Not all promises are fulfilled the way we expect. Sometimes, what we never receive becomes the reason we rise the highest.
By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden
In a quiet village nestled beside the winding waters of the Rohri Canal, where the soil smelled of wheat and river silt, lived the Manjhi family. Their life was humble, stitched together by simplicity, love, and routine — the kind of life that breathed slowly, like the sway of tall sugarcane fields under a Sindhi sun.
Baba, a government clerk, traveled daily to Sukkur for work. He was a man of few words and many responsibilities. Amma was the anchor of the home, cooking, stitching, raising children, and managing the household with silent grace. She always kept her dupatta tucked around her head and had a softness in her voice that soothed even the fiercest fever.
They had four children: Asfand, Bilal, Hassan, and their only daughter, Amina. Asfand, the eldest, carried the seriousness of someone much older. Bilal was the dreamer with a clever tongue and wild ideas. Hassan, the youngest son, had a heart that could never say no, especially to Amma. Amina was the sparkle of the family, often found dressing up her dolls or shadowing Amma in the kitchen.
Their home stood on a small patch of land with a thatched roof, mud walls, and a charpai under the neem tree. It was poor by the world’s measure, but to them, it was full of life — goats bleating in the morning, the aroma of freshly cooked roti, and laughter echoing at dusk.
The brothers had one shared dream: a cycle.
“A red one,” Bilal would say. “Big wheels, and a bell that goes ‘ting ting’!”
“We’ll ride it to the fields, to the canal, even to the school,” added Asfand.
Hassan would always nod silently, eyes wide with excitement.
Their Baba, who noticed everything, finally said one evening, “Tomorrow, when I return from Sukkur, the cycle will be yours. You’ve waited long enough.”
That night, they could hardly sleep. Even Amma smiled as she rolled the last roti, imagining the joy on their faces. Amina stitched a tiny dress for her doll out of an old scarf, whispering, “I’ll ride too.” Hassan dreamed of racing bullock carts on the road to the bazaar.
But Baba never returned.
That afternoon, instead of a cycle, a neighbor’s rickshaw brought the news that shattered their world — Baba had suffered a heart attack in the Sukkur market. He was gone before help could arrive.
Silence fell upon the house like a heavy fog.
Amma didn’t cry in front of anyone. She held her children close, cooked rice without salt that night, and laid awake staring at the ceiling. Asfand sat near the goats in silence. Bilal stared at the canal. Hassan didn’t let go of Amma’s dupatta. And Amina, her doll forgotten, kept asking if Baba would come back tomorrow.
Relatives who once laughed with them suddenly turned distant. Some avoided eye contact. Others excused themselves with empty words. Eid came and went with no invitations, no new clothes, no sweets delivered across the fence. The family had become invisible.
But the Manjhis didn’t break.
Amma sold her only gold bangles to pay the school fees. Asfand began tutoring village children. Bilal herded goats and fetched water. Hassan, still young, started helping Amma around the house, picking up odd jobs. He never once complained.
They studied under lanternlight, often on hungry stomachs, but passed matric and intermediate with distinction. They took turns using one pair of worn-out shoes to go to college in Sukkur. Their books were secondhand, their lunches meager, but their will was untouched.
Eventually, they got admitted to a university in Karachi. The three brothers shared a tiny room, studied tirelessly, and worked part-time, mending shoes, cleaning shops, anything that helped Amma back home.
After graduation, a turning point arrived.
Asfand was selected for a scholarship in France to pursue his master’s in renewable energy. He hesitated. “How can I leave you all?” he asked Amma.
“You must go,” Amma replied. “This was Baba’s dream — and now it lives through you.”
He hugged her before he left, exactly like Baba used to before his daily commute. In France, Asfand studied during the day and worked nights, sending money back home to help the family and cover Bilal’s admission to Singapore the following year.
Hassan stayed.
He chose to remain in the village — taking care of Amma, Amina, and a small flock of goats. He started a modest milk business, selling to nearby villages, managing finances, and becoming the quiet protector of the home. He repaired the roof himself, planted vegetables in the backyard, and learned to read receipts and bank slips.
Years passed. Asfand finished his degree and got a job. Bilal too began working in Singapore, sending money every month, just like his elder brother. Hassan built a shed, bought a second goat, and never once spoke of what he gave up.
Then came a special Eid.
After years apart, Asfand flew in from France, and Bilal arrived from Singapore. They returned to their village home — their hearts full, their eyes misty. They hugged Amma tightly, kissed Amina’s forehead, and stepped into the courtyard where the charpai still sat beneath the neem tree.
Hassan was already there, waiting with two cups of chai in his hands and a calm smile on his face. He hadn’t gone abroad, but he had kept the house alive.
The three brothers sat side by side, under the same sky where they once wished for a red cycle. Goats bleated in the background. The scent of fried pakoras filled the air.
“We never got that cycle,” Bilal said, looking at the courtyard.
“But we rode farther than we ever dreamed,” said Asfand.
“And built something no wheels could carry,” Hassan added.
That Eid, Amma didn’t cry. She laughed, served sweets with her own hands, and prayed for her sons, each of whom had become a reflection of Baba in his own way.
Later, they arranged Amina’s marriage — a beautiful, dignified ceremony. Guests came not out of duty, but respect. The family, once forgotten, had become a symbol of resilience. The brothers started a small scholarship fund in their village and helped the widows and orphans — quietly, without banners.
One day, Nadeem, a friend from Karachi, asked Asfand, “Why didn’t you marry? You’ve done everything. Isn’t it time for you?”
Asfand smiled gently. “I became a father when I was still a brother. I wanted to see my family stand first. Now, maybe… I want to live a little for myself.”
Final Thought:
Not all promises are fulfilled the way we expect. The cycle never came, but the journey it began led the Manjhi brothers farther than they ever dreamed — through heartbreak, sacrifice, and perseverance.
They turned grief into growth. Where society turned its back, they leaned on each other. They didn’t just rise — they lifted others along the way.
In the end, what they lost in one moment of tragedy, they rebuilt with years of resilience, love, and silent strength.
Sometimes, what we never receive becomes the reason we rise the highest.
Read: BBC Moro and the Midnight Suspense
_______________
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.
