A Prayer at the Railway Station

A Prayer at the Railway Station

By Alisha Aslam

It was a long time ago, a chilly dawn at Multan Railway Station. I had just finished my morning prayer in the waiting room and was raising my hands for supplication when a young woman in a black veil entered the room. Before she could say anything, I quickly ended my prayer, stood up, and rushed outside without responding.

At that time, my life was full of turmoil. I was caught in a dangerous land dispute. My opponents were determined to kill me, and I lived in constant fear. As I left the waiting room, I thought, perhaps this woman was sent by my enemies to trap me. The thought wasn’t unreasonable — the same men who wanted me dead had followed me from Sahiwal.

When the midnight train left Sahiwal, they were there on the platform. I sat quietly on a bench, pretending not to notice, but they sat down just a few feet away. I waited for the whistle, hoping they would board first so I could slip into another compartment. But their sharp eyes didn’t leave me for a second.

When the train was about to depart, I suddenly dashed across the tracks and jumped into a carriage near the engine. They came running after me, but before they could reach, I hid inside the lavatory. The train began to move, and when they didn’t find me, they entered another compartment.

At four in the morning, the train reached Multan. I knew they would not give up easily. As I looked out from the carriage, I saw them taking positions near both exits of the platform. Somehow, I managed to slip past them unnoticed and entered the waiting room again — tired, scared, and hopeless.

As soon as I finished praying, the same veiled girl appeared. My heart raced. I thought again — Was she following me too? But her trembling hands and nervous tone told another story.

I asked sharply, “What business do you have entering the men’s waiting room at this hour?”

In a soft, broken voice she replied, “I’m… I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask you something.” She was visibly shaken, barely able to stand.

Seeing her condition, my suspicion turned into sympathy. “Alright,” I said gently. “Tell me, what’s the matter?”

She hesitated, then began to speak — haltingly at first, and then all at once. Her story was heartbreakingly familiar. She too was a victim of injustice. Her family’s land allotment had been unfairly cancelled, and her rivals were harassing her just as mine had done to me.

For a long time, we sat in silence after she finished. Finally, I said, “We are both victims of this cruel system. Don’t lose hope. God is just — He may be slow, but never blind.”

We decided to go together to the Commissioner’s office to submit our appeals. But finding our case files was no easy task. As we waited, she told me her situation had become dire — her mother had sold her last piece of jewelry, leaving only fifty rupees for their survival.

My own financial state wasn’t much better. Yet, I felt in my heart that our days of hardship were coming to an end.

By afternoon, both of us had our case files ready. Now we needed a lawyer — but neither of us had the money to hire one.

Fate intervened. My case was called first. The officer in charge was a fair man. He listened patiently, examined the evidence, and to my great relief, ruled in my favor.

But as soon as my case ended, the girl’s hearing began. I stood near her, anxious. When her opponents began to twist the facts, I couldn’t stay silent. I spoke up, trying to explain her side to the officer.

Her opponent’s lawyer objected immediately. “He’s not a lawyer,” he shouted. “He’s not even the claimant. What right does he have to speak?”

The officer turned to me. Calmly, I said, “Sir, the poor cannot afford lawyers. This girl and her mother have no one to defend them. Please allow me to speak — not as a lawyer, but as a son speaking for a mother and sister in distress.”

The officer nodded. “Go ahead,” he said.

The rival’s lawyer argued for an hour, quoting laws and precedents. I spoke only for a few minutes, from the heart — about fairness, truth, and the cruelty of the powerful.

When I finished, the courtroom fell silent. The officer leaned back in his chair and said, “Justice belongs to the oppressed.” Then, with a firm voice, he announced his verdict — in favor of the girl and her mother.

As we stepped outside the courtroom, tears fell onto my shoes. The mother and daughter were crying — not from sadness, but from relief. The old woman kissed my forehead, and the girl clung to my arm, speechless.

Just then, a man from another faction — enemies of their rivals — approached us. He offered us twenty-five hundred rupees as an advance to lease the disputed land. “Take the money,” he said. “We’ll handle the rest.”

We accepted the offer, signed the receipt, and suddenly it felt as though a mountain had been lifted from our shoulders.

Before parting, the girl’s mother prayed for me with tears in her eyes. I returned home that evening to tell my parents the good news — not just of justice served, but of faith restored.

Even today, I can still feel those two tears on my feet — the purest gratitude I have ever known.