It was June 12, 1995. Lahore, Pakistan.
The sunlight poured over the streets like it had sworn an oath to melt the city alive. The sharp hum of the heat echoed in the murmur of voices. Some men stood at their shop fronts, newspapers in hand, small ceiling fans whirring lazily above them. Most people had vanished indoors, resting beneath their fans, escaping the blaze.
Ali, a young man of 24 with a neatly kept beard and smooth, dark hair, stepped onto the street. He made his way to the little store where he had left his books after publishing them.
"Yo Ali, how you?" called Abdul Bhai, the shopkeeper, lifting a hand with a grin.
Ali smiled, "I'm good, Abdul Bhai. What about you?"
Abdul Bhai wiped his hands on a cloth and chuckled, "All good, thanks to God."
Ali rubbed the back of his neck, "Did any of my books get sold since last night?"
Abdul Bhai sighed gently. "Sorry, beta… no one from outside came. But—" he smiled, "one book has been sold. I bought it myself, for my daughter. She's really fond of reading… and she likes your books."
Ali nodded with a soft grin, "Thanks, Abdul Bhai. I should get going now. Pray I find a good job somewhere… I'll give you a treat for sure once I do!"
Abdul Bhai placed a hand over his chest warmly, "Ali, beta, why not? You're just like my own son. All my prayers are with you."
Ali smiled faintly and stepped out of the shop, wiping his forehead as he made his way home. The sweat clung to his clothes, and the thick, heated air made him feel light-headed with suffocation.
As he reached the gate, his mother opened the door. He raised his hand slightly, a silent gesture—Has father come back?
She nodded with a serious look. "Yeah… and he's angry," her expression said it all.
Then, softening a bit, she added aloud, "But you should come in, okay? He wants to talk to you."
Ali took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and stepped inside. "Assalamo Alaikum, Papa…"
His father didn't look up immediately. With glasses perched on his nose and a newspaper in hand, he sat with one leg crossed over the other, eyes squinting at the print.
"Come. Sit here," he said calmly.
As Ali sat down, his father uncrossed his legs, set the newspaper aside on the table, and turned to him fully.
"When are you going to find a job? Have you even been looking?"
Ali straightened up a bit. "Papa, actually… I have been looking. I've submitted my CVs at different companies and offices."
Father's tone grew harsher. "Ali, if you don't find a job this week, I'll put you to work in my workshop. I wanted my son to work somewhere respectable… but look at you—useless brat!"
He suddenly grabbed Ali by the neck. "Are you even listening to me?"
Ali flinched, "Yes… yes, please…"
Father snapped, "We spent so much money publishing your books, and what did we get? Nothing! I'm telling you, stop this book-writing nonsense, okay?"
He shook Ali by the neck again. "This so-called career won't work here—it can't feed a family. Understood?"
Ali, barely holding himself together, nodded. "Yes, Papa…"
He slowly stood up and walked toward his room. Just as he reached the door, he heard his father mutter while picking up the newspaper, "Book writing… he thinks that's a career. These kids seriously know nothing about the real world."
Ali stepped into his room and gently shut the door behind him, drowning out the world outside. He moved toward the wooden desk where pages lay scattered—ink-smudged, coffee-stained, full of dreams no one seemed to care about.
He sat down, dropped his head into his hands, and sighed. What do I even write anymore? The words that once came like rivers now felt dry and distant.
Then—trrring! The old telephone on the side table rang.
Ali lifted his head and reached for it.
"Hello?"
"Ali! Bro, how's the new book going?" It was Saad, his voice full of excitement. "I'm really curious—this one's gonna be amazing, I know it!"
Ali smiled faintly. Saad was the only one who truly believed in his writing. Living in America now, he always waited for Ali's next story. Ali used to send him typed chapters from a small internet booth near the bazaar—paying by the hour, hunched over dusty keyboards, the screen flickering in Urdu and English menus.
Ali used to share all his stories with Saad—every chapter, every messy draft. And Saad? He didn't just read them—he gave feedback, shared ideas, pointed out twists, even joked about the characters like they were real people.
Ali leaned back in his chair, the phone pressed to his ear. "Yeah… I'm still working on it. I'm just stuck, thinking how to continue it."
Saad laughed. "Don't kill the main character this time, okay?"
Ali chuckled, "No promises, bro."
