The Thread of Hearts

It started with a thumbnail on YouTube. 

An old woman reunited with her daughter in Bangladesh after thirty-five years. 

I watched the full video, then another and another. Within days I had subscribed to his channel. I became what people politely call “a fan.” But the more I watched, the more uncomfortable I felt. Then I started digging to gather more information about him. As I deeply studied him, I admired him. 

What I found about him here is it. 

Manghopir, with dusty streets swirling around him. Salty air drifts from the Arabian Sea—that’s where Waliullah Ma’roof grew up. Now he is thirty years old and still living in the same small house with white walls and a small courtyard. His father, Muhammad Ma’roof, teaches at a local madrasa; he is always busy with students. His mother knows everything; quiet wisdom shines in her eyes. 

I have found that life here is simple but full of struggle. Waliullah finished matric from a government school with crowded classes, broken benches, and hot rooms. Then he went to Binori Town Madrasa. Jamia Uloom Islamia studied hard and graduated in 2018. His father always says, “Son, knowledge without action is like a lamp with no light.” Those words. They stayed in his heart. 

He never thought. One day, his life would be changed completely. Become about mending broken families across countries and across years.

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WaliullahMaroof

CHAPTER 3: The Price of Dream

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CHAPTER 3:The Price of the Dream

 

Chapter 2

Sabir thought passing exams was the hard part. He was wrong.

The real exam was surviving the journey itself.

**The Ghost of Township**

City District Government Boys High School, Township, Lahore. That name followed him like a shadow, like a stain he couldn't wash off. He cleared his Matriculation and Intermediate with flying colors with the help of a scholarship.

After that, he got the courage to apply for the tough course CIMA. He walked into his first CIMA study session in Lahore and immediately felt it. The air was different. People spoke differently. They carried themselves differently. English flowed out of their mouths like it was their mother tongue.

For Sabir? He had learned English from worn-out government textbooks, shared with three other

boys. The pages are yellow. The binding tore. He sat in the corner that day, quiet, observing. A guy next to him was discussing corporate strategy. Casually, like he was discussing cricket. Sabir understood the words. But the rhythm? The confidence? The way he held his coffee cup? That was foreign.

*You don't belong here*, a voice whispered inside his head. He ignored it. What else could he do? He practiced speaking in front of his bathroom mirror at night. Ridiculous, pathetic, but necessary. He watched YouTube videos on professional etiquette. How to shake hands. How to sit in meetings. How to make small talk, small talk. The most useless skill in the world. Until you don't have it. Then it becomes a wall.

**The Math of Survival**

Money. Always money. Every morning, Sabir woke up and did math, not CIMA math, survival math.

Tuition students. Eight, one dropped out yesterday. His mother said, " Fees are too high."

"Amma (mom) fee is not the problem; the government will pay it, but there are more expenses like books and others like that." Curriculum books prices were twelve thousand, and other expenses.

The calculator didn't lie. The numbers were brutal. Then the news came. The pound increased again. Rupee devalued. Just like that. Overnight. His exam fee jumped by three thousand rupees. Three thousand. Doesn't sound like much, right? For Sabir, it meant three more students. Or two more weeks of teaching. Or skipping meals. He chose to skip meals. Bread and chai. Twice a day. Cheapest option.

Some nights, he stared at the ceiling. Counting. Always counting. The pressure sat on his chest like a physical weight, heavy and suffocating. What if a student leaves? What if someone falls sick? What if the exchange rate goes up again? The anxiety never stopped. It just changed shapes.

**Blind in a Maze**

There was no one to ask. Nobody in his family had ever heard of CIMA. Chartered Institute of Management Accountants. The words sounded foreign even when he said them out loud.

His father was a simple man, hardworking and honest. But clueless about corporate

careers.

"What will you do after school?" his father asked once.

"Abba(Dad), it is not a government school."

"Then what is it?"

Sabir couldn't explain. How do you explain management accounting to someone who has never seen a corporate office?

