty in Pakistan. He was doing his degree at Oxford. The wedding was to take place once they completed their studies. She also explained that the engagement was not being made public because of reasons relating to the two families’ conflicting political affiliations and alliances.

I heartily congratulated them.

During an elaborate lunch we reminisced about old times. When Saira and Fareed had started dating, the three of us used to hang out together. Often, Saira would bring a friend along to turn our meetups into a double date. Somehow, none of those lead to a steady relationship. After the lunch, Saira excused herself to check on Rayyan.

I have a surprise for you tomorrow, so you better be well-rested, Fareed told me, intrigue flickering in his eyes, as the two of us sat in his cigar room sipping whisky. Knowing him, there was always a range of possibilities as to what the surprise could be. I just hoped it wasn’t going to be one of his wild boar or deer hunting expeditions.

II

Love, or Lust

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But she – she heard the violin,

And left my side, and entered in:

Love passed into the house of lust.

Oscar

Reviews for Dreams of Another Tomorrow

[Mak Zahid · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a page turner! Really enjoyed this book. Beautiful love story, but the intrigue, and machinations of Lahore's elite society makes for a fascinating read, from someone who seems to have witnessed a world not easily accessible.

[Jay Daniyal · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I was tempted to read the book because of the city the story is set in. What an amazing view of a society which is not well known outside the country. Makes a great reading for a weekend and rekindles many memories for someone who has lived in Lahore.