The two friends bounced ideas back and forth, their voices lighter with each passing minute. In that short call, surrounded by heat, pressure, and fading hopes—Ali felt a little more alive.
That night, Ali stood by the window, hands raised in silent prayer. Ya Allah… just one chance. A good job, some peace… something to show them I'm not a failure.
The next morning, as sunlight spilled across the floor, the phone rang.
Ali rubbed his eyes and picked it up. "Hello?"
"Mr. Ali? We received your CV. Can you come in for an interview today? It's for a position at our main office."
Ali froze—heart thudding, breath caught. "Yes… yes, absolutely!"
He rushed out to tell everyone. It wasn't his dream career, but it was stability. Respect. Something to silence his father's shouting.
Later that day, dressed in a proper suit and polished boots, Ali walked into the office with a quiet confidence. The interview went well. The job was his.
He couldn't stop smiling as he returned home, a box of sweets in hand. On the way, he dropped by Abdul Bhai's shop.
"I got the job," he said, holding out the box.
Abdul Bhai grinned, "Mashallah! I knew it, beta."
Ali handed sweets to the whole family, the weight on his chest just a little lighter.
His new job was set to begin the next morning.
From now on, he'd be home by 7:00 PM—tired, drained, with barely any time to write. But that night, he stayed up late. The lamp flickered beside him as he scribbled in his notebook, eyelids heavy but heart full.
"One day, when I'm gone… maybe my words will live on. Or maybe not. I just want a few more readers."
"Do I need fame? No… not fame. Just recognition."
He looked at the worn-out poetry book lying on his desk. It was Bulleh Shah's collection. He picked it up and pressed it gently to his chest.
"You passed too," he whispered, eyes soft, "but Bullehya… your words, they're the only ones I feel are truly real."
Time passed. Days turned into months, and Ali's routine settled like dust—office by day, writer by night.
But still… no recognition.
He wrote book after book, poured in what little money he had left… told Saad, waited for feedback—but there were no reviews, no replies. Just silence. Like he was writing into a void.
Then one day, at work, something shifted.
It was just another slow afternoon at the office, files stacked, fans humming, and the usual bitter smell of overused tea in the air.
Ali was going through reports when Hiba walked over, holding a printed form in her hand.
"There's a job opening," she said, dropping into the chair next to him. "From the U.S. office. They need people for a short-term communications project. You should apply."
Ali looked up slowly, surprised. "Me?"
"Yeah. Why not?" she smiled. "You're decent at this stuff. Way better than half the people here."
Ali stared at the form. The words blurred for a second.
"You applying?" she asked.
She didn't know he wrote books. She didn't know half the things that kept him awake at night. And she definitely didn't know that every rejection had started to feel like a bruise.
"I might," he said finally.
That evening, he sat at a dusty computer booth near the old market. The internet was slow, the screen flickering slightly. He filled out the application anyway.
"I won't get it," he muttered to himself. "So applying or not applying… it's all the same."
But he clicked submit anyway.
A week passed.
Then, one morning, the supervisor entered with a paper in his hand. His voice was flat, but something in it felt heavier than usual.
"The U.S. office finalized the shortlist."
Heads turned.
He read out four names: "Hiba. Ali. Asad. Fatima."
Ali blinked. He almost didn't register it.
Hiba twisted in her chair toward him. "Wait—you applied?" she grinned.
Ali nodded, stunned. "Didn't think I'd actually get picked…"
Inside, he felt something stir for the first time in months. A strange mix of fear, disbelief, and hope—quiet, but growing.
For the first time, Ali's family looked at him with something other than doubt. They didn't say much, but their silence carried a strange weight—sadness, pride, maybe even a little guilt.
Ali, though, was quietly happy.
As he sat in the departure lounge, suitcase beside him, he looked out the glass window at the planes lined up under the burning sun.
"It's all Hiba," he thought, watching travelers pass by. "If she hadn't told me… I wouldn't have even tried."
Four employees had been selected. Together, they boarded the flight—nervous, excited, and joking like schoolkids on a trip.
Ali felt something new inside him. Not confidence exactly… but possibility.
When they landed in New York, they were taken to separate hotels arranged by the company. The lights, the noise, the speed—it all felt unreal.
Ali stood by his hotel window that first night, gazing out at the city that never slept.
"Saad lives here… somewhere," he thought. "Maybe I'll see him."
