Humanity
The Last Promise of a Mother on the Burning Train
The Last Trust of a Mother BY: Ubaid It was nearly two years ago when I, Professor Dr. F.H. Farooqi, was traveling by train from Karachi to Lahore with my son after attending a wedding ceremony. The train crossed Rohri station, and after having our meal, we both lay down on our berths to rest. The rhythmic motion of the train was soothing, but suddenly, a wave of panic spread through the coaches. People began shouting hysterically—“The train is on fire!” The flames had erupted in two coaches near the engine. Because the train was moving at high speed, the fire rapidly spread from one carriage to another, growing more ferocious with every second. People desperately pulled the emergency chain, and after a violent jerk, the train screeched to a halt. Chaos broke loose. Passengers were jumping from the burning coaches to save their lives, while others rushed to help the weak and those trapped inside. Despite the horror, humanity shone bright in that moment—strangers helping strangers, risking their own lives to save others. My son and I, too, joined in the rescue efforts. Fortunately, our coach was farther from the engine, so the heat and smoke were less severe. Soon, villagers from nearby settlements also rushed to the site, bringing water and helping the injured. The night echoed with cries of pain and fear, but amidst that turmoil, my eyes fell upon a sight I could never forget. Near the corner of a coach lay an elderly woman, pinned under a heavy trunk. Her body was bleeding badly, her face pale, and her breath weak. I quickly rushed to her side and, with great effort, removed the trunk from her fragile body. She opened her eyes slightly and, in a faint whisper, gestured toward me. “Son,” she said weakly, “there is a black bag… It is my daughter’s trust. Please deliver it to her.” Her words were broken, her voice trembling. I tried to ask for her daughter’s full name and address, but all she managed to say was: “My daughter… her name is Razia… she lives in Multan… She is a school teacher…” Before she could say more, her breathing slowed, and in the very next moment, she passed away in my arms. I stood frozen, holding her last words in my heart. Turning to my son, I instructed him to keep the black bag safe among our belongings. “If the police come, they will not allow us to take anything,” I said. We carefully hid it, intending to fulfill the promise made to a dying mother. When we returned home to Lahore, I was determined to find Razia and hand over her mother’s belongings. But the address was incomplete—just a name, a city, and the fact that she was a teacher. Despite the odds, my son and I traveled to Multan, visiting different schools in search of a teacher named Razia. Each visit brought disappointment. Nobody knew of her. After exhausting our efforts, we returned to Lahore, but my heart remained restless. Months later, fate brought us to Multan again. This time, with renewed determination, we started asking people in neighborhoods if they knew of a woman named Razia whose mother had died in a train accident. Finally, someone told us, “I don’t know her name, but in our locality lives a woman whose mother died in that terrible train fire.” Guided by that man, we reached a modest house near a school. There, we met Razia. Upon speaking with her, we discovered the truth. Her mother had been traveling to deliver some savings and jewelry she had been keeping for her daughter. The accident had robbed Razia of her mother’s life, but the precious belongings were still missing—until now. Before handing over the bag, my son asked her to show a picture of her mother for confirmation. What Razia did not know was that during the chaos of the accident, my son had secretly taken a picture of the dying woman on his phone. When Razia showed us her mother’s photograph, we compared it to the image on my son’s device. The faces matched perfectly. Tears welled up in Razia’s eyes. Her voice trembled as she said, “Yes, this is my mother.” We then brought out the black bag. Until that moment, neither I nor my son had dared to open it. In Razia’s presence, we unzipped it for the first time. Inside were bundles of currency notes and carefully wrapped gold jewelry—her mother’s lifetime savings, preserved for her daughter. As we handed it over, Razia broke down in tears. Those tears were not just of grief for her mother’s loss but also of relief and gratitude that her mother’s final trust had been safely delivered. For me, the incident was more than just about returning money or jewelry. It was about honoring the dying words of a helpless mother, about fulfilling a promise when it seemed almost impossible. It was about faith—that even amidst tragedy, humanity can shine, and a trust can be preserved across fire, chaos, and death. That day, I realized something profound: wealth can be replaced, and lives eventually end, but the trust of a loved one—once fulfilled—becomes eternal. Razia may have lost her mother, but she gained back her mother’s last gift, and with it, the assurance that kindness and honesty still exist in this world. And for me, the memory of that burning train will forever be linked with the image of a mother’s love, stronger than death itself.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Confessions
The Hidden 20s: A Lesson Beyond Textbooks
