Razia

by Abda Khan

  ‘I’m not a mind reader. Why don’t you tell me why you are sat in London three days before your sister’s wedding?’

  He went quiet again but continued to look at her.

  ‘If you have something to say, Ali – then please, just say it. What is it that I must know?’ Farah asked softly.

  ‘You must know … you must know that since you left Pakistan, I have missed you.’

  Farah let out a tiny sigh.

  ‘I’ve missed you too,’ she replied, and smiled at him.

  ‘No, I mean I have really missed you,’ Ali said.

  Farah looked down for a few seconds; she wanted to be honest with him. She took a soft breath in.

  ‘Maybe … maybe I’ve really missed you as well—’

  ‘Then let’s not be apart any more,’ Ali said.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Farah asked, as she took her elbows off the table and sat back in her chair.

  ‘Come back to Pakistan,’ Ali responded.

  Farah thought about this impulsive statement of his; it was madness.

  ‘I can’t do that. My life is in England – my family, my career. What is there to keep me in Pakistan?’

  Ali reached out across the table for her hands; she leaned forward and slowly placed her hands in his. He squeezed them, gently.

  ‘Us,’ Ali said.

  Farah didn’t respond. She thought about them both; together, as a couple. How would it be?

  ‘I know we haven’t known each other for very long,’ continued Ali, ‘but we just fit. We make each other happy. We make each other laugh. We can talk about anything. We understand each other. How often does that happen?’

  Farah slowly let out the deep breath that she had been holding without having realised it.

  ‘You must feel it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I do. I do feel it. I don’t think I have ever felt this comfortable with another man. I love talking to you. I love being with you, I love spending time with you.’

  ‘Then why don’t we build on that, and maybe have a future together?’ Ali asked.

  Farah couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘Why, Mr Ali Omar, what exactly are you saying?’

  He smiled back.

  ‘I really, really like you. Perhaps I love you. I definitely hate being without you. And I sense you feel the same?’

  ‘Yes. I do,’ confirmed Farah. She had tried her best not to pay too much attention to the feelings she was having for Ali. But now here he was, right in front of her, telling her how he felt, and she could no longer deny her own feelings for him. She had fallen for him; quietly, happily, naturally.

  ‘Then let’s do this, let’s be together – in England, Pakistan, both, wherever. We will work it out. What do you say?’ Ali asked, as he squeezed Farah’s hands.

  Farah smiled at him, but her cheery mood suddenly changed when she thought about an obstacle that perhaps Ali couldn’t foresee.

  ‘I say that there is one big problem,’ she replied.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Farah’s mind floated back to Pakistan, and she cringed as she remembered the conversation.

  ‘Your dad. He hates my guts. He said as much to me at the mehndi. And I gave back as good as I got. You could say I burned my bridges with him that evening, if there had been any bridges there in the first place. I don’t think he would accept me as his daughter-in-law.’

  ‘My dad lives on another planet. To be perfectly frank with you, I don’t really care what he thinks. I’m way past that now. My mum and sister adore you; he’ll be out in the cold on his own on this one. He’s my father, and he’s my problem. I will deal with him.’

  Their hands were still sealed together. Farah smiled.

  ‘So, what do you say?’ Ali asked again.

  ‘I say … I need to make a phone call.’

  ‘What? We are in the middle of a romantic conversation and you need to ring someone?’ he protested.

  Farah just smiled as she dialled the number on her phone. Ali looked on in bewilderment.

  ‘Mum. It’s me. OK, yes, before we talk about me coming home to visit you and Dad, there is something else I need to discuss with you first. I’ve got some really good news for you.’

  Farah looked into Ali’s eyes, and continued, ‘I’ve found myself a really nice Pakistani boy!’

  EPILOGUE

  NEW YORK

  Ali sat on the front row of the large assembly room, which was completely full. The ceremony was about to come to a close. Extraordinary people and important dignitaries from all corners of the globe had gathered together at the United Nations in New York to recognise and celebrate the achievements of people from around the world; selfless, inspirational people who had made an outstanding impact in improving the lives of others.

  The host took to the stage for the penultimate recognition.