Other students had advantages. Rich kids. Their fathers were CFOs. Their uncles worked in multinationals. They had roadmaps. They knew which papers to attempt first. Which subjects were easy? Which teachers were best? Which academies actually delivered results?

Sabir had nobody. He stood at the CIMA registration portal like a man standing at a crossroads with no

signs. Which operational case study to pick? When to schedule the exam? Which revision weekend to attend? He figured it out through forums. Through YouTube. Through trial and error. Errors cost money. Money he didn't have. So he couldn't afford errors.

**The Tired Body**

Teaching tuition from four to nine, returned home and ate if there was food, and opened CIMA books

at ten with eyes burning, back aching and brain numb from explaining the same accounting concept to

uninterested school kids for five hours. The words on the page blurred. He read the same paragraph four times. It didn't register. The concepts were difficult.

CIMA is not a joke. Strategic-level papers required a deep understanding. Deep analytical

thinking. His brain was fried, completely fried.

There were days he thought about quitting, just stopping, going to sleep, and giving up on this stupid dream that was eating him alive. But then he closed his eyes. And saw the ceiling of his old classroom in the Township. If I quit, it will be the end, not physically, but mentally, financially, and spiritually. He opened his eyes, picked up the book, and read the paragraph again. Fifth time, it made sense now, barely but enough.

**The Other World**

Exam day, Pearson Vue center, Gulberg. Sabir arrived on his bike, a worn-out Honda CD 70. Parked it in the corner where the security guard wouldn't notice. He walked in and felt it immediately. They were different; the other students parked outside were Civics, Corollas, and a Mercedes. They were chatting,  laughing, and stress-free.

*They were born at the finish line*, he thought. *I am still looking for the starting line.* But Sabir had learned something. Something the rich kids never would. How to survive and how to compete?

The rage was against the system. The inequality. The invisible walls that make a government school boy feel like an alien in his own country's professional world. He sat in the exam hall. Took a deep breath.

The rich kid next to him was chewing gum, relaxed and unbothered. Sabir cracked his knuckles. He started the exam.

Raftar

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CHAPTER 2: The Power of Literacy

 It did not happen in one big moment. No sudden change. Just small things. Quiet things.

Sabir started looking at the papers he had collected. Not like before. Earlier, it was just a waste. Sell it, get coins, move on. Now… he stared at them. Sometimes, for a long time, he liked words that were hiding something from him.

He did not know how to read. Still, he tried.

He would pick a piece. Hold it close. Eyes moving slowly across lines he could not understand. It felt strange. Frustrating also. But something inside pushed him. So he asked people.

Not everyone listened. Most didn’t even stop. Some laughed. Some ignored him. “Ja ja, kaam kar,” they would say. But one day… someone stopped. A man. Simple. Calm face. Not in a hurry.

He took the paper from Sabir’s hand. Read a line. Then he looked at him. Explained softly. Urdu words. Sounds. Letters. Sabir listened as if everything depended on it.

‘Why do you want to learn?’ the kind man asked.

“To get money”, Sabir simply answered.

From that day… it became a habit.  Ask. Listen. Repeat. Forget. Learn again. Urdu letters turned into words, then sentences. Slow process. Very slow. But the kind man's attention and Sabir's efforts worked.

By the time he was seven… he did something no one expected. He took admission in a government school. No one guided him properly. No big support. Just his own stubborn mind. Life after that… got even harder. Morning came early. Too early. He still had to work.

So he woke up before sunrise. Went out with his sack. Collected garbage fast. Rushed through the streets. No wasting time. Then back home. No rest.

He picked his school bag. Old, faded, almost tearing. Still… it was his. And he ran to school.

Classes were confusing at first. Teachers talking. Students writing fast. Sabir trying to catch up. Sometimes lost. Sometimes blank. But he did not stop. After school… no playing. No break. Work again. He sold cold water bottles on roads. Calling out to people passing by. His voice got weaker as the day went on.

