The orphan's journey

In the late 20th century, in the KPK region of Pakistan, the night was dark. Car horns and the

laughter of children echoed through the streets, while the streetlights flickered like dying stars in

the heavens.

Ali paced back and forth in the stone alley, waiting impatiently for his father’s arrival. His mother

had died three months after he was born, leaving no one at home to care for him except his

loving old father and his ten-year-old sister, Hira.

Their father, whose wrinkled face always carried a faint smile, would return from a hard day’s

labor and take Ali into his lap, speaking to him in a childish, playful tone. Once, after working in

a nearby town to feed his two children, he came back with trembling hands and a body

drenched in sweat. His arms stretched out for relief as he sat down.

Little Hira, hardly nine years old, ran from her bed, wiped her father’s face with her new velvet

curtain—bought with the prize she received for standing first in school—and handed him a glass

of lemonade. Though exhausted, her father drank only half and offered the rest to her. She

refused, saying, “Please, Baba, lie down here on the cot and let me press your feet.” But he

gently declined. In a soft, loving, almost inaudible voice, he said: “I’m alright, my daughter. Don’t

worry about me. Go untie the food bag from the bicycle handle and enjoy it.”

Their father was a man of strong determination. Despite the countless wrinkles on his face, he

cycled nearly five kilometers daily to provide for his children. He had faced many hardships in

life, yet his only hope rested in little Hira and Ali.

One night, Hira and Ali were playing together when the clock struck ten.

“Father has never been this late,” Ali said in a worried tone.

“I’m anxious too, brother,” replied Hira.

Hunger gnawed at them as they waited, but still, their father did not return. At last, near

midnight, they went to bed with heavy hearts. Sleep came restlessly.

Hira lay on the bare floor, her mind clouded by fearful thoughts. She recalled her father’s loving

ways while Ali, deep in slumber, began to snore. Moving to the window, Hira gazed into the

pitch-dark night. The world seemed dead except for the chirping of crickets. Raising her hands

in prayer, she whispered: “O God, protect my father from the evils of this cruel and barbaric

world.”

At dawn, a knock sounded at their door. A group of villagers stood outside. Their neighbor,

Qasim, trembled with grief, his eyes full of tears. He knocked again, his heart breaking as he

prepared to deliver the dreadful news. Hira, rushing to the door, opened it with hope in her eyes—only to see Qasim instead of her

father. Shocked, she quickly hid her face in the curtain her father had bought for her. Without a

word, she shut the door.

She woke Ali and sent him to inquire. When he returned, his face was pale, tears streaming

down. At first, he could not speak. Finally, in a broken voice, he whispered: “Oh, my loving Papa

Jani… he’s no more.”

Hira clasped her brother tightly, her heart shattered. Ali continued: “I saw him at Qasim’s

house… wrapped in a white shroud. Someone struck him down in the darkness of night.”

The news hit Hira like a thunderbolt. She fainted, and the villagers rushed to console her.

When she regained consciousness, Tahira, Qasim’s younger sister, said gently:

“When nothing can be changed, tears only make the pain heavier. The worst enemy and the

best friend is your own strength. Don’t let grief consume you.”

Hira, wise and resilient like her father, resolved to dedicate her life to caring for Ali. She began

stitching clothes to earn money. When work was scarce, she washed clothes and did chores at

the Malik family’s house, though they treated her harshly and made her work like a servant.

Their only real help came from Qasim, who sometimes sent meals. But because of his wife’s

negligence, Hira and Ali often went hungry for days. Even when food was scarce, Hira always

fed Ali first, going to bed on an empty stomach herself.

One day, when Ali cried with hunger and she had nothing left, Hira made the painful decision to

seek alms in the market. She promised her brother she would return with food and stepped out

with a heavy heart.

By the roadside, she hesitated to stop a cab, but finally raised her hand. The driver—a young

man with green eyes, curly red hair, and a cunning smile—pulled over. Unknown to her, he ran

a brothel in the city.

At first, he coaxed her with soft words, asking about her needs. Hesitant, Hira finally told him her

story. The driver pretended sympathy and offered to “take care of all her needs” if she worked

with him. Believing he owned a shop or business, she agreed to see the place.

Soon, they reached an old building. Inside, Hira saw young men and women laughing, playing

music, and dancing. Nervously, she realized where she had been brought. A man reached for

her hand, but she pulled away, tears welling in her eyes. She told them her story in a trembling

voice, insisting: “I am not what you think. Hunger forced me here.”

Her innocence struck the leader of the group. Moved by her words, he placed a cloth over her

head as a sign of respect and said: “From now on, consider us your guardians.” That night, two of the young men followed her home in another cab. When Ali, weak with

hunger, saw his sister return empty-handed, he broke into tears. The young men, unable to bear

the sight, went to a grocery shop and bought flour, rice, sugar, and oil.

They filled the orphans’ home with food and comfort—restoring the hope that had almost died in

their hearts.