I can picture them on a crowded dock; youthful faces of hope as they wait to clamber aboard. I can see them garbed in their Indian attire holding a few valued possessions casting one final glance on their beloved homeland; a homeland they were never to see again. What were they thinking when they saw Calcutta's streets disappear? Did their hearts mourn a loss they did not know then? Like the thousands of people shooting their arrows of hope across the world their India became a distant speck on the horizon and now they flew over waters on a ship heading to a world they had never known. The ocean around them was going to be
their home and the Fateh Razzaq that they stood in was the womb, unaware of the other, propelling them to a new birth; a new generation.
Sheikh Sardaar Ali somehow found his way through the crowded deck; tightly clutching his small bag of valuables which contained gold. Unlike so many of the others on board, he was not in need of wealth. His was a desire to venture away from the homeland; to view another world.
However, the woman he found beside himself , Amatullah, attired in her traditional Indian apparel, her flimsy shawl covering her hair and chest, had had no choice but to leave her home.
So, they met. Of what they talked about we will never know. This was not relayed to their children or grand- children. Yet, the story that blossoms signals to us that the conversation that took place was one rooted in hopes of the days to come.
YOU ARE READING
Sacrifice
No FicciónBismillah-ir -rahman-ir -raheem This is an account of a true story that was related to me by a family friend in Trinidad. It is a story of her mother's sacrifice for the sake of preserving the deen in her children's lives.