  ‘This final award is in acknowledgement of the remarkable accomplishments of a young woman who has made great strides in helping others, even though she is herself only twenty years of age. She has carried on the work that was first started by her parents, and has taken it to new heights, opening a further two refuges in the United Kingdom as places of safety for those caught up or trafficked into modern-day slavery, and she has done much to achieve better working conditions for those trapped in bonded slavery in Pakistan. The charity has done an enormous amount to help many to escape bonded slavery, and what is more, it has given those people the tools to start afresh, free from the fetters of slavery. Her incessant campaigning has ensured the passage of a law in Pakistan requiring the feudal landlords to provide free education for the children of all their workers, and to give the families basic rights to free healthcare. The final award today goes to none other than Razia Farah Omar.’

  A loud round of applause erupted from the audience, and people took to their feet to show their appreciation of the winner. Razia made her way onto the stage; the way she walked and carried herself was so much like her mother, thought Ali.

  She shook hands with the speaker and received her award gratefully. She went and stood in front of the microphone.

  ‘Thank you, everyone. Thank you.’

  The people in the audience slowly stopped clapping and sat back down in their seats.

  ‘It is a great honour and absolute privilege to receive this accolade today, and to be acknowledged in this way. I know this room is full of so many deserving men and women who are all making a massive difference to our world. And, whilst I am grateful for this recognition, I cannot in all honesty take all the credit for this award. I must thank three other people, for they have all played their role, and without them I would not be stood here before you. I was named after a young woman called Razia.’

  Ali could see in his mind’s eye, as though it was yesterday, the first time he and Farah had visited Razia in jail. He remembered how good Farah had been with her; warm, comforting, engaging. Those qualities were innate in Farah, part of her DNA.

  ‘My mother had insisted, years before I was born, that if she ever had a girl, then she would name her Razia, after the young woman whom she had tried to help, a young woman who had inadvertently introduced her to the unjust world of modern-day slavery in all its ugly colours. The meaning of Razia, as I understand it, is one who is satisfied, pleased and contented, and perhaps we can all learn to be more content with what we have and strive to do more for those who do not have.’

  The name could not have been given to a more fitting person; the Razia he and Farah had known had suffered so much and had complained about so little.

  ‘My middle name, Farah, has been given to me in honour of my mother. My late mother.’

  Ali held his breath a little, as he pictured himself and Farah in the Chinese restaurant in London; holding hands, cementing the beginning of their beautiful relationship.

  ‘I did not know my mother. I never saw her. She died whilst giving birth to me. She passed away minutes after I was born. She never held me. She left this wor
ld before I even let out my first cry. But my mother’s legacy lives on. She started the Razia Foundation before I was born; an organisation that helps slaves all around the world, and which continues to go from strength to strength in its mission to fight for the freedom of modern-day slaves.’

  Ali remembered the exact day when he and Farah signed on the dotted line and established the foundation; he thought back to them smiling as they opened the doors to their first office in Islamabad together, when they opened their first refuge in Birmingham, followed by the second one in Lahore, together, and when they held their first fundraiser in London together.

  ‘I could not be prouder of the charity, and everything it stands for. Finally, there is one more person that I must thank and give a fair portion of the credit to. He is the most wonderful man in my life: my father, Ali. Without him, without his guidance and his watchful eye, I would not be the person I am today. Despite enduring the tragedy of his life, when he lost the woman he loved just a few years after marrying her, he bravely continued my mother’s work with the Razia Foundation, and I owe him everything; he is the reason that I stand before you. Thanks, Dad. This is for you.’

  Ali watched from the front row with pride, as she held the award high and pointed it towards him. When Razia left the stage, Ali walked over to her. He drew her close to him with a warm embrace, and then he kissed his daughter on her head, twice.

  ‘Thanks, Dad!’ said Razia, ‘but you’re so funny; you always kiss me twice!’

  A tear escaped Ali’s eye as he remembered Farah’s last words to him; he was holding his wife in his arms, and as he cried, just before she drew her final breath, she said:

  ‘Always show her that you love her, and every time you do, give her my share of the love, too.’

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  First published in Great Britain 2019

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  © Abda Khan, 2019

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  ISBN 978-1-78352-704-5 (trade pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-78352-706-9 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-78352-705-2 (limited edition)

  Printed in Great Britain by CPI (UK) Ltd