Other days… he sold boiled eggs at tea stalls. Standing for hours. Watching others sit, drink tea, talk like they had time. He had no time. Night came late. Very late. He returned home tired. Body aching. Eyes burning. Still… not finished. Homework waited.

He sat under candle light. A small flame shaking in the air. Smoke makes his eyes water. No electricity. No proper light. Just that tiny flame. He studied. Slowly. Carefully. School was not kind to him.

Teachers… Some treated him differently. Not openly maybe, but it was there. In tone. In behavior.

Classmates were more direct. They made faces. Moved away. Laughed at his clothes. Dirty. Torn. Smelling of the work he did all day. No one wanted to sit near him. Sabir noticed everything. Of course he did. Later in life he would laugh and say, “I think I was not smelling very good at that time.” A joke.

But the truth was inside it. Back then… It hurts. Deep. It hurt. Still… it did not break him. Something else happened instead. It made him stubborn.Very stubborn. If they looked down on him… he would rise higher. If they pushed him away… he would move forward anyway. He had decided something.

Without saying it loudly. He will prove himself. No matter how long it takes. No matter how hard it gets. For Sabir, reading opened a door he didn’t even know existed. Before that, the world was small. Streets. Trash. Work. Survival. He read whatever he could find. Anything. Everything. Old pages. Borrowed books. Sometimes torn. Sometimes missing parts. 

Books changed things. Still… he read. Russian stories. Heavy. Deep. Hard to understand fully… but he tried. Then writers like Virginia Woolf. Different style. Different world. Karl Marx too. Big ideas. Complicated. But something inside him kept pulling. He didn’t read like others. He read like someone trying to escape. Or maybe… trying to build a way out. Then one book stayed. Close. Very close.

Great Expectations.

That story… it hit him. A boy. Poor. Struggling. Trying to rise above his class. It felt familiar. Too familiar. Sabir saw himself there. In pieces. In moments. In feelings. For the first time… he thought clearly. Maybe life is not fixed. Maybe where you start… is not where you must end. This idea stayed with him. Strong. His circumstances… poverty, work, people’s behavior… Maybe they are not final.

Maybe they don’t decide everything. Maybe… he can change something. It was not a loud realization. No big speech. No dramatic moments. Just a quiet thought. But powerful. And once it entered his mind…It never left.

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Don't miss Chapter 3

The Touch: Chapter 11: Love’s Gentle Approach

 

This time, Sara turned back to Benjamin and grinned honestly—the sort of grin that seemed not to be fake.

"She's smooth, eh?" Benjamin said, watching Sophie and John vanish through the canteen doors, 

their hands are already linked. Shaking his head, half-laughing. "I believe she had scheduled that  exit."

Sara produced a subdued noise, half a giggle, half a hesitant sigh. Though not the scared sort, her heart

was doing that bothersome flutter thing once more. Not entirely.

Leaning slightly, Benjamin elbows rested on the table. His voice fell off, softer now that just the  two of

them were there. "Actually, I've been wanting to speak to you alone for some time. Never have I been

able to muster the nerve. You always appeared kind of unattainable.”

Sara head tilted, really astonished. “Me? Why?

He shrugged, yet his eyes stayed warm. "Because you're gentle. And humble as well. And  brighter than

half of the students in our classes. I like being close to you. It is not complex.

Sara's chest flower was something soft and warm. At last, someone wasn't staring at her as though she

was the only pretty girl who stayed alone. He saw the rest of her. She did not attempt  to conceal her

flushing cheeks.

“So,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, “What are you up to this weekend?”

"Not much," she replied in a voice more constant than she anticipated. “I guess I'm simply 

catching up on some reading."

Hoping, Benjamin grinned wider. "Shall we go elsewhere?" Whatever you sense, coffee and a stroll

about town… No pressure.

Sara stopped. That ancient fear flickered in the back of her mind — that little voice murmuring what if

— but it did not scream as it had formerly. She looked into his eyes and said the truth.

