CHAPTER 3: How Waliullah Reunited 450 Lost Families Across the World | True Inspiring Story

If you haven't read the previous chapters, start here:

• Chapter 1: Who is Waliullah

Chapter 2: How Waliullah Began His Mission

 He couldn’t stop after that.

Waliullah created pages on Facebook and YouTube. Simple name. Reuniting Hearts. He used an old

smartphone. Battered laptop. The internet connection was weak during load shedding. But he worked

hard. Late nights. Eyes burning. Editing emotional videos. Writing stories with pain and hope.

The first cases were local. Close to home. Missing child from Lyari. Mother searched for eight years.

Praying every day. Waliullah posted an old photo and details. People shared, and within weeks the boy was found. Now a teenager and working far, mother ran, hugged him tightly, and screamed with joy. “Mera beta! Mera beta wapas aa gaya!”(My son is back) That sound, pure and raw. Waliullah still remembers it in quiet moments.

Then work grew bigger and harder. I can't tell you about all his 450 cases.

Among them Hamida Bano case was very famous. Trafficked from India to Pakistan, suffered for years. Silent pain.

Waliullah sat with her and listened to her every detail for hours. Her voice was shaking. He posted

carefully with respect. The media noticed Indian channels and Pakistani too. After many months,

coordination with authorities and embassies. Hamida crossed the border and fell into her sister’s arms.

Whispered. “Meri behen… main wapas aa gayi.”(my sister I am back) I have come back.

Waliullah stood far away, watching; his heart was heavy with their past and lightened with present joy.

This work. It demanded everything. He said in an interview that I watched.

Calls came at 3 a.m, strange hours and desperate voices, crying and begging. Someone's father was from Yemen. My daughter disappeared during the conflict. “Please find her. She is all I have.” An old woman from the Philippines. My son came to work years ago and never heard any news since then. In another case, a young man from Malaysia; his mother was taken. “I was a child when she left.”

He sat in a small room, the fan creaking above. He listened and never rushed. Let them speak. Let them

cry. He asked small things. His/her name, parents’ names, siblings, area and other information if they

have. These tiny details. They became a map for him. Clues across time and borders.

He built a small team of boys from the madrasa, women from the neighborhood, and retired officers who believed. They translated languages, made calls to foreign embassies, and followed leads across different time zones–tired but determined.

In another inspiring video I watched. It was very painful. An old man from Jordan. He came to Pakistan in the 1980s for treatment, lost in papers. He tried to get them but in vain, and forty years passed. The family thought he was dead. Waliullah searched and found him. He was begging near a shrine in Manghopir. His mind was half gone because of age and trauma.

A video call was arranged; his son was in Amman. Now fifty years old with gray hair, his voice trembling. “Baba… Baba, main aapka beta hoon.” ( Dad, I am your son)

Old man, wrinkled hands, touched screen and crying like a child trying to reach through the glass. “Mera beta…”(my son)

When he finally went home. The family carried him on their shoulders, like a bridegroom. He lived six

months, surrounded by love, and died peacefully, not alone. That gave Waliullah strength.

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WaliullahMaroof

a Tragic Story

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Chapter 2: How Waliullah Maroof Reunited Nani Zahida with Her Family After 37 Years | The True Story That Started His Mission

