(A Poem by Faraz Parvez, Pen Name of Dr. Arshad Afzal, Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA)
He wakes up before the sun,
rubs the sleep out of his eyes,
ties a borrowed dream around his neck
like a secondhand tie,
straightens his shoulders,
stares in the mirror,
and tells himself, today is the day.
The streets of Lahore, Karachi, Islamabad—
they hum with the sweat of the middle class,
rickshaws coughing up black clouds,
buses leaning like tired men,
street vendors swatting at flies,
children in crisp uniforms stepping over open drains,
mothers clutching grocery lists like prayers,
fathers counting coins,
students carrying books heavier than their future.
He walks among them,
a young man with a degree in his pocket
and a fire in his belly,
a boy raised on the promise
that hard work lifts you,
that honesty saves you,
that merit matters—
but the city laughs at him,
its concrete hands pressing against his throat.
He knocks on doors with golden handles,
sits across men with fat rings and heavy watches,
their eyes scanning him
like a number on a ledger,
like a question they don’t have time to answer.
“Experience?” they ask.
“Connections?” they demand.
He shows them his degrees,
his late-night struggles,
his father’s sacrifices,
his mother’s prayers—
but they shake their heads,
light another imported cigarette,
nod at the son of a minister,
the nephew of a landlord,
the cousin of a bureaucrat.
“That’s who we’re looking for,” they say.
He steps out,
feeling smaller than when he came in,
feeling the city grow taller,
its walls thicker,
its gates locked from the inside.
He hears his father’s voice,
“Beta, just keep trying.”
He hears his mother’s whisper,
“Allah will make a way.”
He hears the news anchor on TV,
talking about ‘youth empowerment’
and ‘economic reforms’
and ‘equal opportunities’
while a politician’s son buys another Ferrari.
He watches the rich man’s son fly first-class to London,
sees his own brother count rupees for a bus ticket,
watches the elite drink imported wine in private clubs,
sees his friend sell his books to buy dinner,
watches another graduate pack his bags,
America, Canada, Australia—
anywhere but here.
He stands at the edge of the city,
stares at the skyline,
towers rising like fists in the air,
steel and glass mocking him,
whispering, you don’t belong here.
But the fire in him doesn’t die,
not yet,
not today.
He rolls up his sleeves,
clenches his jaw,
counts his dreams like loose change,
and steps forward.
Because this is not the end.
Because one day,
the system will crack,
the doors will break,
the sky will shift—
and men like him will rise,
not with borrowed names
or family favors,
but with the force of their own will.
One day.
Not today.
But soon.
And when that day comes,
the city will whisper a different song,
the streets will echo a different story,
and the system that defied him
will finally know his name.