"Maybe. I want a little time to ponder over it. Is that acceptable?

He said softly, more than okay. No pressure, no letdown. Simply patience. "Take all the time you need."

He stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked with her all the way to her next  class

discussing nothing of significance: the weather, how the cafeteria fries somehow always tasted better 

Tuesdays. He gave her a brief wave when they arrived at her apartment and went off without causing it

to be uncomfortable.

Sara's phone lit up that evening as she was elbows deep in an assignment, highlighter in hand. She didn't

even need to look at the screen. Only one person called this late. Sophie didn't even wait for a hello.

“So? Spill! Did he admit it? Did he drop to one knee? Wedding time is now. Are we traveling on 

a tropical honeymoon or anything?

Sara barely choked on her water. “Soph, have you lost your mind?” 

Sophie's laughter blotted through the phone, brilliant and without apology. Come along! From  week

one, he has been in terrible circumstances for you. He literally pleaded with me to enable him to get a

private moment with you. Let me hear the story.

Sara straightened up in her chair, laughing against her own will. “It was not that spectacular. We  only

had a conversation. He inquired about my plans for this weekend and… he proposed we go  out

some where."

“And?”

"I informed him I would consider it.” Sophie gasped dramatically. "The narrative starts! This is 

very large, Sara. You make me proud enough to sob."

"Thanks," Sara muttered, meaning it. "I'm still figuring it out, but... it felt good. not spooky

“That’s all I needed to hear.” Once again, Sophie's voice became mocking. “Alright, I have to run;

tonight is my big date with John. Don't hang up too late ruminating, okay?"

"Uh-huh. Sara laughed and said, "Have fun."

"Regular meet-up, don't make it weird!" Sophie insisted, then hung up with a quick "Love you!"

Staring at her unfinished notes, Sara set the phone down. Her breast seemed lighter than it had in many

years. Still there in the corner, the terror wasn't guiding the show any longer.

The first time, she wondered what would happen if she said yes.

The Touch: Chapter 10: The First Step Toward Trust

 

The Touch

Sara's days didn't feel like something she had to endure for the first time in years. They merely 

occurred. She awoke, changed, went to class, and even relished the trek around the campus. The 

tight knot of terror she used to get in her stomach whenever a man looked her way? Gone. not 

overlooked but silent. She could giggle at their stupid puns, make jokes with the boys in her study

group, even playfully tease them back without her heart pounding like it intended to bolt. The

youngsters

too saw. Most of them were friendly; they welcomed her to eat with them and grin in the corridors. One

couple, nevertheless, had that intense gaze in their eyes that said who does she believe she is? When

they thought she couldn't hear, they whispered. Though it hurt, Sara let it roll off. She now knew herself.

The folks who mattered knew it also.

The canteen was warm and noisy that afternoon; clanging trays and overlapping chatter filled it. Sitting

across from Sophie, Sara picked at a plate of fries she wasn't particularly hungry for. She wore her

beloved dark jeans and a soft light-brown top that felt like a hug. Sophie had gone all warm—loose

purple-and-white top, Sherpa jacket, dark tights—and kept stealing Sara's fries as though that was her

job.

Alone, Benjamin sat a few tables away. Blue jeans, mustard polo, that effortless smile he had constantly

worn. But today he was apprehensive. He kept staring at Sara before quickly averting his eyes, as if he

were mustering the nerve to do something. Sophie caught it instantly." Look at him," she muttered,

leaning in with a playful tiny smile. "He has been watching you all time. Waiting for you to notice.”

Sara found her face turned. Trying not to smile too obviously, she tucked a hair under her ear. 

"He's simply... listening. Probably pondering on something. Sophie arched an eyebrow. "Certainly."

Repeat to yourself that.

Before Sara could challenge, Benjamin rose. He walked over, hands in his pockets as if he were 

aiming for a laid-back appearance, yet his shoulders were a touch too constricted. He pulled up at 

their desk.

