I like to think of myself as an aspiring writer, so here goes Any and all criticism is welcome in any shape degree or form.
This first one is a tale of alternate history. It tells the story of a Pakistani Hindu from a village about 500 km from Karachi as she grows up in a world defined by an alternative history in which Pakistan has lost the 1998 war with India and the Pakistani administered area of the Kashmir region had been annexed by India. It explores her journey throughout South Asia, the middle east, and finally to Europe. Warning subject material may get dark, so feel free to let me know if I should delete it.
The Untold Story 1:
I began walking faster. It was because they were staring at me. The boys were always looking at me, staring at my exposed face. I drew a lot of attention for not wearing a Hijab, you see. Too much when I was younger. They teased me in school for being an "idol worshipper." Laughed at me after Diwali, and Holy, and every other chance they could get. It hurt me, more than you could imagine. Although I would never realize, it hurt my parents even more, the feeling of powerlessness of being unable to protect their daughter from all the bullying. The day I first learned in history class about the creation of Pakistan, and how our people had been oppressed by the evil backwards Hindus had been a real eye opener. After class that day, I was followed home and kicked into the dirt by a group of girls. I ran home with tears and blood rolling down my face, mixing together dripping into my mouth. I even remember the salty taste on my lips. My father hugged me and told me that he wanted to flee one day. That he wanted to take my mother and me to a better place, where we would be treated as human beings, and with dignity and respect. Little did I know that that day would never come.
I walked faster and faster until I outran them. This wasn't an anomaly, it happened often. Even my own friends were afraid to stand up for me. It wasn't fashionable or publicly acceptable to stand up for me, you see. That's not to say that Papa had no friends, there were plenty of great people who treated us like neighbors, like family. Invited us to celebrate eid with them. My best friend was Muslim, she once came with me to the temple to learn more. But she lived in a completely different world. She didn't know what it was like to have no home, for your own people to consider you an enemy of the state. These are feelings I kept to myself. My best friend was someone that I saw as a Pakistani, but I didn't know what to call myself. My country's identity was defined with me as the enemy. I was considered a member of the country across the Radcliffe line. Of course, until that point, it was merely a naive understanding. Because I didn't truly understand the implications until that night, when I was 10 feet from my house.
I walked towards my house. It was build of wood, the lock on it had broke, and the door was open. I saw my mother, sweeping the floor of the house as I got closer. She was wearing an orange Sari. Her grayed hair had been let down. I called out to her in Urdu, but that sound was drowned out by a Black van pulling up behind me. I turned around and gasped as the door opened, and a man wearing a ski mask jumped out. One put his hand around my mouth and dragged me into the van. The last thing I heard was my mother screaming "Swathi!!!!!!!!" before the door slammed shut and the van began moving away.
Edited by AlphaTakoyaki, 25 March 2016 - 11:37 PM.