A Walk Through Silence

A Walk Through Silence

BY:Khan

We had come to Kharian Cantt to visit a close relative who was admitted to the hospital’s intensive care unit. Since only patients were allowed to stay inside for long, we decided to spend some time outside. The area itself was beautiful—lined with spacious bungalows reserved for army officers of major rank. Each house was blessed with wide green lawns, shaded verandas, and tall trees that seemed to guard the residences.

It was the peak of summer, but the cool shade under the trees made the atmosphere pleasant. We sat on lawn chairs for a while, resting our tired bodies after the long hospital visit. After some time, my restless nature urged me to explore. I left the bungalow and stepped out onto the small road that ran past the house.

Across the road lay a green belt, neat and manicured, beyond which flowed a narrow stream. On the other side of the stream, a row of tall trees stood proudly, forming a natural curtain. Behind the trees stretched another green belt, and alongside it ran a jogging track. Parallel to the jogging track was something that fascinated me even more—a small railway track that encircled the entire park like a delicate necklace.

As I wandered closer, I discovered that the park was filled with charming attractions. For children, there were brightly painted swings and slides. In one corner, I noticed a collection of cages with colorful parrots, pigeons, rabbits, and even waterfowl. And there, standing quietly on its track, was the miniature train that carried children around the park. In the stillness of the afternoon, the train looked like a toy waiting to come alive.

The park was empty. Not a single child laughed, no parents strolled about. A mystical silence hung in the air, broken only by the occasional cry of a bird. The stillness was enchanting, almost magical.

I crossed the small bridge over the stream and sat on a chair placed at the edge of the green belt. A soft breeze blew, its cool fingers brushing against my skin. Sinking into the chair, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let sleep pull me gently into its arms.

I don’t know how long I dozed, but suddenly the rhythmic chug-chug of the train broke my slumber. I opened my eyes to find the afternoon had slipped into evening. The once-silent park had transformed. Now it was alive with the laughter and chatter of children. The train moved along the track, carrying delighted young passengers who waved excitedly at the world passing by. Near the swings, groups of children gathered, their playful energy filling the air with warmth.

As my gaze roamed, it fell upon the center of the field. There stood a young athlete. He wore a bright sports shirt and long shorts. Expensive jogging shoes gleamed on his feet, and in his hands he held a football. His presence radiated energy and youth.

For a fleeting moment, I wanted to approach him. Perhaps strike up a conversation, maybe even ask about the game. But then I glanced at my own attire—simple clothes, worn shoes, nothing fashionable or impressive. A sudden wave of insecurity washed over me. The thought of my ordinary appearance compared to his athletic charm held me back. I remained seated, locked in silence.

But fate had other plans. To my surprise, the young man began walking toward me. As he drew closer, something unusual caught my attention. His stride seemed awkward, uneven. When he finally reached me, I noticed the truth—both his legs were deformed.

Trying to mask my astonishment, I asked lightly, “Is this football yours?”

He didn’t answer. His expression was blank, his eyes distant, as though the words hadn’t reached him. I repeated my question, this time slower. He stared for a few seconds longer before finally replying, “Yes.” His tone was flat, delayed, and it became clear that not only were his legs affected, but his mind also struggled to process quickly.

I asked again, “Where are your teammates? I don’t see anyone else around.”

After a pause, he lifted his hand and vaguely pointed toward the empty ground. “They’re over there,” he said. But the truth was plain—no one stood there. He was alone.

Then, suddenly, he laughed aloud—a high, childlike giggle that seemed almost out of place. Clutching the football tightly, he sprinted toward the ground. Yet he hadn’t gone far before his twisted legs tangled with each other, and he fell flat on the earth. The football rolled out of his hands.

Without thinking, I rushed forward. I helped him back to his feet and handed him the ball. He gave me a fleeting look, then, stumbling awkwardly, made his way back toward the field.

I stood still, watching him retreat. My eyes followed his crooked steps until he disappeared into the distance. Then, almost unconsciously, I looked down at myself—at my old clothes, my worn-out shoes. Only a little while ago, I had felt ashamed of them. But in that moment, something shifted inside me.

My shoes were old, yes. My clothes were simple, yes. But my feet—my feet were straight. They carried me wherever I wished to go. They held me steady. They gave me freedom.

A quiet whisper of gratitude rose within me: Alhamdulillah.