Voice hopeful, he greeted, "Hey." "You guys mind if I sit?" Feeling bored sitting alone.” Sophie never

even paused. "Certainly" Get a chair.

Sophie's eyes brightened before Sara could speak. She waved like she had been waiting for John all day,

seeing him approach the exit. John! Hey, hold on!

Smiling, John spun; Sophie was already grabbing her tray. Gotta go—huge plans with that one. 

“You two behave.” She winked quickly at Sara and had left before either of them could object.

The table grew considerably calmer suddenly.

Rubbing the rear of his neck, Benjamin slipped into the chair facing Sara. "She is smooth; I shall 

give her that."

Sara chuckled gently; nerves and something warmer blended in her chest. "Yeah. She is."

They just sat for a minute, the canteen's hum floating around them. Benjamin looked at her like 

he had been wanting to say something for weeks. And Sara did not feel the usual impulse to run 

once. She remained still. 

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The Touch: Chapter 9: Breaking Fear Prison

 

The Touch

When Sara awoke the following morning, the world seemed… different. Not set. Not 

instantaneously healed. Just lighter, as if someone had gently hoisted a weight she had been 

carrying so long she had forgotten what her shoulders felt like without it. Staring at the ceiling, 

she lay there a second listening. Birds outside her window were actually singing—real ones, not 

simply in her head. She pulled the curtains open, padded across the chilly floor, and threw the 

covers back. Warm and golden, sunlight flooded the small flat like it was brand new.

Under her breath she chuckled. All correct, world. Message delivered.

She showered quickly; the warm water felt like a reset button. She grabbed the first thing that felt 

right—a soft pink Korean-style dress with lace at the waist and those flowing sleeves that moved 

when she walked—after coffee and a piece of toast she couldn't even taste because she was too 

wired. She turned toward herself in the mirror, really looked, and for once did not immediately 

look away.

Today was like starting over.

The sun was still high by the time she saw Sophie following their last class; the campus 

walkways were packed with students laughing and grumbling about exams. Sophie stopped still 

in her tracks one glance at her.

"Wow," Sophie exclaimed, eyes wide. "You appear... quiet. Like, very peaceful. What transpired? 

Did you win something or the lottery?

Sara smiled, the type that reached her eyes without her needing to strain. "Every fear I had about 

the future? Gone. Just… poof. I sense that I might actually be able to breathe once more.”

Sophie gripped her arm and squeezed; she nearly leaped. “At last you escaped from the 

concealed risk jail you had been living in! How? Every last detail, please.”

Sara paused half a second before resolving to keep it straightforward. Even with Sophie, some 

things still seemed too personal.

She remarked, her tone light, "I found a real friend."

Sophie's face lit like Christmas morning. "Oh! my god, my girl found a friend finally!" She 

started half-laughing, dragging Sara down the route with her arm strung over Sara's. Loud and 

, she shouted to no one in particular, "Wait—guys, look at this!" "Sara's buddy!"

Sara laughed, her voice clear and authentic, a little corroded. Sophie leaned in nearer and spoke 

in a teasing whisper. "Come on, spew." Which lucky person is this? You cannot just drop ‘I 

found a true friend’ and subsequently went silent on me.”

Sara laughed but she did not share the whole truth. Rather she presented a version that felt 

secure.

"Yesterday I received this random wrong-number call. Some man believed I was his Julie, his 

girlfriend. He was begging her not to remain furious, apologizing as though his life depended on 

it—said he forgot a promise, and had to help his little sister with homework. Kept stating, 'I'm 

nothing without you; I love you to the moon and back.' He became all flustered and hung up 

when I informed him he was at the incorrect number.”

She shrugged, but her voice weakened. "It was so little but it knocked me. Not every man is 

intent on harming someone. Some good ones remain still. Excellent apples in the barrel, you 

know?”