And for the first time, he dreamed not of publishing books—but of reading them.
He wanted to walk into an American bookstore, pick up novels printed on foreign paper, and see what the world was writing—what stories were living far from Lahore.
Ali returned to his hotel, the glass door clicking shut behind him. The room was quiet, cool, clean—nothing like the chaos in his chest. He kicked off his shoes, loosened his collar, and dropped onto the bed, back resting against the headboard.
He reached for the book—The Forgotten Ink—and opened it.
The first few pages felt fresh. The language was smooth. The setting—vivid. But something in the writing kept tugging at him. A strange familiarity in the tone… in the way the characters spoke… the rhythm of the lines.
By the fifth page, he stopped breathing.
By the tenth, he sat up straight.
By the fifteenth—he felt sick.
His hand trembled as he turned the pages.
No... this can't be...
It was his story.
The plot, the twists, the metaphors—even the emotional pacing. It was the same story he'd once published in Lahore under a small, unknown publisher. The one that never sold more than ten copies.
Except… the names were changed. The setting shifted. And the title? Different.
Ali's jaw tightened. His heart pounded. Anger flared in his chest, not loud—but boiling.
He slammed the book shut.
Someone had taken his story… edited it just enough… and published it here.
And now it sat on an American shelf with someone else's name.
Sami.
Ali stood frozen, book clenched in his hand.
"No… I didn't copy this. I swear. I've never read English novels in my life."
He dropped the book on the bed like it burned him, paced to the kitchen, grabbed a coffee cup with shaky hands, and poured the brew. Steam curled like thoughts in his head—messy, angry, suspicious.
Slumping onto the sofa, legs stretched wide, he stared blankly at the ceiling.
His face twitched with a hundred emotions—confusion, disbelief, fear.
"Maybe we just… thought the same? No. Not like this. This is too much…"
The clock ticked. His coffee went cold.
Midnight. 2am. 4:15.
He couldn't sleep.
The book lay beside him, closed—but calling.
He picked it up again. Iced fingers. Heavy chest.
"Who in America even knows my stories…?"
And then a name struck like lightning.
Saad.
His heartbeat quickened. No. No no no. Saad couldn't… he wouldn't...
But his breath was shallow. His hands, sweaty.
He scrambled to his bag, heart pounding, and pulled out his own original Urdu book.
He flipped to the back.
His publish date: September 1994.
Then flipped the new book open.
Published: April 1995.
His gut dropped.
The air felt heavier. His vision blurred.
Ali fell asleep like that, slouched on the sofa, both books beside him—one real, one fake—his lips dry, his dreams broken.
The morning hit hard.
Ali's eyes were red, puffed like bruises. His neck ached horribly.
"Ouch, damn, Ali... you could've just slept on the bed," he muttered, massaging the stiffness.
Dragging himself through the morning routine, he looked like a ghost at breakfast.
Still haunted. Still spinning.
At work, numbers blurred. Screens meant nothing.
"I'll call Saad... just to know where he lives now..."
"Or... am I just imagining it all?"
Then Hiba came over, her usual soft energy brushing the tension in the room.
"You okay? You look like you fought a bear," she joked lightly.
He blinked. "Nothing."
Then quickly changed the subject. "Do you like reading books?"
"Books? Yeah, I do," she smiled. "Ghalib... Hajra Masroor... even Lai Rae sometimes. Why?"
Ali half-smiled, but his heart dropped when she said next:
"I've heard about Muhammad Ali's books. A friend mentioned him. I've been meaning to read one... and I know it sounds weird, but whenever someone says 'Muhammad Ali,' I feel like... it's you."
Ali froze.
Pale. Quiet. Caught.
She tilted her head, playfully squinting. "Your full name... is it Muhammad Ali Ehsan? I've seen it on a few scripts. Don't think I stalk people—I just have a thing for names."
Ali exhaled, long and slow.
"I... I am a writer," he said.
"And yes... that's the name I use for my books."
Hiba's eyes lit up, but her voice dropped, serious now:
"Then you better tell me what's bothering a writer this much."
Ali snapped, his voice sharp but shaky—
"Why do you want to know? Just... leave me for now."
Hiba's smile dropped.
"I'm your senior, Ali," she said calmly. "And I have to ask. You've made mistakes... in the reports I check. You know that, right?"
