A Broken Trust: When Kindness Meets Betrayal

A Broken Trust, A Lesson for Life

BY:Khan

Since childhood, I have always been an overly sensitive person. My heart was soft—too soft, perhaps. Whenever I saw someone sad, my own heart would sink, even if it was just a scene from a film or a television drama. Many times, I found myself in tears, sobbing uncontrollably, unable to stop my hiccups. And because of this weakness, I suffered losses again and again.

I clearly remember an incident from my fifth-grade days. An old frail man used to visit our street, leaning heavily on his stick. His weak figure would break my heart every time. I often gave him my share of food and sat with him, listening to his stories. In return, he would shower me with countless prayers. At that age, I didn’t fully understand what I was doing, yet even now when I see an elderly person struggling or a child working hard beyond his age, my heart aches. I feel compelled to do something for them.

But one incident in my adult life changed me completely. It forced me to question my own nature, my blind trust, and the sincerity of others. What happened that day left a scar on my heart—a scar that still reminds me to be cautious.

It was a shopping day. I had planned to buy a few things for myself, my mother, and my children. My five-year-old son had been insisting on getting a bicycle for weeks, so I decided I would get that as well. I thought it wise to purchase the cycle at the end so I wouldn’t have to carry it around with all the other shopping.

By the time I was done, I had spent a good amount of money and was carrying four or five shopping bags. My hands were full, and my body was tired. Hunger and thirst only made it worse. I hailed a rickshaw, and to my surprise, it was being driven by a very old, weak man. His frail figure and hollow cheeks gave me a pang of sadness. I thought to myself, “I’ll give him extra fare. At least it may help him a little.”

As I sat in the rickshaw, my hunger became unbearable. I asked him to stop near a burger shop. Next to it was a stall selling kebabs and lassi, and a sugarcane juice vendor. I ordered a burger for myself but couldn’t ignore the old man sitting there quietly. I turned to him and said, “Baba ji, won’t you eat something?”

He smiled faintly and said, “No, daughter, I don’t have enough money. I’ll eat simple roti with chutney when I get home.”

My heart broke. “No, you must eat now. I’ll pay for it,” I insisted.

Reluctantly, he agreed and ordered kebab roti with a glass of lassi. I paid for everything, and as I sipped my juice, a wave of peace washed over me. Feeding a hungry soul, even a stranger, gave me immense satisfaction. I silently thanked God for the opportunity.

After finishing, I asked him to take me to the Lighthouse Cycle Market so I could buy my son’s bicycle and then return home. He turned to me with kind eyes and said, “Of course, daughter. You fed me, filled my stomach. How can I not take my daughter safely home?”

His words reassured me, and within ten minutes we reached the market. I then realized it would be difficult to handle both the shopping bags and the cycle while bargaining inside the shop. I hesitated for a moment but then asked him, “Baba ji, can I leave my shopping in your rickshaw for just five or ten minutes while I buy the bicycle?”

“Don’t worry, daughter,” he replied warmly. “Go ahead. Your belongings are safe with me. Didn’t you feed me? How could I ever betray your trust?”

Those words disarmed me. Against my inner doubts, I decided to trust him. Leaving my bags in the rickshaw—except my purse—I went inside to buy the cycle.

Barely ten minutes later, I stepped out, holding the little cycle in my hands, smiling with joy at the thought of my son’s happiness. But as I looked around, my smile froze. The rickshaw was gone.

I searched frantically up and down the street, certain I had just lost sight of it. But no—it wasn’t there. My heart began to pound. I asked shopkeepers, passersby, even other rickshaw drivers, but no one had seen the man. Slowly, reality sank in: he had vanished with all my shopping.

My heart shattered. Not because of the monetary loss, but because my trust had been so cruelly betrayed. I had shown him kindness, treated him like a father, and in return, he deceived me. Tears welled up in my eyes as I stood there helpless, clutching nothing but the bicycle and my purse.

Onlookers shook their heads and said, “Madam, the fault is yours. Why did you trust a stranger with so much? Don’t you know this world is full of tricksters? Even your own can turn away when they see money—he was a stranger!”

Those words cut deep. It felt as though the ground beneath me had crumbled, leaving me standing amidst the broken pieces of trust and sincerity.

When I finally reached home, my face pale and my eyes swollen, my mother rushed to me in alarm. “What happened? Why do you look like this? And where is all the shopping you promised?”

I broke down in tears and told the entire story. My family listened and then gently scolded me. “This is your nature since childhood—to trust everyone blindly. But the world has changed. People are selfish now. You fed him out of love, but he mocked your sincerity. That stolen shopping will last him a few days, but in the sight of God, he will never escape punishment.”

Their words pierced me. I realized that yes, times had changed. Humanity seemed to be fading. Trust had become fragile, almost foolish. That day, a crack appeared in my heart. From then on, I decided I would help people—but with caution, with wisdom.

And yet, even after all this, I chose to forgive him. Not because he deserved it, but because forgiveness is what our beloved Prophets taught us. If they could forgive the greatest of wrongs, who was I to hold on to bitterness?

So I whispered in my heart: “Go, Baba ji. I forgive you, for the sake of my children. May God forgive you too.”