The poor man

“Baba, why don’t we have a house like theirs?”
The boy’s voice cracked into the silence of a humid Karachi evening. Amir looked down at his son, Daniyal, who was pointing at the glowing apartment building across the road. He didn’t answer.

How do you explain to a seven-year-old that his father works twelve hours a day and still can’t afford a single bedroom?

Amir pushed the fruit cart slowly, careful not to let the rusted wheel collapse again. Behind him, his son followed with dusty slippers too big for his feet, picked from the garbage pile behind someone’s bungalow. That was life. Their life.


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Amir was 39, but poverty had aged him into his fifties. His skin was darkened by the sun, not from heritage but from endless exposure under a burning sky. He sold bananas and guavas, shouting prices with a tired voice that rarely convinced buyers. Each evening he came home with no more than Rs. 500 profit, barely enough for two meals, rent for a leaking one-room shack, and a few school books he refused to deny his son.

He hadn't always been like this.

Once, he was a school teacher. Once, he had dreams. But then the school shut down. Then his mother got sick. Then came the loans, the losses, the fall. One misfortune didn’t ruin him—misfortunes came in armies. And now he was just “the fruit man.”


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Every morning, Amir passed by a billboard that read:
“Success begins with a single dream.”

He had a dream once—of being a poet, of writing books, of standing in front of a class full of students, opening minds. But that dream now lay buried under piles of unpaid bills and rotting fruit.

Sometimes, he’d scribble verses on newspaper scraps while waiting for customers. His fingers, calloused from pushing carts, still remembered the smooth grip of a pen. But what was poetry to a hungry stomach?


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One winter night, Daniyal coughed through the cold. Their roof leaked, and the blanket had holes. Amir held his son close, praying silently, feeling helpless. He remembered his father used to say, “Real men never cry.”

That night, Amir cried like a child.


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But life doesn’t pause for sorrow.

Next morning, the cart was out again. Daniyal stayed home with a fever. Amir tried to smile for his customers. Some ignored him. Some bargained. One rich man bought three kilos of guavas and gave Amir a Rs. 20 tip. Amir thanked him with both hands, as if he had received a treasure.

But the real treasure came later.


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A young woman in jeans and a laptop bag approached the cart. She looked different—not in wealth, but in how she looked at him. She didn’t pity him. She noticed him.

“I see you every day,” she said, “always here, always working.”

He nodded, unsure what to say.

She smiled and handed him a printed sheet.

“I work for a community magazine. We’re doing a story on everyday heroes. Would you mind if we wrote about you?”

He blinked. “Me? I’m no hero. Just a poor man trying to feed his child.”

“That’s exactly why you’re a hero,” she said.


---

Weeks passed. Amir forgot about it. Then one day, a group of university students visited him. They had read his story. They had brought blankets, food, even a used schoolbag for Daniyal.

One student handed him a notebook and said, “I read your poem printed in the magazine. You write beautifully, sir.”

Amir was stunned. “Sir.” It had been years since someone had called him that.

He opened the notebook. On the first page was written in bold:

“Write your story. The world is listening.”


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From that day, Amir wrote one poem every night.

His story didn’t become a fairy tale. He was still poor. Still pushing a cart. Still skipping meals when the money was tight.

But something had changed.

He had found a voice again.


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One evening, while Daniyal studied on a tattered mat, Amir read a letter. A local publisher wanted to compile his poems into a small book. They offered a small advance—nothing grand, but enough to cover a month’s rent and new shoes for Daniyal.

He whispered thanks to the sky. Not for the money. But because, for the first time in years, someone saw his worth not in what he lacked, but in what he was.


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Life of a poor man is not just about empty pockets.
It’s about unnoticed strength, silent sacrifice, and dreams that refuse to die.

Every city has an Amir. Most of us pass them by, never knowing the battles they fight every single day.

So next time you see a man with tired eyes selling fruit on the roadside, don’t just look away.

Maybe—just maybe—he’s writing poetry in his mind.


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