In a world full of real dangers, sometimes our imagination can be the biggest thief—it steals our peace and makes fools of us when the truth finally shows up
By Abdullah Usman Morai
In the lazy summer of 1990, when landlines were rare and mobile phones belonged to sci-fi movies, the town of Moro in Sindh breathed in its own rhythm—unhurried, dusty, and full of characters that could beat any TV drama.
One of those unforgettable characters was Shabir, affectionately (and sometimes sarcastically) called Bhao Shabir. Recently divorced, living with his extended family, and helping out at their modest bakery shop, Shabir had no shortage of free time—or opinions. With one ear always tuned to someone else’s conversation and the other to Radio Pakistan, he fancied himself the town’s human newswire. Everyone lovingly (or wearily) called him BBC Moro, because no matter what had happened—locally or internationally—Shabir would have a hot take on it by breakfast.
But the real magic happened after midnight.
You see, Bhao Shabir didn’t believe in bedtime. While the rest of the town slept—or tried to, in the sweat-soaked heat during frequent power cuts—he would stroll the streets like a philosopher-in-slippers. Dressed in his loose shalwar-kameez and worn-out chappals, with a towel flung over one shoulder, he’d loiter outside shuttered shops, sometimes sitting on a staircase, sometimes leaning on an electricity pole as if he were posing for a magazine no one subscribed to. And every so often, he’d throw a line at someone passing by: a political joke, a cricket comment, or a conspiracy theory involving the milkman and the municipal committee.
The Hero Enters: Majeed and the Late-Night Mission
Now, about 200 km south, in the bustling city of Hyderabad, lived Majeed, a bank employee. A practical man with a careful walk and an even more careful wallet, Majeed came to Moro once a month to hand over his salary to his family and enjoy two peaceful days of eating homemade food and doing nothing.
That particular month, due to the year-end financial closing, Majeed had to work late. But instead of waiting for the morning, he thought, “Why waste a whole Saturday morning in a van? I’ll travel at night. Less traffic, cool breeze, and two full days at home.”
Famous last thoughts.
By the time Majeed’s van reached Moro, it was well past midnight. The town was sleeping, except for a few brave souls—watchmen doing their duty and dogs doing… whatever dogs do at night. Armed with his office bag (which he guarded like a soldier guarding a treasure chest), Majeed stepped onto the quiet street.
He adjusted his glasses, glanced around nervously, and began walking briskly, his footsteps echoing louder than they actually were. The watchmen shouted their signature call—”Jagte rehna bhaiyo!”—with the sort of theatrical confidence only sleepy guards possess.
And the dogs? Oh, they were very much awake, casually walking around like they owned the roads.
Enter the Suspense: A Glance That Changed the Night
Majeed had just turned onto the main bazaar road when he noticed a man entering a small side street ahead.
That man turned and gave a quick, curious glance behind him. A momentary look.
But Majeed’s brain—overworked from balance sheets, understaffed from common sense—froze that moment.
His thoughts:
“He saw me. He looked back. Why look back unless… unless someone’s setting a trap? Oh no! There must be another guy waiting in the narrow gali. I’m going to get robbed!”
He imagined two men hiding behind a tea shop. One would grab him from behind, the other would snatch the salary. Maybe the dogs were trained. Maybe the watchmen were in on it, too. He was in a full-on Bollywood thriller.
Panicked, he turned on his heels, clutching his bag tightly to his chest like a tiffin box in a train station. He ran—not jogged—ran towards the main road like his life (and more importantly, his salary) depended on it.
The dogs? They got excited. “Oh, a human running! Must be fun!” So they started running too, barking behind him like a cheer squad.
The watchmen? Utterly confused. One of them shouted, “Bha, cha thyo, kher?!” Another blew his whistle like it was a cricket final.
The Great Escape… To a Budget Hotel
Gasping for air, shirt half untucked, and sweat pouring like a broken water pipe, Majeed stumbled into Hotel Paradise, which ironically had flickering tube lights and a half-broken fan.
“I need a room!” he barked.
The sleepy receptionist blinked. “Sir, it’s 1:30 am.”
“I know the time! I’m being followed—just give me a room!”
Without further debate, Majeed signed the register and flopped onto a lumpy mattress. After some heavy breathing and two glasses of water, he calmed down.
He had survived.
“No robbers, no loss, just a safe night,” he told himself proudly, like a war hero recounting battle tales.
Next Day: The Real Shocker
The next morning, Majeed went home, narrated the whole saga to his family with dramatic flair, and became the overnight Sherlock Holmes of Moro.
“You did the right thing,” said his mother, proud as ever. “In this world, better to be safe than sorry.”
By evening, Majeed was basking in his newfound fame. He walked to the neighborhood square where people gathered in the evenings for tea and chatter.
“And then,” Majeed continued, “he looked back! Just like that. Suspicious. I knew it. I sensed danger. I bolted.”
The group around him was completely invested, eyes wide, jaws open.
At that moment, Bhao Shabir entered the scene.
“Assalamualaikum,” he greeted with a yawn, towel still hanging on his shoulder.
“Wa Alaikum Salam,” replied the group.
Shabir noticed the buzz. “What’s the gathering for? Someone eloped? Or did mangoes arrive early this year?”
Majeed chuckled nervously. “Actually… I think I saw you last night.”
Shabir raised an eyebrow. “Yes! I saw you too. You were walking behind me, and I looked back to check if it was you. I even waited for you at the square, but you disappeared!”
Silence.
Majeed blinked. “You… you were the man in the alley?”
“Yes,” said Shabir, confused. “I thought we could chat like old times. But you just vanished.”
And then came the laughter.
One man clapped his thigh. Another almost spilled his chai. Even the usually serious uncle with the newspaper joined in.
Majeed turned red. “So… I ran from Bhao Shabir?”
“You didn’t just run,” someone said between laughs. “You flew! Dogs were running behind you like they were auditioning for a movie!”
Even Shabir couldn’t help but laugh. “You thought I was a robber? Majeed bhai, I can’t even rob my own bakery of leftover buns!”
Final Thought: Moral of the Story
In a world full of real dangers, sometimes our imagination can be the biggest thief—it steals our peace and makes fools of us when the truth finally shows up… wearing chappals and holding a towel.
So next time you see someone glance back at you on a quiet night, take a moment before you assume they’re plotting a heist. Maybe, just maybe, they’re a Bhao Shabir—harmless, friendly, and looking for someone to discuss late-night politics under the stars.
(Names of characters have been changed)
Read: Fiction: Wonders of Random Seats’ Miracle
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Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.