It all started with Nani Zahida. I watched a video of his interview. He told how he got the idea to reunite people. There was an old woman with a frail body, silver hair, and a Bengali accent whenever she spoke, who lived alone in a tiny rented room near their alley. Waliullah had known her since childhood. She sometimes gave sweets to the kids. Smile softly, but her eyes looked sad. They carried deep sadness. Like an ocean of pain hidden inside. One very hot evening, the air hung heavy. Waliullah sat with his mother in the courtyard as the fan made a slow noise. He scrolled through his phone, wasting time. His mother put her hand gently on his knee. “Beta,”(son), she said softly. “This phone. Allah gave you a reason. Not just for fun videos. Use it for good. Something meaningful.” Waliullah looked at her. Confused. “What do you mean, Ammi(mother)?” She pointed toward Zahida’s room across a narrow lane. “That poor woman has no family here. She was lost. Post her story on Facebook; maybe someone from Bangladesh will recognize her.” Waliullah thought for a long time. Then he did it that night under dim light, fingers shaking a little. He took a simple photo. Zahida was sitting on an old charpoy(rope cot) with a faded green shawl around her shoulders. Eyes looking far away. He wrote the post with care. “This is our Nani Zahida. I came from Bangladesh many years ago. Trafficked maybe. She misses her daughter so much. If anyone knows her family. Please contact me. Allah is watching us.” Posted then, he slept; his heart was beating fast. Not expecting anything. 

Seven days. Just seven days. The phone started exploding with notifications, messages, and shares. Someone from Bangladesh saw it, then another, then the whole family. Video calls are arranged quickly. Waliullah helped Zahida sat properly. Her hands trembled so badly. He held the phone for her. The screen lit up. A middle-aged woman appeared on the phone; her face looked like Zahida's. “Ammi(mother)?” she whispered. Voice cracking. Zahida’s eyes widened. The sound came out, half cry and half prayer. “Rina? Meri beti…(my daughter) Rina? Is that you?” Thirty-five years, no word, no contact. 

Now, in this moment, tears were flowing like a river. Zahida was crying loudly. Her daughter was crying. Both reached out their hands toward the screen. Waliullah stood in the corner. His own tears came and wouldn’t stop. It was a heartbreaking and healing event at the same time. Then I read about him and how he started to continue his mission.  It changed everything. Later, with the help of kind people, volunteers, and donations from strangers. Waliullah arranged everything: passport, travel expenses. Zahida went back to Bangladesh. After thirty-seven long years. When she hugged her daughter. The whole village gathered, and women ululating. Men wiping their eyes. Zahida was holding her grandchildren for the first time. She kept repeating. “Allah brought me home. Allah ne mujhe wapas kar diya.”(God sent me back). Waliullah watched videos later, tears again. He understood family, not just blood. Family is oxygen. Family is the soul. He saw a dead soul breathing again. That day, a mission was born in his heart.

 

With thanks, Waliullah Maroof:

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Reuniting Families

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Salumabad

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Chapter 4: Slumabad

 

People like to call it a success story. In fancy words, it is“Grit” or “Resilience,” which sounds nice.

But Sabir knew the truth. It was just… hard life, long struggle, and no shortcut. And getting there… was not simple. For someone like Sabir… it felt almost impossible. No family support. No savings waiting. No backup plan. He built his own way. CIMA was not one exam. It had many levels of certification.

2007.

Sabir has his CIMA degree now. The certificate was framed, hanging on the wall and looking pretty.

But something was eating him from the inside.

Every evening, he rode his bike through the township. Through the areas where the roads ended, and the mud began. Where the houses turned into tents. Where the smell hit you before the sight did.

Slums.

He had grown up near them. Lived close enough to smell them. Far enough to pretend they didn't exist.

But now he couldn't pretend anymore.

**The Night Waiting**

He saw it first on a Tuesday evening. Or maybe Wednesday. He didn't remember the day. He remembered the face. One day, his mother highlighted the issue in the community: every woman has to stand outside her tent, shifting her weight from her left foot to her right, clenching her legs together, with painful clarity. She needs to relieve herself. But there were no toilets. Not a single one in the entire settlement of maybe two hundred people. So she waits.

She waits for the sun to die. She waits for the darkness to spread like a blanket over the slum. She waits for the men to go inside their tents. She waits for the world to stop looking. Then she could squat in some corner, in the open, and like an animal. Because that's what the system has reduced her to.

Sabir sat; his throat felt tight, his fists were clenched so hard his nails dug into his palms. This is not a sanitation problem, he thought. This is a dignity problem.