The Test Beyond the Textbooks By Sadiq ur Rehman Shah, Sargodha When I stood first in my school examination, joy overwhelmed me like never before. My parents were delighted, showering me with praise, and even arranged a grand family dinner in my honor. Being the youngest and much-loved son, my achievements were always celebrated, but this time it was different. Despite the expensive tuition classes my parents had invested in, despite their countless sacrifices, I had rarely brought them the kind of success that filled them with pride. Yet this time, with a first position, it felt like I had finally justified their hope in me. On the appointed evening, the house was full of relatives—uncles, aunts, cousins—everyone smiling, congratulating, and treating me like a rising star. I could see the respect in their eyes and feel the warmth in their voices. I basked in the glow of this newfound admiration. But not everyone was impressed. Among all the cheers, one person remained unmoved—my elder sister, whom we all lovingly called Api. Unlike others, she did not see my position as a mark of brilliance. To her, my success was less about intelligence and more about rote memorization. Her opinion struck me like a slap across the face. I had expected pride and admiration, but instead, she dismissed my victory as ordinary. Her indifference stung me deeply. Anger bubbled inside me, and I challenged her openly. “If you think I don’t deserve this,” I said, my voice firm, “then ask me anything—about my textbooks or even outside them. I’ll answer.” This was partly bravado, partly frustration. You see, Api had always complained that I limited myself to schoolwork, never thinking beyond what was in the syllabus, never exploring the wider world of knowledge. “Fine,” she said calmly, almost too calmly. “I’ll test you this evening. But only in front of Amma and Abbu.” That moment changed the entire atmosphere. My cousins giggled. My parents looked at me with surprise. And Api simply walked away to the rooftop, leaving me alone with my pride. All day long, my heart raced. What kind of test would it be? Would she ask me to write? Would she question me about history, geography, or science? Or would she test my general knowledge? I did not know. For the first time, I felt unprepared—despite being the “topper.” In desperation, I opened magazines and books that had never interested me before. I flipped through pages of stories, articles, and random facts, hoping something would stick. My mind, however, was restless. I could not focus. Finally, evening arrived. The “examination hall” was our living room. Amma and Abbu sat to one side, watching silently. Api was already seated, upright, and composed, like a stern judge awaiting the accused. My heart pounded in my chest. “I will ask you only one question,” she said. “What? Only one?” The words burst out of my mouth, echoed immediately by Amma and Abbu, who were equally astonished. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “Only one.” I leaned forward, bracing myself. “Here is the question,” she said. “Every day, you receive a twenty-rupee note as pocket money. On that note, how many times is the number ‘20’ written?” For a moment, I almost laughed. Of all the things I had worried about, she had chosen this—such a silly, trivial question. Confidently, I answered, “Eleven times!” I knew this because I had once played this very game with my friends. I had counted the “20” written in digits, in English as ‘Twenty,’ and even in Urdu as ‘Bees.’ After turning the note upside down and inside out, I had never found more than eleven instances. But to my surprise, Api shook her head. “Wrong.” Her voice carried the weight of a verdict. My smile faded. How could I be wrong? I had counted carefully before, multiple times. “Look again,” she said, pulling out a note. She pointed not to the large visible numbers but to the faint lines across its surface. “Do you see these? They are not just lines. Under a magnifying glass, you’ll find hundreds of tiny 20s shimmering like hidden jewels.” Skeptical, I borrowed a magnifier from Abbu and held it against the note. My eyes widened in disbelief. The so-called “lines” were indeed rows of miniature ‘20s’ printed across the note—too small for the naked eye to notice. There were far more than I had ever imagined. Api leaned back and smiled, her point made without the need for further words. In that moment, I felt both humbled and enlightened. My sister had not asked a question from textbooks, nor one requiring memorization. Instead, she had challenged me to observe, to think, to look beyond the obvious. Her question was unconventional, even strange, yet it revealed a truth about me that no exam result could hide: I was excellent at rote learning but had never trained my mind to look deeper, to think critically, or to explore beyond the surface. That evening, the applause and admiration of my relatives faded into the background. What remained with me was the quiet smile of my sister and the realization that she had taught me my greatest lesson yet—one that no textbook, no tuition, and no exam could ever provide. Sometimes, the smallest question holds the biggest truth.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Confessions
The Confession of Fire by Stefano D’Angello
Part I - The Confession of Fire The rain never seemed to stop that month in Florence. The sky hung low and heavy, as though burdened by the weight of prayers it could no longer answer. In the heart of the city, behind the cracked marble pillars of the Santissima Trinità, Father Gabriel served the word of God. He was thirty-seven, solemn and disciplined, a man whose hands had only touched holy things.
