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Description of A Deconstructed Heart:

Accolades:

“Beautifully written story about loss, heartache and family.
The story brings together two individuals, uncle and niece, who have their own heartache in life. Uncle Mirza’s wife left him, sending him on a mental roller coaster, which brings in his niece Amal to help bring him back. The story is so well written with deep moments of sorrowful reality, painful existence and love.
R.C. Bennett, Amazon reviewer

The characters are developed with subtle strokes, and the author’s lyrical language enhances the setting. Mirza’s ability to disconnect from reality and yet function within its bounds, holding his architecture class in a tent and conversing with his neighbors as if it were perfectly normal, was the highlight of the story for me. I look forward to reading more of Ashraf-Ahmed’s work.
Ken Doyle, author of Bombay Bhel.

The novel is sedate and thoughtful. It’s well written with touches of dry and wry humour. It’s entertaining and leaves you thinking. It also provides an interesting insight into Indian culture with the importance it gives to family and duty. Very well worth reading.
Stephanie Dagg for Booksarecool.com

The “deconstructed heart” of the title concerns the disconnection between a husband and wife, but could also be a stand-in or metaphor for the disconnection within a family separated from loved ones in a former homeland, or between old and new cultures. The author has a fine sense of style, with a wry sense of humor, rich images, and skillful use of simile and metaphor. Writing this good is rare.
O.J. Barnack, Amazon reviewer

“I would highly recommend A Deconstructed Heart be put on anyone’s must read list.” Review by eBookReviewGal.com.

Amazon Reader Reviews:

A Deconstructed Heart currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 4.9 stars, with 9 reviews! Read the reviews here!

Excerpt from A Deconstructed Heart:

Chapter 1

When Mirza awoke, his wife was picking lint from their bedspread, a small sheep gathering existence between her fingers. “I’m leaving,” she said, looking for the next flea-sized victim to wrest with her long nails. Mirza propped himself up on one elbow and sucked the air between his teeth. His long exhalation did not make a ripple in the fjords of his wife’s gray and black hair. “Thinking…” he said, because he was, and did not quite know how to handle this moment. She snorted. “Well…” he continued, wondering why his arms were not flailing like a man slipping on ice, “…what you want we should do about the cat?”
He waited for the slam, but the quiet click of the bedroom door was like a switchblade closing. He fell back on the pillow and pulled the covers over his nose and mouth, breathing the warm, humid air from his lungs. He closed his eyes tightly for a long time until he saw bright flecks of color behind his eyelids, like shards of green glass. Finally, he rose. “That cat will need feeding,” he said to the pink roses on the wallpaper as he pushed the covers back and dug his toes into the carpet pile seeking his slippers. As he passed his wife’s dresser, he crossed his eyes when he saw the bamboo box where she kept her bangles, and the effort not to see it made his head ache.
He stopped at the bedroom door. There were noises from downstairs, drawers being rummaged in, a stack of plates sliding in the sink, the rattling of the glass panes in the front door as Naida left. He waited for the small cough of the Honda before he stepped out onto the landing and waited again until the roar of the car’s engine faded. The square window above the stairs was usually a delight to him every morning, a postage stamp that framed the houses on the next street over with a winking blue eye of sky, a perfect brushstroke of trees. He stood looking for a long time, feeling like a bell had been rung in his head, the clanging reverberations fading now to a soft hum.
There was no milk in the fridge, so he filled a saucer with water and called the cat with loud kissing sounds. She poked her head around the sofa cushions and was with him in one leap. “Aaah, Moriarty,” said Mirza, rubbing her behind her ears as she lapped dejectedly at the water, “Le coeur a ses raisons, no?”
He picked her up and, trading his slippers for his outdoor shoes, he stepped out of the side door in the kitchen, not caring to change out of his kurta pajamas. It was cold and damp outside, and Moriarty soon bolted from his arms, her tail flicking through the cat flap as she disappeared back into the house. The grass tickled his ankles as he strode to the middle of his lawn, but today he did not feel his usual dread of the lawnmower that waited in the tool shed like a neglected dog.
He settled in the small dip of lawn that rolled away from his house, his arms on his knees, and watched the ants weaving over and under the grass blades. At ten o’ clock that night, Mrs. Minton next door saw a white shirt in the gloom and told her husband that someone’s laundry must have blown off the washing line. She reminded herself to check whether any of his vests was missing in the morning.

