The Old Man and the Mountain

In a quiet village nestled between lush valleys and towering cliffs lived an old man named Haroon. His house was modest, built of stone and mud, and stood at the very edge of the village, facing a massive mountain that loomed high above the landscape.

For decades, that mountain had cast its long shadow over the village. It blocked the morning sun, caused landslides during heavy rains, and cut the village off from the nearest town by making the road impassable. Many believed it was a curse of nature.

But Haroon didn’t see it that way.

At the age of 65, when most men in the village had retired to live out their final years in peace, Haroon announced something that made people laugh, whisper, and shake their heads:

“I will move this mountain.”

He wasn’t joking. The very next morning, he took a pickaxe, a wheelbarrow, and a shovel, and began chipping away at the base of the great mountain.

Every day, rain or shine, he worked. Swing after swing. Shovel after shovel. He would load the broken rocks into his wheelbarrow and haul them away to a field a few kilometers off. Then he’d return and do it all over again.

The villagers watched him in silence at first. Then they started mocking him.

“Old fool! You’ll die before you move even a stone!”

“Is this how you want to end your days?”

But Haroon kept going. He wasn’t trying to prove anyone wrong. He had no grand plan or engineering degrees. He simply believed that if he could do something, no matter how small, he should.

After the first year, there was a shallow dent in the base of the mountain.

In the second year, a boy from the village started helping him after school. He didn’t say much. He just grabbed a shovel and worked beside Haroon. One became two, and slowly a small group of young people started coming. Some brought snacks. Others helped move the stones. They found peace in the rhythm of the work.

Ten years passed. Haroon was now 75, slower and weaker, but still showing up every morning.

The dent in the mountain had now turned into a path. Narrow, rough, but visible. It could fit one person at a time. For the first time, sunlight touched parts of the village in the early morning.

One evening, a landslide struck — the kind that used to bury roads and isolate the village for days. But this time, it flowed into the open area Haroon and his helpers had cleared, and it stopped. The path they had carved acted as a barrier.

People started seeing him differently. He wasn’t the crazy old man anymore. He was the man who protected their homes. A man who lit the fire in the hearts of the youth.

When Haroon passed away at the age of 81, nearly half the mountain base had been chipped away. A wide road was halfway complete, and for the first time in history, vehicles could be heard climbing the slope.

The government, hearing of the efforts, sent engineers and machines to complete the road. But the real work had already been done. Not by machines. But by a man with a pickaxe and a purpose.

A plaque stands at the entrance of the road today. It reads:

“This road began with one man’s belief that doing something is better than doing nothing. In memory of Haroon, the man who moved a mountain