Every single day. Thousands of women across Pakistan's slums lived this nightmare. Holding it in for twelve hours. Fourteen hours. Developing infections. UTIs. Kidney problems. Silent suffering that nobody talked about because nobody cared.

And the men? They just peed near their tents. Openly. Shamelessly. The wall of the nearest structure became their urinal.

The children? Same. They didn't know better. Nobody taught them better.

**The Poisoned Water**

It rained in August like it always does in Lahore, heavy, relentless, and the slum flooded. Slums always flood, with no drainage, no planning, and no government attention.

The open sewage mixed with the rainwater. The rainwater mixed with the drinking water sources.

Children started getting sick within days. Kids dying from dirty water. The irony was not funny. It was sickening.

Sabir visited a slum after a particularly bad outbreak. He came home that night and couldn't sleep. Stared at the ceiling again. But this time it wasn't exam math keeping him awake. It was guilt.

**The Name**

He decided to do something, stupid maybe and impossible probably, but he couldn't just sit anymore.

He started small, talking to slum dwellers, understanding their problems not from a textbook, not from an NGO report, but from actual conversations with actual people.

They told him things no report would capture.

"We don't have a place to shit," one man said bluntly. "What will you do about that?" Fair question, direct and raw.

Sabir didn't flinch. "I'll build toilets."

The man laughed, not mocking, just hopeless. "Nobody builds toilets here, sahab. Politicians come before elections. They take photos and leave. You are young, and you will also leave."

Sabir didn't leave. He thought about it for weeks research, planned, failed, planned again, and then he gave it a name.

**Slumabad.**

Not a charity, not an NGO in the traditional sense. A movement and an idea. That slums are not temporary problems to be ignored. They are permanent realities that need permanent solutions.

Slumabad. The city within the city that nobody acknowledges.

He registered it and told a few friends, and most thought he was crazy.

**The Mobile Toilet**

Fixed toilets in slums don't work. Sabir learned this quickly.

Why? Because slums are not permanent. The government demolishes them. The landowner kicks people out, rains wash them away, and families relocate.

You build a concrete toilet. Three months later, there is no slum there anymore. Just rubble and a useless toilet standing alone like a monument to bad planning. So Sabir thought differently.

Mobile toilets.

Portable toilets that can move with the community when it is forced to relocate. Simple concept but difficult execution.

He started with basic designs, cheap materials, easy to assemble, easy to disassemble, and easy to transport on a pickup truck if needed. Not enough but it was a start.

Every toilet had a collection system. Human waste didn't just go into the ground. It was contained. Stored. Processed. Because Sabir had a bigger idea, a crazier idea.

**Waste to Wealth**

Human waste is everybody's problem. But Sabir looked at it differently. His CIMA brain kicked in cost, revenue input and output.

What if waste isn't waste? What if it's a resource?

He researched biogas systems simple technology not new not revolutionary but never applied in Pakistan's slums because nobody bothered.

Human waste goes into a digester bacteria break it down produces methane gas. The gas can be used for cooking for heating for generating electricity.

The leftover material? Fertiliser rich and organic better than the chemical garbage sold in fancy bags at agricultural stores.

The math was beautiful. Not complicated. Just beautiful. But execution? Ugly. Difficult. Frustrating.

Nobody wanted to fund it. "Sanitation in slums" is not a sexy pitch. Investors want apps. Startups. AI. Blockchain. Nobody wants to talk about shit.

Literally.

**The Children**

But toilets weren't enough. Sabir knew this. Sanitation saves lives. But education changes them.

He went back to the slums started identifying children. Kids between five and twelve wandering around and playing in sewage water picking through garbage no school no future just existence.

He started talking to parents, convincing them.

"Send your child to school."

"We can't afford the fees, sahab."

"I'll pay."

"We need them to work. They earn two hundred rupees a day picking garbage."

Two hundred rupees. The price of a child's future.

Sabir swallowed his anger, smiled, and came back the next day. It took a week to convince a family to let their kid be admitted to a school.