She folded her arms. "If you don't want to tell me, fine. But don't let it mess with your work. This is your first chance in America. I recommended you because you're good. Don't waste it."
She turned to walk away.
"No more mistakes," she said flatly, "or the head'll be furious."
Ali's voice came low, desperate.
"Wait… just—if you made something… and then saw the same thing already made by someone else… what would you do?"
Hiba paused. Looked back. "I'd do nothing. I'd just try to make something new."
Then more softly, "What's your matter? Tell me, or I'm going."
Ali exhaled deeply. "Wait… listen."
She stayed standing.
And then… he told her everything.
The book. The story. The names. The dates. His fears. His doubts. His insomnia.
Hiba's expression shifted, not surprised—but serious.
"So that's it."
She glanced around, then leaned in a little.
"Look. I'm your senior. We shouldn't talk too long like this or people might start talking. But if I were you?"
"I'd go back to the bookstore. Ask about the writer. The publisher. Get details. Quietly."
Ali nodded, avoiding her gaze. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor.
"Okay, okay," Ali murmured, waving Hiba off as she walked away.
But as soon as she turned her back, he muttered to himself, "Why'd I tell her? I shouldn't have… why am I so drawn to girls?"
He slapped himself lightly on the cheek. "Idiot. What if she spreads it? I'll regret this…"
Later that evening, after work, Ali returned to the bookstore—his heart strangely excited and heavy at once.
He walked up to the shopkeeper and pointed toward The Forgotten Ink.
"Sir… this book. How many people buy it?"
The shopkeeper's eyes lit up. "Ohh, this one? It sells—big time. You bought it yesterday, right? Beard, hair… I remember you! Loved it, didn't you?"
Ali forced a grin. "Yeah… this book is… amazing."
Just then, the doorbell chimed. A girl in an ENT shirt walked in. Her steps were swift, confident.
"Got the new novel?" she asked.
The shopkeeper shook his head. "Sorry, not yet. But soon."
She sighed and picked up a copy of The Forgotten Ink from the shelf.
Ali's eyes followed her. "Uh… lady? Can I ask you something?"
She turned. "Yeah?"
"Do you know who wrote this?"
She smiled, proudly. "Of course. He's famous. We Americans admire him. And he's from Pakistan, too! Can you believe? A low-key country—and he's won awards here."
Ali's insides twisted.
I live in Pakistan… and I don't even know this world. No TV. No updates. Nothing.
He swallowed hard. "How… how does Mr. Sami look like?"
The girl raised an eyebrow. "What, are you writing an article?"
She laughed, pulled a photo from her back pocket—crumpled but clear.
Ali squinted at it. His heart stopped.
A sudden thrust of realization slammed into his chest.
It was Saad.
The same old face. The traitor.
Ali's jaw clenched. His eyes burned.
The girl noticed. "You okay?"
Ali cleared his throat, forcing a smile. "Nothing. Thanks."
His English suddenly sounded… too polite for what he was feeling inside.
Ali turned to the shopkeeper, voice sharp: "Show me all the books by Mr. Sami."
The shopkeeper, sensing the tension, quickly laid out the titles—each with a different cover, each more polished than the last.
Ali didn't hesitate. He bought every single one.
He walked fast—no, stormed—back to his hotel, the bag of books swinging by his side like a weapon. His jaw was tight. His mind was screaming.
He stole my stories…
Slamming the hotel door shut, Ali threw the books on the table. One by one, his own handwritten novels followed—rough, raw, real.
"I wrote five," he hissed. "Still working on the sixth. And that snake published four... That woman said the new one's coming—his fifth. My fifth."
He sat.
He started reading.
Page by page… word by word…
The fury drained, leaving behind only ache.
His hand slid over his face. "He's there… in America… with my words. My pain. My characters. My soul."
"I don't want fame," he whispered to the silence, "I want recognition."
And recognition was stolen.
Ali gritted his teeth. "People should know me… not him. He's a plagiarist."
But no one did.
His chest was tight, tears trapped somewhere between his throat and heart. He lay on the bed—hungry, hollow—and slept like a wounded soldier.
Next morning, he found a computer booth, the kind with old chairs and faded keyboards. It felt alien—like stepping into a world he never knew. Still, he typed.
Mr. Sami… author… interviews… awards…
The screen flooded. Articles. Blogs. Photos. Readers praising him like a literary god.
