Going For A Curry

Lascar’s Tale

Allāh u Akbar! Allah is the greater, Allāh u Akbar! Allāh u Akbar! Allāh u Akbar!
My two companions and I were stunned, our minds still unable to comprehend, from looking in the window of a shop in Linthrope Road, Middlesbrough, transported into a mosque in an instant as if by magic.
How did I get here?
Where am I?
Is it a dream?
Questions danced in my head but like all good Muslims I faced east in reverence and tried to concentrate on the Islamic call to prayer.
Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasūlullāh! I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God, Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasūlullāh!
From the corner of my eye I spotted a distinguished looking middle aged man with a henna dyed beard, gesturing us to a place for Wudu, the ritual washing to be pure for prayer.
This was the beginning of a fantastic story, belonging among the ‘Arabian Nights’. Unbelievable as it might seem - some may even dismiss it as the ramblings of an old man. I must try to put pen to paper as best my limited skills will allow and give each reader the opportunity to judge for themselves.
Who am I?
I am known by many names, Sher Ali, chosen by my proud grandfather, Shera to my loving grandmother and mother, and to all people in the village of my birth. Ali to many white people, Sinbad, even Sinbad the curry man.
Born and nurtured in the paradise of Lunger Pur Baley, a village in the Punjab, shielded from the heat, the dust and the cruel world by the river Jhellum, fed by the melting glaciers of the Himalayan Mountains. In summer the mighty river Jhellum formed a protective cradle as it roared relentlessly by on its odyssey through the plains of the Punjab. The cool, crystal clear waters were a haven for beast and man. Others endured the sweltering summer nights; we harvested the breeze.
I was the youngest of my companions, Mohammed Yusuf, a middle-aged, with a short neatly trimmed beard and beardless Ejaz Ali in his mid-thirties. How did I a young and idealistic youth barely in his twenties born and bred in a farming community end up in the industrial Middlesbrough. A town of narrow streets, coal port and Iron works, bellowing out air laden with soot and other pollutants that turned the sky brown and choked you. The stench of rubbish and alcohol declared war on your nostrils.
The questions, however important had to wait. I was in a mosque, at prayer time, my sacred duty was prayer, the rest would ‘Inshallah’ be sorted.
We took our place and I was overcome by a warm comforting feeling as I realised that for the first time in two years, I was lost in a sea of brown faces. I did not stand out because of the colour of my skin or the attire I wore. Anxieties were replaced by tranquillity.
After the prayers finished; I was greeted by the distinguished looking middle aged man with henna dyed beard, “Assalam-u-Alaikum.”
Before he could introduce himself, I blurted out, “Who are you? Where is this? How did we get here?”
“You can call me ‘Wish Master’,” he said.
“The Wish Master?” repeated Mohammed Yusuf, “As in genie in the bottle?” he added.
“Gentleman!” said the stranger with a smile, “I will explain everything in time. I should have said Sher Ali’s Wish Master,” he added.
“I can not remember making a wish!” I retorted.
“Perhaps not, but the question you have been wrestling with for the past two weeks?”
“But how did you know?”
“I’m the Wish Master!”
“What question?” Yusuf and Ejaz asked in almost unison.
“Either to sail to Bombay tomorrow, and return to an arranged marriage or stay here and make a home with Sally,” I confessed. “Which is the right choice?”
“Perhaps it will become clear later,” declared the Wish Master. “You are my guests, allow me to show around.”
He led us out into a warm sunny afternoon, each side of the street was occupied by shiny metal machines of different sizes and colours. There was an alleyway in the centre which always remained clear to allow the machines to move both ways.
“Where is this?” I asked.
“You are in Middlesbrough.”
“Middlesbrough!
“Not your Middlesbrough of 1890. This is 2007, one hundred and seventeen years later,” said the Wish Master.
Our jaws dropped in disbelief; time travel was beyond our comprehension.
“Your Middlesbrough of dirt and grimed no more,” he added.
“What’s that?” Yusuf pointed to a bridge suspended about one hundred fifty feet in the air.
“That gentleman is Middlesbrough’s industrial legacy and most prominent landmark, the Transporter Bridge, built in 1911 to replace the ferry service. It connected Middlesbrough on the south bank to Port Clarence on the north bank.”
“What are these machines and why so many?” asked Ejaz beating Yusuf and I to it.
“They my friend are called ‘Cars’, like trains but instead of running tracks, they run on roads and each one is owned by a single person. The owner can travel to any destination at his connivance,” the Dream Master explained.
Our first sighting of Indian women in their kaleidoscopic salwar-kameez was like a dream. Indian women in Middlesbrough! Out shopping, the younger ones even appeared to be in men’s clothing; some were driving cars and Indian children playing in the street. Normally I would consider myself lucky, if I saw a dozen Indian faces at anytime.
In the mosque there were over a hundred and fifty worshippers, between the ages of ten and over eighty.