He enrolled the first child. Then another. Then five. Then fifteen.

Fifteen children who would have spent their lives in garbage. Now sitting in classrooms, wearing uniforms and holding pencils for the first time.

A small number but massive impact.

**The Man Who Came Back**

People ask Sabir why he does this. He has a CIMA degree. He could work in a multinational and earn millions. He could live in DHA, drive a Corolla, and escape the smell of the slums forever.

He could, but he didn't.

Because every time he rides through those slums and sees a mobile toilet standing there, functional and being used.

Every time a child runs up to him in a clean uniform and says, "Sabir bhai, I got an A in math," he remembers his own days. Teaching tuition to pay for CIMA, the hunger, and the exhaustion.

He didn't escape the slums. He went back to them.

Not as a saviour. He hates that word. Not as a hero. That word makes him uncomfortable.

He went back as someone who knows, someone poor and someone who understands that the gap between a Township government school and a CIMA degree is not just about hard work.

It's about dignity, access and opportunity.

Slumabad is not perfect. Sabir knows this. He is not perfect. He knows this too.

But the toilets still stand.

The children still go to school.

But some.

And something is better than nothing when you start from nothing.

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CHAPTER 2: The Power of Literacy

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The Touch: Chapter 4: A New Beginning in Windham

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Mystery & Magic

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The Touch: Chapter 6: Holidays Alone

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From Slums To Slumabad: A true motivational story

 

The Golden Word

Chapter: 1  From Poverty to Purpose

There was a small boy from a very poor family, not the kind of poor people talk about casually, but really poor. The kind where every day feels heavy.

They lived in tents, thin ones, clothes tearing from the sides. When the wind came, the whole place started shaking like it might fly away any second. There was no electricity, the nights were dark, not soft-dark… but deep, empty, dark.

No water system, no proper place for a toilet, just open land and dust everywhere, always dust. It stuck to skin, to clothes, to breath, and they never stayed long.

Every few weeks, men would come with their voices loud, angry faces. Government people, or maybe development authority… the boy never really knew. They used big words. “Illegal encroachment.” He didn’t understand it fully. But he understood one thing clearly—

It meant leave, again.

So they packed fast like they were used to running, no questions, no arguing just move.

Morning started early in that life before sunlight properly reached the ground. His mother would wake him up. Gently… but with tired hands.

“Utho…” (wakeup)

He would sit up slowly, eyes still heavy, body not ready, but he never complained. There was no space for that. Breakfast was small, sometimes dry roti, sometimes tea, and sometimes… nothing at all. Still, they called it. breakfast, then they walked.

Long roads. Dusty paths. Until the city started changing. Big houses appeared. Clean streets. Quiet walls. A different world. One that did not belong to them.

The boy carried an old, torn sack almost as big as he was. They searched through the garbage papers, plastic and bottles. Anything they could reuse or sell. He learned quickly what had value and what didn’t. Small hands working fast.

People passed by, some looked at him, some didn’t, and most just ignored him like he was part of the trash he was picking.

The sun grew harsh as the day moved heat pressed down on his head, his feet burned, his hands turned rough and dirty, but he kept going.

He had to because he had no choice.

Evening came slowly they returned with whatever they collected. Sometimes the sack was full, and sometimes it felt too light.

They sold everything for a few coins. Never enough, but enough to get through one more day, and that was life. Same routine, same struggle, no change, no pause, just survival.

Breaking the Cycle

Sabir.

That was his name, simple. He is the eldest son of nine siblings behind him, nine mouths, nine needs too much for one small boy. In his world, kids don’t stay kids for long.

They work. He was expected to work no discussion. no choice. Like others around him, he woke up, went out, and earned something.

School? No, not for them, but Sabir… he was different, quite different. Words on a piece of paper made him curious. He wanted to know about them. Strange thing to want in that life, almost useless, people would say, but the feeling stayed, didn’t go.

