The Weight of Fear

The Weight of Fear

BY:Ubaid

“Wahab, you’re such a coward!” Rimsha Javed scolded, her voice sharp with mockery. “Look at what happened! That poor boy broke your bicycle chain, and you didn’t even say a word. These ragged kids have no manners. You could have at least shouted at him.”

Her younger brother Waqar followed Wahab into the house, grumbling under his breath, his words loud enough for their elder sister, Rida, to hear from the lawn. She laughed teasingly, “Oh, I’m sure Wahab was too scared of the boy’s curse. That must be why he kept quiet.”

Wahab said nothing. He quietly parked his bicycle against the wall and slipped into his room. Waqar, however, was eager to retell the whole incident in detail. He explained how, while returning from school, a ragpicker boy suddenly struck Wahab’s bicycle with a stick, breaking the chain. Afraid that the boy might hit his head next, Wahab had quickly ridden off.

“I swear, he seemed half-crazy,” Waqar concluded with a shrug. His eyes, however, lingered on Wahab’s brand-new bicycle and the shiny schoolbag hanging on his shoulders.

Just then, a neighborly voice called out from across the wall.
“Wahab, son, are you free? Could you fetch me some yogurt from the shop?”

It was an elderly lady from next door.

“Of course, Aunty. I’ll just drop my bag first,” Wahab replied cheerfully, rushing to help.

Waqar rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? Aren’t you tired after two hours of tuition? Always running errands like some servant.”

Wahab only smiled. He had no answer, and Waqar knew his words would never change his brother. Still, he muttered, “You’re just afraid. If you ever refuse, you think Aunty will complain to Dad. That’s the only reason you say yes to everything.”

He shook his head in frustration and unlocked the front door.


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Later that evening, their father, Zohaib, drove out with Wahab and their grandfather. They had barely entered the main road when disaster struck. A rickshaw swerved recklessly, crashing into their car.

The rickshaw toppled over. Their car’s side window shattered with a loud crack, scattering glass everywhere. Cuts immediately streaked across Zohaib’s hands and arms, blood dripping freely.

“Zohaib! Get out and catch that rickshaw driver!” Grandfather shouted in fury. “Is this any way to drive? He could have killed us!”

“Leave it, Abba,” Zohaib said softly, wincing in pain. “The poor man has suffered damage too.”

“Yes, Dada Abu,” Wahab added anxiously. “We don’t know what troubles he might be facing, or why he was in such a rush. If Baba gets harsh, Allah might be displeased. Please, Baba, let’s just go to the hospital first. Look at your hands—there’s so much blood.”

“You two are unbelievable!” Grandfather snapped. “A father and son pair of cowards!”

Angrily, he pushed the car door open and stepped outside. A crowd had already gathered around the accident scene. Zohaib’s face tightened with worry. “Oh no. May Allah protect that poor driver from Abba’s temper.”

Before anyone could say more, a man rushed toward them with a strip of cloth in his hand. He gently helped Zohaib out of the car and quickly tied the cloth around his wounds to slow the bleeding.

Meanwhile, bystanders had uprighted the rickshaw. The driver, shaken but alive, stood nervously before Grandfather. Wahab held his breath, expecting an outburst.

Instead, something remarkable happened. Grandfather’s expression softened. He placed a firm but gentle hand on the driver’s shoulder, speaking words no one heard clearly. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a few large notes and pressed them into the man’s hand. The driver bent low in gratitude, his face trembling with relief.

Wahab felt a smile spread across his face. So Abba was right, he thought. Kindness always wins over anger.

Zohaib, now bandaged, looked back and saw the scene. Relief washed over his features. The crowd, too, seemed satisfied, murmuring approvingly at the unexpected turn.

The man who had tied the cloth said gently, “This is only temporary. Please go to the nearest hospital to have the wounds cleaned properly and dressed.”

“Yes, thank you,” Zohaib nodded gratefully.

Wahab and a few others quickly cleared the shards of glass from the backseat. Soon, Grandfather returned to the car and slipped behind the wheel. His tone was calmer now.

“Alhamdulillah,” he said, exhaling deeply, “I remembered just in time that the heaviest accountability is for our words. That thought alone frightened me—what if the Almighty, far stronger than I, were to hold me accountable for my tongue?”

A chill passed through all three of them. Wahab shivered as his grandfather started the car again, steering it toward the hospital.


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That night, as Wahab replayed the day’s events in his mind, one truth shone brightly. Fear wasn’t always weakness. Sometimes fear—the fear of Allah, the fear of injustice, the fear of hurting someone powerless—was what protected a person from becoming truly cruel.

And perhaps, he thought, it was not cowardice at all, but the greatest strength a human heart could carry.