Chapter 2

Frank Minton fell over the side of the fence between his home and the Chaudry’s with a small whoop of panic. A former police officer, he underestimated the effect that fifteen years and as many pounds took on his litheness, and when he straightened up his face was a shade of plum. Nobody witnessed his undignified descent, however; the form on the Chaudry’s lawn was still inert. Frank stepped around the dustbins and moved cautiously across the grass until he recognized his neighbor sleeping on the lawn, one arm above his head, another out to the front as if he were directing traffic.
“Mirza, is that you?” he asked, shaking his shoulder. “Are you locked out?”
“Yes, yes,” mumbled Mirza, “I told her myself,” he said, sitting up, his eyes still closed. The side of his face was indented with a thatch of grass blades and his nose immediately began streaming.
“What were you thinking, man?” asked Frank, not unkindly. “Where’s Naida? Your wife, where’s your wife?” he continued when Mirza did not reply. “You’ll freeze out here.” He gave him another hearty shake about the shoulders.
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Mirza, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve and opening one eye. Frank looked around helplessly and spotted Ella, his wife, in her dressing gown at the window of their house, staring down at them. She shrugged a question at him, and he shrugged back.
“Let’s get you inside.” He started to pull Mirza to his feet, but was surprised at the smaller man’s strength when he resisted. “For God’s sake, are you trying to kill yourself? You need to warm up!”
“Yes, what a good idea, I was very foolish,” said Mirza, locking his arms around his knees with one hand gripping the other’s wrist. “A blanket would be good. Also, I think I am out of milk, but perhaps a cup of tea…?”
Frank made a pouring gesture to his wife, and when she nodded, he strode into Mirza’s house to find a blanket. He returned with the scarlet and indigo duvet from Mirza’s bed (Naida’s taste) and a cellphone. As Mirza pulled the duvet around his shoulders, Frank waited, one large meaty finger hovering above the phone keypad.
“What’s the number, then?” he asked.
“Oh, no, not necessary,” said Mirza.
“Oho, trouble in paradise?” said Frank jovially. “Well she’ll be back here in a flash when she learns that you’ve been a proper Romeo for her. Hurry up, then.”
“There is no need,” said Mirza, his lips forming a tight line, “I’m quite comfortable here in my own garden. Anyway, who let you in?” he asked, looking at Frank for the first time.
“Listen, I’m calling someone. If you don’t give me a number where I can reach your wife, I’ll call the hospital instead. You would not sleep on the lawn all night unless you were drunk—”, here his nostrils flared slightly as he took in the mud and grass aroma of his unwashed neighbor, and continued, “—or locked out or, ahem, not feeling yourself.” He studied the toes of his Clarks and his voice became more gentle. “I would really feel better if you could give me the number of someone who might come over.” They heard a china cup rattling on its saucer by the fence. “Think about it, there’s a good man,” said Frank as he strode away to update his wife.

Mirza exhaled deeply and looked at the house. The darkened windows were not yet touched by the morning sun, gaping eyesockets and yawning maws of glass among the brown brick. He imagined the cat inside, raising her head from under the sofa cushions when she saw him, the dark slits of her pupils narrowing in their pools of iridescent green. He turned to face the other way.
Ella Minton handed her husband a cup of hot, milky tea for their neighbor. “I put in an extra sugar lump,” she said conspiratorially, “he must be in shock. Did she leave him, then?”
“I don’t know,” said Frank, as they stood together on the small bank of well-tended front lawn that connected his house to Mirza’s. He smiled at his wife’s padded housecoat and hausfrau slippers. She had eased into comfortable middle age, but every now and then a cheeky giggle and a sly glance reminded him of his twenty-year-old bride, and he allowed his touch to linger as he took the teacup from her. “He won’t let me call her, and he won’t go back in. Having a ‘moment’, I think.”
“Poor dear. I always thought there was something wrong there.” Through the open gate to their neighbor’s garden they heard the door to the kitchen close.
“Sounds promising,” said Ella, arching her eyebrows, but as Frank darted through his neighbor’s gate, Mirza was already stepping out of the house and heading back to the garden once more.
“Change your mind, did you?” asked Frank when he reached him, nodding towards the house.
“A simple call of nature.” Mirza settled into the grass again and wrapped the duvet about his shoulders like a shawl. He inclined his head slightly.
“Perhaps you would like to call my niece.”

