Consolation English Story by Muheet Ismail
Rain is usually a blessing, but for the people of Lahore, it sometimes turns into a nuisance. One late evening in the last week of July, I got off the wagon at Kachehri Stop, Lower Mall, when a boy approached me and asked:
“How far is Lorry Adda from here?”
I replied, “Quite far, you should take a wagon.”
He said, “I don’t have fare, I’ll have to walk.”
Feeling sympathy, I asked, “What will you do at Lorry Adda? Where are you coming from and where do you need to go?”
The boy looked barely thirteen. His clean appearance suggested he belonged to a modest family. Wheatish complexion, neither too healthy nor too weak, about four feet tall. Standing with me on the footpath, he explained:
“We were three boys who came from Rawalpindi to Lahore this morning for a little sightseeing. After wandering a bit, we went to see airplanes from Chauburji. Then we decided to go to Data Darbar. Despite the bus being overcrowded, we pushed our way in. My two friends got in from the back door, I from the front. My friend had my hundred rupees and was responsible for buying tickets. Before reaching the Darbar, the bus stopped. The conductor shouted: ‘Those going to Darbar, get down here!’ I got off and began looking for my friends, but they were nowhere to be found. The conductor told me they had gotten off at the previous stop.
I thought perhaps they were waiting for me there, so I walked back. But they weren’t there either. Now I plan to go to Lorry Adda and look for them. If I don’t find them, I’ll request some bus or coach driver to take me back to Rawalpindi without fare after explaining my situation.”
It was indeed troubling. Anyone in my place would have done what I did. I asked:
“What’s your name?”
“Waqas.”
“Your father’s name?”
“Qazi Abdur Rasheed, inspector at the railway workshop. We live in the quarters opposite the workshop.”
“Which grade do you study in?”
“Ninth.”
“Your school’s name?”
“Shalimar Academy.”
“Do you have a home phone number?”
“No.”
“Any relative’s number?”
“My uncle’s.”
He recited it hesitantly. I noted it down.
I said, “Let’s eat first, then I’ll put you on the train.”
He replied, “I’m not hungry, I ate bread in the evening.”
We took a chingchi rickshaw to the railway station. On the way, I asked about his siblings and warned him never to travel to another city without his parents or elders. Times are dangerous. But he hardly seemed to pay attention.
At the station, I learned that the Khyber Mail from Karachi was about to leave and would reach Rawalpindi in five hours. It was 9 p.m. I advised:
“Look, this train will reach Rawalpindi at 2 a.m. It’ll be dark, and you might not find transport home. Better stay with me tonight, I’ll put you on a bus in the morning—you’ll reach home safely by daylight. We’ll also inform your uncle right now.”
He insisted, “No, no. In Rawalpindi, transport is available all night. I want to go by this train.”
I bought him a ticket and gave him extra money for a rickshaw to get home, plus more for food. He bought some snacks from a nearby shop.
As the train prepared to leave, I said: “If you’re afraid your father will scold you, I’ll come and explain everything myself. He won’t be angry.”
He said calmly, “No, I had taken permission before coming. My family won’t say anything.”
I was reassured. As the train whistled and moved, I shook his hand and said, “Allah Hafiz.”
But he looked at me blankly—neither thankful, nor emotional, not even a hint of farewell on his face.
After the train disappeared, I called his uncle and briefly explained the situation. The reply stunned me:
“Sorry, none of our relatives is named Waqas, nor do we know anyone called Qazi Abdur Rasheed. You must have been given the wrong number.”
My anxiety deepened. I should have verified before buying the ticket. The next day, I even wrote a letter to the Railway Workshop address, requesting confirmation if the boy had reached home. A week passed—no reply.
When I narrated the story to my friend Hamid, he said:
“These incidents are common. That boy didn’t deserve your sympathy. He tricked you. Most likely, he got off at the very next station and told people his luggage was left behind in the train. Out of pity, people give money, even arrange transport. It’s just another dishonest way of earning.”
Now my worry turned into astonishment. I consoled myself: May Allah truly have guided that boy safely to his home.