Sometimes he slowed near schools a little, looking inside, children sitting, clean, laughing, holding books like they matter.

Books…

He didn’t understand them fully, but he knew they had power, something big inside them.

At home, no one really listened to this or maybe… they couldn’t.

His mother cleaned houses all day, her hands always in water and tired. Her voice is low, her back bent.

His father drove a donkey cart, load after load, dust in his face, the sun on his head, the same road and the same struggle.

They worked hard. Still… money never stayed. It came and then was gone, not enough for food and small things. Everything eats money fast.

There was no space for dreams, not this kind. Sabir knew it. He wasn’t stupid.

Still… the wish stayed. Then there was another thing quite bigger.

His ancestors were from a Hindu scheduled caste. Then the partition happened. They became Muslim but life didn’t change much. Names changed, prayers changed, but people didn’t.

Sabir felt it. He looked from a distance at how people spoke… or didn’t speak.

“My community…” he once said, slowly, unsure, “…we are like untouchables.”

He didn’t know all of history, big words, or big politics.

But he knew the feeling of being less, being pushed aside without saying it directly.

Being there… but not really seen.

So he walked.

Same sack on the shoulder.

Same streets under his feet.

Same dream inside him.

A dream that didn’t fit his world.

Still… it refused to die.

(Wait for the next to fulfill your curiosity)

Don't miss Chapter 2

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The Golden Words: A Heartwarming Tale of Love, Success, and Family in South Africa

 

Mystery & Magic

Once, there was a boy named Kojo who lived with his parents in a small town in South Africa. He was the sole offspring of his parents. His family was quite poor, with his father working at a pharmaceutical company, where he capped medicine bottles. His father was a hardworking man who was the sole provider for their household. They managed to buy food solely with his father's wage. Despite this, they were content with their situation. They found peace in their hearts, minds, and home as well. However, Kojo was not satisfied. As a schoolboy, he often watched the children attending prestigious schools, indulging in lavish lunches filled with expensive chocolate bars and candies. He wished to have those things for himself. Observing them left him feeling desperate. He longed to be like them and to achieve something significant for himself and his parents. Every night, he pondered his situation, and when exhaustion overtook him, he slipped into sleep. As time passed, his life continued unchanged. Kojo excelled in his studies and eventually graduated on a scholarship he earned through his outstanding grades and reputation. He secured a promising job as an engineer at a well-known automobile company. His parents were overjoyed and celebrated throughout the town. Since childhood, it had been his dream to own many cars. He was euphoric. He worked tirelessly and gradually advanced in his career, earning substantial wealth, purchasing two magnificent houses resembling castles, and traveling around the globe, learning from various automobile companies. Yet, his ambitions appeared to have no limits. His success was swift. Eventually, he established his own automobile company, which became highly competitive on a global scale. He achieved immense wealth and became the richest man. The Turning Point: When Wealth Wasn't Enough In his relentless pursuit of wealth, he lost sight of his parents. He neglected to spend time with his parents. They were affluent, yet they were not as joyful as they once were. Longing for his presence, they waited for him all day, but he often couldn't return home at night due to his business commitments. Over time, his parents became ill and frail. He sought the best treatment for them, securing top-tier medical care and hiring well-qualified nurses from prestigious hospitals. Despite these efforts, they remained unhappy and did not improve. One day, in desperation, he asked the doctor, “Why, despite receiving the best care from the finest doctors, are my parents not recovering?” The doctor's response pierced his thoughts. “In our daily practice, we observe that when medicine fails, love works wonders. They need the magic of love.”