Chapter 3

The first time Mirza met Naida, he was scraping off the remnants of a cow pat from his shoes at the front steps of her home in Lucknow. He was to be introduced to Naida’s elder sister for marriage and Bata shoes that signaled his prospects in life had been bought for the occasion. His father and uncle were offering dung-removing advice when Naida wobbled up on her brother’s bicycle and jumped off deftly as the wheels teetered to a stop.
She pulled her book-bag strap over her head, put her hands on her hips and flashed a gap-toothed smile at Mirza. He edged slightly behind his male relatives, still fervently wiping his shoes on the grass.
“Uncle… Uncle, assalamu alaikum,” she said, dipping her face into her cupped hand, then darting into the house, her light blue scarf the last thing they saw of her before the door closed. While Mirza and his male elders were still examining his shod feet, the door opened again and a slender brown hand placed a bucket of water, a bar of soap and a cleaning rag on the doorstep.
“Put your best foot forward!” a girl’s voice declaimed in schoolgirl English. Naida’s face appeared around the edge of the door. Her long braid flicked in orbit about her as she turned away.
The house was warm and stuffy. Mirza’s father passed him a handkerchief to wipe off the sweat that was trickling down from his forehead to his shirt collar. Mehjabeen sat opposite him, staring at her lap, and Mirza looked at the long bridge of her nose and her eyelashes. The veil over her head was trembling. As he stared down into his teacup, he heard his father recounting his success in his engineering studies. “First position,” said Kamal, whacking his son heavily on the back in congratulation, making the tea spill into the saucer. “Stiff competition, you know, but I told him “Now you are masterclass, you can go anywhere you want.” Naida’s parents watched, rapt, and even Mehjabeen looked up as Kamal Chaudry’s hand floated in the air, inscribing the geographic boundaries that would be broken by his son’s excellence.
Mirza, however, was watching another hand, a slender-fingered one that held out a tray of samosas at the doorway. A small cough came from outside the room and Naida’s sister rose heavily, stepping carefully towards the outstretched snacks. There was a murmur as she took the tray and for just a moment, Mirza caught sight of a dark eye peering naughtily through the crack of the doorjamb. He dabbed his neck and forehead copiously.
“Our daughter has always wanted to see the world—after marriage, of course,” said his future mother-in-law and Mirza smiled uncertainly. She put a samosa on a plate and passed it to Mehjabeen, nudging her to offer the plate to the engineering suitor, who took it without looking. “So serious,” thought the future mother-in-law happily, “such a thoughtful young man.”
“But it’s the wrong girl,” she complained a week later when the proposal arrived. “We can’t marry you off before your older sister!” There was a moment’s silence, then: “What did you do?” she asked sharply, tipping her chin at the younger daughter who was biting into a sweetmeat sent by Mirza’s family.
“Hai, Ammi-Jaan,” she replied, rooting around in the box for another treat to sample, “Its not my fault he got his sisters mixed up.” Mehjabeen sniffed loudly, her eyes still red-rimmed and puffy. She vowed to put her upstart of a sister back in her place by marrying the first physician who asked.

A Deconstructed Heart is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $4.99 or Borrow FREE w/ Prime!

Connect with Shaheen Ashraf-Ahmed:

Author Website: http://www.coinsinthewell.wordpress.com

Author Twitter Page: https://twitter.com/hailandclimb