The Boy Who Stopped the Train

The Boy Who Stopped the Train

By Dua Mustafa, Khairpur Mirs

In a small, humble village surrounded by golden fields and whispering winds, lived a young boy named Abbas. He stayed with his parents and two younger sisters in a mud-brick house that stood at the edge of the village. Life for Abbas and his family was not easy. His father, Ghulam Muhammad, was old and frail, while his mother spent her days sewing clothes for neighbors to earn a little extra. Abbas, though still a teenager, worked tirelessly in the fields owned by the village landlord, Chaudhry Saab — a man known for his wealth, arrogance, and miserliness.

Every day, from dawn till dusk, Abbas worked beneath the burning sun or in the biting cold, earning barely enough to feed his family. Yet, he never complained. His heart was pure, his faith unshakable. “Hard work never goes unrewarded,” his mother would often say, and Abbas carried those words like a promise written on his soul.

That year, January had brought with it a sharp, dry cold. One evening, as the sun dipped behind the horizon and the fields turned shades of silver under the pale moonlight, Abbas was still working. The other laborers had gone home, their laughter fading into the distance, but Abbas decided to stay. “Let me finish the work today,” he thought. “Tomorrow, my father will rest easy.”

Hours passed. The wind grew colder, brushing through the wheat like ghostly hands. As Abbas packed up his tools and tied his bundle, a faint rumbling reached his ears — the deep, rhythmic sound of a distant train. He looked up, eyes bright with curiosity. “It must be the night train from Karachi,” he murmured. He had always loved watching the great iron beast thunder past the fields, its lights glowing like fireflies in the dark.

With a smile, he picked up his lantern and hurried toward the railway line that cut through the edge of the farmland. But as he approached, his steps froze.

Something was wrong.

The steel track — the lifeline of the speeding train — was broken in the middle. A large gap gaped between the rails, its jagged edges glinting in the lantern light. Abbas’s heart pounded in his chest. He could already hear the whistle of the train — louder now, closer. He knew it wouldn’t be long before disaster struck.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “If the train comes through, it will derail... all those people will die.”

For a moment, panic gripped him. What could a poor boy do against a roaring train? But then courage flooded his heart. Without another thought, Abbas grabbed his red scarf, climbed onto the nearest signal post, and began waving it frantically, shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Stop the train! The track is broken! Stop!”

His voice echoed through the cold night, carried by the wind. The train’s massive headlights pierced the darkness, blinding him for a second. He waved harder, screaming until his throat burned. And then — with a mighty screech of brakes and a long, desperate whistle — the train slowed, sparks flying beneath its iron wheels, until it finally came to a halt a few feet away from the broken track.

Abbas collapsed to his knees, trembling but relieved. The train door opened, and a man in uniform — the driver — stepped down, followed by a few anxious passengers.

“What’s the matter, boy?” the driver called out. “Why did you stop the train? Do you realize the Chief Minister’s mother is on board?”

Abbas caught his breath and pointed to the broken rail. “Uncle, look there! The track is broken. If the train had gone any further, it would’ve fallen off. Everyone would’ve died!”

The driver’s eyes widened. He rushed forward, examined the track, and turned back, his face pale. “Good heavens... you’re right.” He looked at Abbas with awe. “You saved all of us, son. You saved so many lives tonight.”

Abbas lowered his head humbly. “No, Uncle,” he said softly. “I only did what was right.”

The next morning, Abbas was back in the fields, working as always. The night’s events already felt like a dream. But just as he began harvesting the wheat, a shiny black car rolled down the dusty path toward him — a sight no one in the village had ever seen. The door opened, and out stepped a man in a crisp suit, followed by two guards.

He looked around and asked in a commanding voice, “Is Ghulam Muhammad’s son here?”

Abbas, startled, stepped forward. “Yes, sir. I am his son. How can I help you?”

The man smiled and extended his hand. “You are the brave boy who stopped the train last night, aren’t you?”

Abbas nodded shyly. “Yes, sir.”

“Well,” the man said, his eyes softening, “you saved my mother’s life — and the lives of hundreds of others. The government has decided to reward your courage. Your family will be given a new house, financial support, and free education for you. This country needs sons like you, Abbas — honest, brave, and selfless.”

Tears welled in Abbas’s eyes. His heart swelled with gratitude. He looked up at the sky, whispering a silent prayer of thanks. Allah had indeed seen his struggle, his honesty, his goodness — and had rewarded him in a way he had never dreamed.

As the car drove away, Abbas turned back to his fields, the morning sun glowing over the land. The same earth that had once seen his hardship now shimmered with new hope. His story became the talk of the village — a tale of courage, faith, and how one boy’s selfless act changed everything.

And from that day on, whenever the train passed through that stretch of track, the driver would slow down, look out the window, and salute the small boy in the fields — the boy who had stopped the train and saved them all.