                           The Power of Love: A Lesson in Gratitude

At that moment, realization struck him. “Oh, God! What have I done? In this rat race, I lost myself, my parents, and I was on the verge of losing my entire world.” He instantly kissed the doctor's hand and rushed back to his sanctuary, the realm of tranquility, genuine joy, and love. How naïve he had been to seek happiness in material possessions. Now, he was determined to do what was right—the thing he should have done long before. Upon entering his parents' room, he found it shrouded in darkness, with only the moonlight trying desperately to illuminate the space through the open window, hindered by the net curtain. He quietly approached their bed, where they were soundly asleep. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, he grasped his mother's feet, tears streaming down his cheeks, soaking his clothes and the floor beneath him. It felt as if he wanted to drown in this deluge of tears—a flood of shame, negligence, and guilt. He wasn't aware of how long he remained in that state, nor did he care. Then, a warm, gentle hand touched his head. He looked up with red-rimmed eyes and saw the face radiating love, warmth, and kindness. His mother gazed down at him with a tender smile, evoking memories of his childhood. He realized how long he had missed that smile and vowed deeply within himself to cherish it forever. He began to fervently kiss his mother on her hands, holding them tightly, on her forehead, her face, wishing to never stop, until she playfully slapped his cheek and said, “What are you doing, silly? Are you crazy?” “No, but I used to be; now I'm right,” he joyfully replied. “And what are you looking at?” She glanced at her husband, feigning displeasure. “I'm watching a romantic scene,” he joked. Their laughter filled the room, bringing warmth and joy back to their lives."This story reminds us that love and family are the true golden words of life. Share it with someone who needs to hear this message.

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Mystery & Magic

 

Bless in Curse

Once upon a time, in a quiet African village, lived a girl named Julia. She was stunning. Really alluring, like a fairy from old tales.

Julia was not just beautiful. She was responsible too. A good daughter. Every morning, she worked in the fields with her father. Farming under the hot sun. At noon, she returned home. Then she handled all the house chores like a busy bee.

A young man named Tom lived nearby. He watched her every single day. Her grace. Her kindness. Her beauty. He fell deeply in love.

One day, Julia’s father went to the market. She stayed alone in the field. Tom saw his chance. Heart beating fast, he walked up to her. He poured out all his feelings.

Julia smiled shyly. She lowered her eyes. Tom gently held her hand. Like holding a delicate flower.

From that day, everything changed.

They became a lovely couple. Meeting secretly. Waiting for the perfect moment. One evening, Julia finally spoke to her father. Her voice shook. Body trembling like a leaf.

“I am in love, Papa.”

Her father looked at her deeply. Then he smiled. He kissed her forehead. No anger. Only love.

Soon they got married.

Days became beautiful. Every day felt like Christmas. Nights were full of joy. They cuddled like love birds. No worries. No tension. Everyone in the village admired them. They looked made for each other.

But happiness doesn’t last forever.

One morning, Julia went to the kitchen. She was making breakfast as usual. Suddenly — crash!

A loud sound woke Tom. He rushed in. Broken dishes everywhere. Julia was on the floor. Holding her knee. Face twisted in pain.

He quickly picked her up. Carried her to the bed like she was the most precious thing in the world.

Days turned hard after that.

Doctors came. Physiotherapists tried. Nothing worked. Her knee stayed bad. No hope. Tom felt broken inside.

Then one day, while walking in the woods, he met a strange old man. A magician.

“I can heal your wife,” the man said. “But you must do something daring.”

Tom agreed without thinking twice.

The magician gave him a tough task. For one full month, Tom had to go deep into the forest. Bring cooked food and fresh ripe fruits every day. And on the last day, he must bring a lioness’s hair.

Tom was scared. But he loved Julia. So he started.

The next day, he entered the forest with fear in his heart. He found an injured lioness near the lake. She was weak. Couldn’t even drink water properly.

At first, she growled. Loud and scary. But Tom kept going. Step by step. He placed a bowl of water in front of her.

Slowly, day by day, something changed. The lioness stopped fearing him. She began waiting for him. Her eyes softened. Tom even treated her wound.

On the final day, he carefully took a few strands of her hair.

He ran back to the magician. Gave him the hair. The old man smiled. Then he went into Julia’s room.

“You have a tremendous husband,” he told Julia. “Never leave him.”

The couple looked confused.