By Stefano D'angelloabout a year ago in Confessions
Hysterectomy
Tamara tapped her coffee mug nervously with her pointer finger. The matte black nail polish on her fingers were chipped and her nail edges were jagged, sharp from repetitive biting. Her foot tapped the linoleum floor the way a woodpecker hammers a tree. The kitchen was dim, only a single bulb on the three-bulb ceiling fan was lit, and the light was weak but reflected off the lavender colored walls shone like gold. Tamara could hear the cat’s water fountain echoing sound fading into the distance. Her mind was far from easy. “I never wanted kids anyway,” she silently reminded herself as she read over the procedure guidelines for her upcoming hysterectomy. “1. Read and follow all pre-operative instructions. 2. Drink plenty of water and fluids. 3. Get all your prescriptions filled. 4. Shop for any necessary food. (Try to get prepared meals that just need to be placed in the oven.) 5. Choose an advocate.” Choose an advocate, it says. Well Tamara knew right away who that advocate would be. Her younger sister, Lottie. The Skelling sisters were best friends, and they were always each other's advocates. Her tapping stopped and a slight, momentary smile came to her face. Almost like a smirk but without sarcasm. Tamara was looking forward to spending the few days with her. And as if summoned by her sister's thoughts, Lottie’s car pulled into the driveway. She grabbed her gym bag, water bottle and keys then walked out of her house, locking the door behind her.
By Theresa M Hochstineabout a year ago in Confessions
King Faisal’s Wisdom: How a Saudi King Silenced Western Critics on Justice and Human Rights
King Faisal’s Wisdom: A Lesson to the West BY:Khan On an official visit to the United Kingdom, King Faisal of Saudi Arabia (may Allah have mercy on him) was invited to a grand state banquet. The dining table was decorated with exquisite dishes, sparkling silver cutlery, and crystal glasses that reflected the glow of the chandeliers. When the meal began, all the dignitaries and guests naturally picked up their forks and spoons. But King Faisal, without hesitation, chose a different way. He ate with his hands—calmly, gracefully, and in line with the Sunnah of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). This unusual sight did not go unnoticed. As the meal ended, a group of journalists approached the Saudi monarch. One of them asked, “Your Majesty, why did you not use the spoon and fork placed before you? Why did you prefer to eat with your hands?” King Faisal smiled gently and replied with words that reflected both simplicity and profound wisdom: “Why should I use something that goes into my mouth today, but tomorrow might go into someone else’s? My fingers, however, are my own. They will always belong to me, and they will always serve me. For this reason, I prefer eating with my hands.” The journalists were taken aback by his reasoning. What seemed at first like a simple cultural difference turned out to be a statement of personal dignity, hygiene, and authenticity. --- The American Delegation Some time later, an American delegation of journalists visited Saudi Arabia. Their stay lasted a full week, and during this time, they carefully observed the culture, the streets, and most importantly, the law and order of the Kingdom. One thing stood out to them, and it left them unsettled: the Islamic legal punishments enforced in Saudi Arabia. They discovered that those caught stealing could have their hands amputated. They also learned that criminals guilty of certain offenses were flogged publicly. To the American journalists, these punishments seemed excessively harsh, even barbaric. In the United States, such measures were unthinkable. For them, the idea of “human rights” clashed with what they saw in the Kingdom. When their official meeting with King Faisal finally came, one journalist raised the question boldly. He said: “Your Majesty, why have you enforced such strict punishments in your country? Cutting off hands? Public flogging? Don’t you think such practices violate human rights and the dignity of the individual?” The room fell silent. Everyone waited for the King’s reaction. Would he become defensive? Would he turn away the question? But King Faisal’s