A Night at Quetta Cafe

Today, I was sitting alone at a Quetta café, eating my two parathas with egg and sipping on a cup of tea. It was about 1 AM, and I was quietly thinking about tomorrow’s work when I noticed three young boys from the restaurant arguing with an older man, who looked to be around 55 to 60 years old. I kept observing them.

The old man kept searching his kameez and coat pockets, then even unwrapped his turban and started searching in his shalwar. At first, I thought this man might have stolen something from the restaurant, and the boys were trying to investigate. Meanwhile, I finished my meal and went to the counter to pay. Curious, I asked the guy at the counter what was happening with the old man.

The guy told me they had given him a 1000-rupee note and asked him to give them change in 500-rupee notes. Instead, the man started counting notes of 10 rupees. The boys clarified they didn't want small notes but 500-rupee notes if he had them. The man then started searching for the 500-rupee notes, but he didn’t have any. Eventually, he claimed he had placed the 1000-rupee note somewhere but couldn’t find it anymore, which is why the boys were searching him.

After that, I paid my bill with a 1000-rupee note, and by then, the guy at the counter had gotten change and returned me 700 rupees. While I was leaving, the old man finally came to the counter and gave the boys ten 100-rupee notes as change, but he was still searching for the 1000 rupees he thought he had misplaced.

As I left the restaurant, I noticed that the old man was still searching for the 1000 rupees. He looked like someone who was struggling in life, but I sensed sincerity in him. He was an older Pathan man, speaking to the boys in Pashto. Before leaving, he said something like, "It’s okay, God gave them to me, and now they’re gone." He seemed resigned to his loss.

I left on my bike and passed him, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. There was an innocence in his eyes, and I believed he might be telling the truth. A thought came over me—I could help him. So, I turned around and went back to him. He was sitting near the footpath, still searching for his money.

I approached him and asked, “Uncle, where did the 1000 rupees go?” He was hard of hearing, so he came closer, and I repeated the question. He replied, “I don’t know, son. I put them somewhere, and suddenly they disappeared.”

I then asked, “How much do you earn?” He struggled to speak Urdu since he was an older Pathan. He said he had come from Shaukat Khanum Hospital and only had those 1000 rs and some change money, which was now gone.

I could see the sadness in his eyes, he had lost his day’s earnings. So, I offered to help him by giving him 500 rupees, half of what he lost. At first, he resisted, saying it wasn’t necessary, but I insisted, telling him, “Allah has given me money, and I can help you. I have a job.” I only had 700 rupees left in my wallet, but I gave him 500 rupees. He smiled and thanked me, though he was still hesitant to accept the money.

As I headed back to my flat, I felt a sense of joy and peace. My heart was pounding, and I was thankful to Allah for giving me the chance to help someone. Whether or not the old man was telling the truth, I don’t think it matters. My intentions were pure, and I acted on a feeling of compassion. Had I left without helping him, I might have saved my 500 rupees, but I would’ve felt guilt in my heart. Instead, I feel happy that I returned and did what I could.