A Forgotten Hero

Only the soft ticking of an old clock mounted on the wall was audible. Dust motes swirled in the golden light filtering through the curtains, while a jumble of yellowed letters and brittle photographs lay scattered on the tabletop. Right in the middle of this peaceful chaos, Emma, a young historian, seated among her cargo of passion, flipped through the yellow pages of a diary, her fingers quivering.

It was a chance discovery of some trunk long left forgotten, a dusty still-chance; some mindless thing that belonged to some Amir Qadir, a name she could hardly recall from the footnotes of her history books.

Amir lived over a century ago, leading an unremarkable life eclipsed by the tumult of an empire. A schoolteacher by profession, he became quite skilled in securing critical intelligence in a fierce war of independence. His efforts had, however, ensured the rescue of many lives, for ever since, his name got lost in time's vast chasms. These were hijacked hootah by generals and politicians, who straightaway lured blood-thirsty glory onto the stage of war.

Emma read them-the words, every one of which was dripping with sacrifice and an unwavering sense of duty. "It is not glory I ask for, he had written, in his careful script. "It is freedom-for my people, for the child built a begging corner, for the mother who hides her tears from her family. If I am forgotten, so be it, but for my people, let them flourish.

Tears blurred her vision, becoming one with the dirt. She read of Amir's close escape from execution, of the friends he buried, and the family he never took time to build because he spent every breath fighting for others. His quiet bravery lighted a fire in Emma's chest, a gnawing ache demanding justice for this unsung brave man.

Emma noticed it further and found each letter recounted the same: the man was a humble man who wanted nothing for himself. One child he saved referred to him simply as "the shadow that left behind light." And so Emma searched for more because history can be very, very cruel. Where was the monument in the archives? The crumbling canvas? The reference to his name was little more than a hard whisper, a low whisper drowned in the echo of grand names.

"How could we forget one like this?" she sighed within the stillness of her heart.

Setting down the pen was unthinkable now. Emma knew she needed to go on. She wrote without stop-a barrage of press releases, petitions, each lovingly drawing out Amir's tale. Her voice would tremble reading a lecture on her school campus as her voice would call the students to remember those who worked behind the scenes, their agonies always tucked in far back while louder names would be eternally celebrated.

When weeks spilled into months and then into a flicker of fire, the story of Amir made its rounds. He was eventually presented to schools, and plans for an unadorned bust were put into action for farther stem-down history. Children of that town, for the first time, whispered Amir's name with pride.

One night, Emma walked back to the attic where all began. She sat by the nearly empty chest except for the diary she kept. "You are no longer forgotten, Amir," she whispered as a tear rolled down her cheek, "the light you left behind-it shines on again."

And for a second, the house was full of deep unexpressed gratitude, as close to peace as one may ever come to expect, for it felt that Amir himself was there smiling at last.