“The shipping companies employ Indian seaman, requiring us to return to the Indian port we sailed from. Why did the British government allow so many Indians to settle here?” I thought out aloud.
“This is not the time of the British empire. India gained independence in 1947 and there is no British empire,” the Wish Master explained.
“Have we conquered Britain?” Yusuf butted in before the stranger could finish.
“No! As I was saying these people are not ‘Indians’ but Pakistanis, in 1947 at the time of independence Britain partitioned India for the Hindus and Pakistan for the Muslims,” lectured the Wish Master.
“How did the old and young children manage the sea voyage?” I inquired, remembering my own arduous epic.
He explained about a new form of transport - an airship which can carry over three hundred people and travel very fast. It took only eight hours from Britain to Pakistan.
The guided tour included the part of the town known as St. Hilda’s, now called “Over the Border.” Not only the name was changed, gone was the famous Cannon Street, with tiny houses occupied by ten to fifteen souls, barefoot children in rags running around, no pubs, sailors of every nationality, no smoke or mud and dirt on the pathways. The houses, buildings, ship yards, Steel Mills, Pottery, Chemical works had all vanished as if they had never existed.
By early evening the enticing aroma of freshly made hanndi, samosas, pokras and sizzling kebabs was drifting with the wind as we travelled along Linthrope Road. Our mouths began to water and my stomach rumbled. The thought of proper Indian food in Middlesbrough was beyond my imagination.
Anticipating our desire the Wish Master took us to an Indian restaurant. The taste of which was almost forgotten during our sixteen long months away from home.
With a full stomach, my mind returned to my dilemma and the words of the Wish Master clearly rang in my ears “Perhaps it will become clear later.”
“How will it become clear?” I turned to the Wish Master.
“Look out the Window,” he gestured towards a gleaming vehicle much larger than the other cars.
A youth of around twenty, well dressed, with large gold chain around his neck, and rings around all fingers and a thick golden watch on his left wrist, slammed shut the driver’s side door and made his way towards the restaurant.
“Do you recognise the youth?” the Wish Master whispered to me.
“He looks familiar,” I said.
“Looks like you,” said Yousuf.
“He does,” agreed Ejaz.
“Your great grandson,” the Wish Master added.
“My GREAT GRANDSON!” I blurted out.
Every face turned and then quickly diverted, but the youth’s gaze remained transfixed and for an instant he smiled but remained puzzled.
“I know the face but can’t place it,” he said after a few seconds but to me it felt like hours.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Shaan,”
“Well Shaan, you might find this hard to believe but I’m your great grandfather Sher Ali,” I said with a nervous smile.
“You may look like my great grandfather when he was young, but he died when he was seventy and you’re my age,” he protested.
“Your usual table is ready Shaan Sahib”, said the waiter.
Shaan’s eyes remained fixed on us, even when he was dining. Half way through his meal he suddenly stopped, wiped his mouth and hand with a serviette and made his way to our table. He embraced me and whispered in to my ears “great grandfather I’m delighted.”
“What changed your mind?” I asked.
“I just remembered a photograph the family treasure. It’s of you and your two friends but you don’t look a day older,” he said. “How that possible?”
I let the Wish Master explain. We talked for an hour catching up on family gossip. My great grandson left us for something very important and promised to return in half an hour.
Bearing witnessing to the success of one of my descendants, filled with pride and joy “The right decision is to stay,” I said to the Wish Master.
“Perhaps!” he said, “but don’t you know the source of great grandson’s wealth?” he added in a sombre mood.
“What is it?” asked the son of seventeenth century.
“Drugs!” the word drilled into my brain and for a moment I was lost to my senses. My great grandson is a drug dealer. At last I understood the meaning of Wish Masters phrase “Perhaps it will become clear later.” Now I understand what one of the consequences of staying could be. I should go back home but what about Shaan? I couldn’t abandon him to the life of a drug dealer.
When he returned I pleaded with Shaan and compared his life as a drug dealer to that of a vampire feeding on the misery of poor addicted souls. They who would do anything for a fix, lie, cheat, steal, sell their bodies, rob and even kill to feed their habit.
“All drug dealers have short lives and no matter how rich they get, they never acquire respectability”, I argued. “Give up this life for the sake of the family’s honour,” I implored. Stories of all the hardships faced by the early sailors of my generation to earn an honest living had no effect. The youth was subdued by the glamorous lifestyle however brief the easy money it offered.
It was late, about ten in the evening even Shaan sensed we would soon be returning to our world.
“Gentleman it is time for me to depart, you will be returned to the same spot at the same time and people around you will not notice,” said the Wish Master.
I leaned over a whispered in his ear.
Instantly we were back at the shop window on Linthrope Road; it was about half past one in the afternoon. My companions were astounded to notice that Shaan was now a member of our party.
Shaan was too dazed to comment and the Wish Master disappeared, not bothering to explain how his time machine worked or if I would ever see him again.
My companions read my thoughts and promised to take Shaan with them when they sailed to Bombay the next morning and deliver him in to the hands of my father.