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.