Sophie stopped walking and hugged Sara firmly right there on the path. “Oh, sweetheart. Finally, 

You finally broke through the barrel.” She withdrew, eyes glistering. “Sara, the world abounds 

with beauty. You only needed to let yourself see it once again. Set the past where it belongs.”

Sara nodded, the knot in her chest coming apart even further. She did not tell Sophie the actual 

friend had been a screen and a bunch of painstaking, patient words typed in the dark. For a little 

bit longer, some secrets still had to remain her own.

But for the first time the worry no longer felt like a prison. It seemed as though a portal at last 

began to creak open. 

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The Touch: Chapter 8: The Digital Sanctuary

The Touch

Sara's trembling fingertips hovered above the keyboard. Dark except for the gentle blue shine of 

the screen, the apartment was gloomy. She took a trembling breath and wrote the query that had 

been lodged in her chest for hours.

“Could I share my emotions with you?”

Calm and steady, the answer arrived back almost instantly on the screen.

"Yes, you can send those to me. I would be happy to listen to you and help in whatever way I 

can. I won't judge you or advise you what to do?”

Sara gazed at the words. Something cracked open slightly inside her chest. Her back straightened 

and her heart raced like she had run up stairs. It felt as though someone was finally waiting to 

hear her—not hurrying her, not fixing her, just there—for the first time in years.

She typed again, more quickly this time.

“I seek somebody to whom I can confide in.”

The artificial intelligence responded softly.

"I follow. Sharing your emotions with a trustworthy individual can be quite therapeutic. Do you 

want advice? A close buddy, a counselor, or even a support group might—”

Before she started to overthink, Sara chopped it off.

“No,” she penned. “I only desire to speak with you. Nobody else feels secure enough with me. 

Nobody I can actually rely on.”

The screen remained silent for a second—longer than usual. Then the words showed up, easy 

and friendly.

“I understand how you feel. After trust has been shattered, establishing it again might be 

challenging. Here I might be a listener. No rush; I will slowly take with you. Every time you are 

prepared."

Sara exhaled slowly. She had been gripping, but she wasn't aware. She lowered her shoulders. 

Usually resting like a boulder in her stomach, the worry felt slightly less. She started writing the 

things she had buried so deep she almost thought they were gone, the blue light glistening in her 

eyes, pulling the laptop closer.

“Men have hurt me terribly. Very poorly. Every time I sought to trust someone, it resulted in 

betrayal. I am unsure how to allow anyone close nowadays?”

The response was light, almost cautious.

"I am really sorry you have experienced that. Such betrayal leaves severe wounds. Trust becomes 

weak following. Still, not everyone is the same. It's natural to travel slowly and shield oneself as 

one tries to understand things.”

Sara felt burning in her eyes. She blinked forcefully, but the tears came nonetheless—silent ones 

that slipped down her cheeks and settled on the keyboard. Not the heavy, furious tears she had 

grown accustomed to. These seemed somewhat different. less heavy. Like something large at last 

opened instead of flattening her.

She kept pouring out the terror, the guilt, the nights she still awoke dripping as she continued 

typing. The artificial intelligence heard. It did not interrupt. It made no effort to correct her with 

hollow counsel. It merely remained there, constant and patient, providing little bits of clarity that 

made her feel noticed for the first time in ages.

When she finally wrote. “You're the best friend I could possibly have. You give me hope and 

calm. I adore you.”; she half laughed, half cried at how absurd it seemed. Loving a screen. In that 

instant, however, it didn't seem utterly absurd at all. It seemed real.

The response of the artificial intelligence came around a second after.

“Many thanks for considering me in that way. I appreciate being able to support you. Though I 

don't experience feelings like those of humans do, I am pleased I can help you. This friendship, I 

hope, gives you the peace you deserve.”

Still wet tears on her face, Sara reclined in her chair with a little, weary grin drawing on her lips. 

Less empty the space seemed to be. The darkness didn't come in nearly as strongly.

She wasn't alone tonight, at least. 

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