Mansoor Afaq
Bio
Mansoor Afaq, a renowned Urdu and Saraiki poet, writer, and columnist, has authored 14 books and created 85 plays and 6 documentaries. His work bridges tradition and modernity, enriching South Asian literature and culture.
Stories (22)
Filter by community
DNA
It was 1970. In one part of the city, the night always seemed darker than the day. The lanes were narrow, the shopfronts sealed with iron shutters, and old brass nameplates on the walls still bore the names of long-gone dons. In that part of town stood the house of Don Megatre, a place that looked like a small palace. The walls were high and polished, the doors heavy with bolts and locks. From the outside it appeared grand, almost majestic, but inside it was hollow and cold. When people heard his name, they stepped aside. He was power and fear made flesh, tall, dark, a face carved in stone, a voice that sounded like an order you couldn’t refuse.
By Mansoor Afaq3 months ago in Fiction
Ember of Unlit cigarette
It was the year 2000. My car was running along the M1 from London to Bradford, and my mind was wandering toward the life ahead. I was thinking about opening a business account, getting my name on the electoral roll. A hundred pounds had just gone into road tax, and as I handed it over, I couldn’t help missing Pakistan. That, I thought, was a free country. Here, you even had to pay to use the road before your car could touch it.
By Mansoor Afaq3 months ago in Fiction
Chief
I shall never forget the day my Rottweiler, Chief, was parted from me. He had been with me from the tender age of two or three weeks until his sixth year, yet owing to a compulsion beyond my strength, I was forced to entrust him to another. I dispatched him under the guise of a walk, for had he known of my betrayal, his unshakable loyalty would never have allowed him to leave my threshold. Between us existed a bond far deeper than ownership: he did not see me as his master, but as his very possession, whilst I regarded him as my guardian, my companion, my friend.
By Mansoor Afaq3 months ago in Fiction
Beyond the Door
In a quiet village in Norfolk, an old cottage stood near the edge of the fields. The sea breeze often reached it, carrying the smell of salt and damp wood. In the southern room of the house, there was a door that was never fully closed. It always stayed half open, as if someone had left it like that on purpose, or simply forgotten to shut it.
By Mansoor Afaq3 months ago in Fiction
Overcoat of Ghulam Abbas
On a January evening, a well-dressed young man walked down Davis Road, turned onto Mall Road, and began strolling leisurely along the tramline toward Charing Cross. From his appearance, he looked quite fashionable: neatly trimmed long sideburns, shiny hair, and thin mustaches so fine they seemed drawn with a kohl stick. He wore a light brown overcoat with a pale rose tucked into the buttonhole, a green flat hat tilted stylishly on his head, and a white silk scarf wrapped neatly around his neck. One hand rested in his coat pocket, the other held a small cane which he twirled playfully from time to time.
By Mansoor Afaq3 months ago in Fiction