face remained calm and serene. He listened patiently without interrupting. When the journalist finished, the King paused for a few seconds in thoughtful silence. The journalist assumed he had left the King speechless. Then King Faisal spoke. --- A Brilliant Response “Tell me,” he asked, “did some of you bring your wives along on this trip?” Several members of the delegation nodded. “Good,” the King continued. “Before your stay in Saudi Arabia ends, take your wives to the gold market in Riyadh. Allow them to choose any jewelry they like. Do not worry about the cost—I will pay for everything. Then, let your wives wear these gold ornaments, and all of you should walk freely in the streets and markets of this city. Observe what happens.” The journalists were surprised. This was an unexpected invitation. The King’s voice grew firmer as he added: “Not a single person will dare to touch them. No thief will dare to snatch a necklace. No criminal will dare to harass them. They will walk freely, in peace and dignity, guarded not by policemen, but by the strength of justice and law.” Then King Faisal leaned slightly forward and said: “Now, when you return to America, try doing the same. Let your wives wear expensive gold jewelry and walk from the airport to your homes, alone and unguarded. Tell me—will they reach safely?” At these words, the delegation fell silent. They looked at each other awkwardly. A few of them whispered, “Forget reaching home safely—our wives would not even make it past the airport without being harassed or robbed.” King Faisal’s response was clear, logical, and irrefutable. He smiled gently and said: “You have answered your own question. The punishments you call harsh are the very reason that safety and peace prevail in our streets. They are not cruelty—they are justice. They protect the dignity, property, and honor of our people. This is the true meaning of human rights.” --- The Legacy of a Just Leader The delegation returned to America carrying more than memories. They carried with them a lesson in wisdom. They had expected to expose a flaw in Saudi justice, but instead they encountered a leader whose reasoning cut through their doubts with undeniable clarity. King Faisal’s leadership was not merely about politics or diplomacy. It was about preserving a way of life built on justice, respect, and the guidance of faith. His calm responses revealed not only his intelligence but also his deep connection to values greater than himself. Even today, his words echo as a reminder that human rights are not only about individual freedom. They are also about the collective right to live without fear, to walk the streets safely, and to know that justice protects the weak from the strong. In a world still struggling with crime, corruption, and insecurity, King Faisal’s wisdom remains timeless.
By Khan about a year ago in Confessions
From Stress to Self-Discovery: Using the Destiny Matrix for Everyday Lifestyle Choices
In today’s fast-paced world, many of us feel overwhelmed by endless responsibilities, constant digital noise, and the pressure to keep up with modern life. Stress has become so common that it almost feels “normal.” But what if there was a way to turn that stress into a tool for growth and even self-discovery?
By Owner Ruteenabout a year ago in Confessions
When Stardom Meets Separation: The Truth Behind Nicole Kidman & Keith Urban’s Breakup
In late September 2025, the entertainment world was shaken by news that Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban, one of Hollywood and country music’s most admired power couples, had separated after nearly two decades of marriage. Their love story, which had once stood as a rare testament to stability in the often turbulent world of celebrity relationships, suddenly came to a close.
By Lynn Myersabout a year ago in Confessions
The Last Dawn Before the Fire
The Last Dawn Before the Fire The world woke up not to the sound of birds, but to the echo of sirens and the trembling of the earth. For months, the signs had been clear: broken negotiations, rising tensions, armies massing along borders. Yet, humanity still clung to the fragile hope that reason would prevail. But when the first missile pierced the night sky, that hope shattered like glass.