The magician laughed. “I never used any magic. I treated nothing. I only wanted to test the depth of Tom’s love. And I found it… immeasurable.”

Julia’s eyes filled with tears. She looked at Tom with pure love.

The whole room was filled with laughter and joy.

True love isn’t just words. Its actions. It’s a sacrifice. It’s showing up every day — even when it’s dangerous.

This African village love story teaches us all: Real love can move mountains. Or even tame a lioness. ❤️

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BLESS IN CURSE

 

The Touch

Sunset beams were trying to glow on Jennifer's yellow face. She saw the sunset at the back of the

mountain with her tearful eyes from her room window. At a glance, she thought her life would be over

soon. A deep and long sigh came out of her mouth, then she turned back and looked at her sleeping

kids. They were all stuck in their house for more than a month. She went outside for groceries once a

week, not more allowed, and with safety measures. Corona is wandering everywhere like a wild

and brutal hunter for its prey. It is reported that hundreds are dying in its claws; it has tortured thousands

no one knows when it will stop. All schools, colleges, and universities, factories, and offices closed.

Students are studying online. Many of them have been fired because of being out of budget.

 Hospitals are full of this pandemic disease. Terror clouds shade the universe. There is no cure for this

vampire and no hope.

Determined she was to finish their life rather than it kills them. She couldn't believe in herself and was

always talking about hope. She was a bell that calls others to church but does not go itself. She looked

outside of the window to the empty street. A view captured her sight. She saw a couple of deer with

their young and grazing. She was astonished to see them. Maybe empty streets gave them the courage to

come to the city. It is rare to see animals on the streets, but now they are enjoying their freedom. She felt

relaxed to see them. They captured her and stared for minutes. Inside her, a  thought came that this

beautiful sight was impossible on busy and rush days. It's a miracle, after a while, she returned to her

corner and threw herself on the sofa like a loser gambler.

She turned on the TV. There was a scene of a mosque, people were washing their faces and hands and

feet. "What are they doing?" The reporter said that they are washing their faces, hands, and feet to offer

prayer. Now, she got her answer. He explained it is the best method to get rid of germs, he told them

they do it five times a day. "What rubbish is this?" saying this she switched off the channel. She

screamed out with anger closing her fists. Started walking here and there with anger, thinking and 

connecting all these unusual incidents and she finds out that God wants to talk to her.

In a glimpse, her entire past came in front of her. She spent her entire life like a busy bee, no time for

herself or her loving kids. Only they had been meeting at the breakfast table that's all and for the entire

day, they hardly saw each other but now they have a lot of time together.

Now, they play many indoor games and watch movies. Now, she and her daughter Annie, together try

new recipes in cooking. Annie gives her new beauty tips from the net. They argue on many topics and 

fight it turns into withdrawing and then love. She noticed they have seen so many beautiful shades of

life in this Corona month that was so boring and exhausting during those busy days.

 Then she noticed her son John who seemed a little selfish has changed during these days, one day one

of his friends called him, and he went to the kitchen and returned with a heavy shopper. And told his

mother that at the end of the street there is a house where people there are starving. So his friend

requested him and he is going to help them with his friends. Her eyes got filled with tears and she kissed

his forehead, allowing him with a smile and a handful of money in his hand. Then it became routine 

for them to provide food to the needy because virtue is its reward.

 Revealing All these consciences her mind getting changing, Now, she got the point that God was trying

to. talk to her.   Now, the hazards of Corona turned into Good Corona. She stood up with new courage

and hope. Whispered to herself, "We don't have to be afraid of Corona, we have to fight with it" She

growled by tightening her fists.

 The world had faced many disasters much bigger than it but survived and again will in this case too. We

created these disasters and Mother Nature reconstructed them.

 Remember;              

                                       Every cloud has a silver lining

 Considering that diligence is a brilliant teacher, she promised herself that after this pandemic she will

change her lifestyle. The idea of committing suicide turned into smoke and dissolved in the air.

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