Dreams of Another Tomorrow

J.S Rajput

Description

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.

Sujets

• Pakistán
• Pakistan
• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 09 octobre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781803138305
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Contents Dreams of Another Tomorrow I. Past is Prologue II. Love, or Lust III. The Unfaithful IV. Cinderella Dreams V. Sins in our Stars VI. Unenduring Mirth VII. The Snare VIII. Sinners and the Saints IX. Feathers on the Sea X. The Tales Within XI. Many a Romeo XII. The Masquerade XIII. Beautiful Minds XIV. A Game of Hearts XV. In Fire and Blood XVI. A Dance with Destiny XVII. The Last Sunrise Copyright
Dreams of Another Tomorrow
J.S.Rajput
Copyright © 2021 J.S Rajput
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Cover design and typesetting by Daniel Goldsmith Associates Ltd, London
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and PatentsAct 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, inany form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of thepublishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance withthe terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiriesconcerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1803138 305
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
I
Past is Prologue

Whereof what’s past is prologue; what to come,
In yours and my discharge.
William Shakespeare
1.1
Present
“W hy 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 10 h 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 th