By Wings of Time about a year ago in Confessions
Observations on My Birthday
With all the rapturing talk, and the nonsense of that...ahem...world leader taking over the airwaves, I kind of ignored my own birthday. Crossing over that date provides plenty of its own amusements without the nonsense of the wider world. I note that I do not have as much energy as I did when I first began running as a teenager and attempted to keep my health. I misplace things around the house and begin to think that I am pulling a prank on myself without the fear that I am just losing my mind. And I have no interest in a lot of old habits that I once thought would define me forever.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Confessions
The Self-Proclaimed Captain Who Learned a Hard Lesson
The Self-Proclaimed Captain BY:Khan “Listen, friends! I’m the best cricket player among all of you. That’s why I should be the captain of our team!” Amir stood proudly on a raised platform in the middle of the playground, looking down at his group of friends. His tone was firm, his chest puffed out with self-confidence, and his eyes glittered with the satisfaction of his own words. The group of boys sitting in a circle on the grass exchanged doubtful glances. They knew Amir well—his voice was always louder than his performance, his confidence always bigger than his contribution. But Amir didn’t notice their silence. He was too busy repeating the same line over and over again, as if sheer insistence would turn his claim into an undeniable fact. “I play the best cricket,” he declared again, “and because of that, I must be the captain!” The boys hesitated. None of them wanted an argument, and truthfully, they were tired of Amir’s endless speeches. Finally, one of his closest friends shrugged and said, “If Amir insists this much, let’s just make him the captain. Maybe then he’ll prove what he says.” “Fine! Fine! Let’s make Amir the captain,” the others echoed in unison. Some of them smiled secretly at each other, as if waiting to see what would happen next. And just like that, Amir became the captain of his cricket team. --- The First Challenge The very next day, a match was arranged against the team from a neighboring street. For the boys, this wasn’t just a game; it was about pride, respect, and the right to claim themselves as the better players in the neighborhood. Amir, wearing his newly found authority like a crown, walked toward the pitch for the toss. He tried to appear calm, as though leadership came naturally to him, but luck was not on his side. He lost the toss. The rival team chose to bat first, and Amir had to send his bowlers in. “Don’t worry,” Amir said confidently, “I’ll take care of this. I’ll show them how a real captain bowls.” But the ground soon echoed with the sound of boundaries. Ball after ball, Amir’s deliveries were punished by the batsmen. His friends bowled well, keeping the runs under control, but Amir alone gave away 52 runs in six overs without taking a single wicket. Each hit against his bowling felt like a hammer striking his inflated pride. By the time the innings ended, Amir’s team was already under pressure because of his poor bowling performance. --- The Fall of a Captain Now it was Amir’s turn to shine with the bat. He placed himself in the opening position, believing that a captain should lead from the front. He walked toward the pitch with his bat held high, imagining cheers that weren’t really there. The first few balls went by cautiously. Then came a delivery that clipped the stumps perfectly. Amir’s bat missed, and the bails flew into the air. He had scored only two runs before being bowled out. The walk back to the pavilion felt longer than any distance Amir had ever covered. His teammates avoided meeting his eyes. He sat down quietly, watching the rest of the match unfold. Though some of his friends fought hard, the target was too high, and eventually, the team lost. --- Whispers After Defeat The boys were quiet as they walked home together, dragging their bats and balls behind them. Defeat always stung, but this one hurt more because it could have been avoided. As they reached the corner of the street, Amir overheard two of his friends whispering. “Did you hear how Amir kept praising himself before the match?” one said. “Yes,” the other replied with a small laugh. “But when the time came, his performance was zero. He was just making himself a hero in words.” Amir felt his face burn. The pride he had worn like a crown now weighed heavy like a stone. He wanted to shout, to defend himself, to remind them of all the chances he might have if he played again. But deep down, he knew they were right. --- The Lesson That night, Amir couldn’t sleep. He replayed every moment of the match in his mind—the lost toss, the boundaries off his bowling, the stumps flying after his mistake. His friends’ words echoed like a drumbeat: all talk, no proof. For the first time, Amir admitted to himself that confidence without effort meant nothing. If he truly wanted to be the captain, he had to earn it. Not through speeches, not through insistence, but through performance, discipline, and hard work. The next morning, Amir woke up early. Instead of making another speech, he picked up his bat and ball and walked to the empty ground. The sun was just rising, and the field was silent except for the sound of his footsteps. This time, he didn’t tell anyone that he was the best. He just practiced quietly, promising himself that one day, when he spoke about being captain again, his game would speak louder than his words. --- Moral of the Story Leadership is not claimed by words; it is earned by actions. Amir’s experience shows us that overconfidence without preparation leads to disappointment. True respect comes not from demanding authority but from proving oneself through dedication and performance.
By Khan about a year ago in Confessions
Shahbaz Sharif vs Netanyahu at the UN: A Clash of Moral Narratives
Shahbaz Sharif vs Netanyahu at the UN: A Clash of Moral Narratives When the General Assembly convenes at the United Nations, it becomes a stage not just for policy but for performance — a place where nations wrestle to shape narratives, appeal to conscience, and declare moral authority. In this year’s assembly, the speeches of Pakistan’s Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif and Israel’s Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu encapsulated two starkly different visions. Their addresses — moments of confrontation and contrast — reveal more about the global battle over legitimacy, justice, and the power of rhetoric than about immediate diplomatic outcomes.
By Wings of Time about a year ago in Confessions
