He Sold Candy on the Streets—Now He Owns the Company

👤 By Muhammad Riaz

📍 Lahore, Pakistan — 2002

He was 10 years old when he first learned the taste of hunger.

Not the kind you joke about before lunch—but the kind that keeps you awake at night, makes your stomach tighten like a fist, and teaches you how to count coins by sound, not sight.

His name was Adeel. And back then, he didn’t dream of millions. He dreamed of a full plate.

His father had died of a heart attack two years earlier. His mother, a housemaid, barely earned enough to keep the lights on. When she fell ill, Adeel had to make a choice: go to school—or go to work.

He chose both.

Every morning, he would slip out of their one-room house before sunrise. A plastic tray around his neck, filled with local toffees and chewing gum, and a stack of 10-rupee notes tucked into his sock.

He walked the streets of Lahore like a ghost among giants—dodging rickshaws, chasing customers, and smiling wider than he felt.

He made 150 rupees a day on average.

But he wasn’t just selling candy.

He was studying.

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Every night after dinner, Adeel would sit under the flickering streetlight outside his home with a borrowed math book and a broken pencil. When the light dimmed, he used the flashlight from an old Nokia phone a shopkeeper had given him.

People laughed.

“You’re wasting time,” they said. “Even rich people can’t get ahead in this country.”

He smiled anyway. Not because he disagreed—but because he had already seen his future.

It was written not in privilege—but in persistence.

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When he turned 14, he did something most street kids didn’t even think about.

He opened a bank account.

The teller chuckled at the sight of him—dusty clothes, tray still slung around his neck—but Adeel stood tall.

“I’m going to deposit 100 rupees every day,” he said. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m going to start something big.”

The teller nodded, half amused. “What business?”

“Candy,” Adeel said.

The man laughed.

Adeel didn’t.

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At 17, Adeel started making his own sweets.

He borrowed his aunt’s kitchen for one hour a day. He learned recipes from YouTube and added his own twist—less sugar, more flavor.

He wrapped each piece by hand, printed stickers using a cousin’s computer, and called it: “Smile Candy.”

He sold them at schools, bus stops, tea stalls.

People didn’t just buy the sweets. They bought the story.

A poor kid making candy? That’s different. That’s hopeful.

That’s branding.

Within a year, he was making more than 50,000 rupees a month.

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At 21, he officially registered his brand.

He used every rupee he’d saved to open a one-room shop in a side street. No air-conditioning. No staff. Just him, his sweets, and a sign that read:

“From the street to your heart—Smile Candy.”

He documented his journey online. His story went viral. People shared it. News channels called him “The Boy Who Didn’t Give Up.”

Then came the orders.

Grocery stores, school canteens, even a small supermarket chain—all wanted a piece of his sweetness.

At 24, he bought his first car.

At 26, his first factory.

At 30, his company had 200 employees.

Smile Candy had become a household name—not just in Pakistan, but across the Middle East.

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But Adeel never forgot the streets.

Every year, on his birthday, he visited the same corners where he once sold candy. He gave away thousands of sweets. No branding. No cameras. Just kindness.

He also started a scholarship program for kids like him—those who had to choose between work and school.

“I was lucky,” he said in an interview. “But luck only meets you when you’re walking toward it.”

Today, Adeel is 33.

He’s not just a millionaire.

He’s a mentor, a speaker, a builder of futures.

But when you ask him what he’s most proud of, he doesn’t say the money or the factories.

He says, “The first 100 rupees I deposited. That took the most faith.”

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So the next time you see a kid selling candy at a traffic light, don’t just roll your window up.

Look him in the eye.

He might just be the next Adeel.

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