Ali's heart sank deeper with every scroll.
A voice broke his spiral:
"Sir? I also need the system… Are you a fan of Mr. Sami?"
Ali didn't reply. He stood up slowly, face pale, and left.
He wandered the streets, lost like a ghost.
"I'll go to Saad," he thought. "I won't say I know… I'll let him feel what betrayal tastes like."
His silence would be sharper than any scream.
Ali stepped into a dim, dusty telephone booth, the glass smeared and cracked. He dropped in a few coins, the clink echoing in the silence. He dialed Saad's number with cold fingers, heart racing.
"Oye Saad… it's been ages, yaar," he said casually. "I'm in America now. Shocking, right? Long story, I'll tell you... but first—let's meet."
Saad paused, voice shaky, "Y-Yeah, sure. That's unexpected. Here's my address."
Ali scribbled it down, then leaned back in the booth, smiling darkly.
"Now you'll feel what betrayal tastes like."
Ali thought bitterly, "In Pakistan, limited internet makes it easy to hide... that's why Saad dared."
The next day, Ali wore the neat pant-shirt he'd bought and reached the mansion-sized house at the address. "Mr. Sami" was written in gold on the gate. Two guards stopped him.
"You Ali?" one asked. "Mr. Sami told us about you."
Ali's eyes darted to a small voice recorder in the guard's hand. Damn... he's recording. I have to act dumb.
Ali faked confusion, "Uh... I was here to meet someone named Saad. Mr. Sami? Nope... I think I got the wrong place."
One guard laughed. "Our master's name is Saad too. Mr. Sami Saad. Come in."
Ali followed through wide marble floors, rage bubbling under his fake smile. When Saad appeared—well-dressed, smug—Ali's fists clenched. "He's living in luxury from my blood."
Saad smiled, "Ali! You came all the way—"
Ali couldn't take it. He lunged, grabbed his collar, then his neck, shouting, "You stole my soul!"
The guards tackled Ali down fast. Saad gasped, finally understanding Ali knew everything.
Ali was sentenced to 3 years for assault. Sitting behind bars, his rage only grew. "You stole my words... but I'll write them again—with fire."
Ali grew weaker each day. The jail stank, his stomach always empty, his soul even more. His hotel room stayed locked—he still had the key, clutched in his hand like the last string of control.
News spread fast: Pakistani man attempts murder. His office back in America turned cold—people whispered, stared, even started avoiding anyone Pakistani.
Then one day, as he lay on the jail bench, someone called his name.
"Ali..."
He didn't want to look. "Go away. I don't need pity."
But the voice was familiar—soft, serious. Hiba.
He turned slightly. "Why are you here? Come to show sympathy? Go away. I don't need anyone now."
Hiba stayed quiet a moment, then calmly said, "I just want your hotel room key. I'll see what I can do... with your books."
Ali stared at her, unreadable, then slowly handed over the key.
Let's see what she does... if anything at all, he thought, hollow and tired.
Days dragged like chains. Ali stopped eating properly—his lungs ached, head spun, muscles throbbed. He'd just lie on the cold bench, staring blankly.
Hiba never came back.
That hurt more than jail.
"Why did I trust her? Gave her my keys like a fool... chicken-hearted girl," he muttered bitterly.
It felt like betrayal, layered over betrayal.
He had lost track of days, time, even seasons. His parents must've been told… that their son, whom they trusted, was now rotting in a jail cell. "Was I really going to kill him? No... I wasn't…" He stared at his hands, trembling with the memory. "But jail… it's better than living after seeing him steal my soul. That bastard made me angry—too angry…"
Then, one day—almost a year into his sentence—a guard approached.
"You've been released. Mr. Sami has been proven a plagiarist."
Ali blinked. He thought he misheard. But as he stepped out into the sunlight, people were protesting with banners, waiting for him like a hero betrayed. His breath caught.
He rushed to the office, where Hiba stood near the desk. Without a word, he took his hotel keys from her hands.
"I showed them the original dates of your manuscripts," she said, calm but tired. "They compared them with Mr. Sami's publications… it was taken seriously. When he was exposed, the news spread. People stood up for you."
Ali's throat tightened. He couldn't look at her.
"Thank you…" he whispered, voice cracking.
"You fought a year for this," he said, not meeting her eyes.
Hiba smiled gently, "No no, it's okay. Though… you trusted me a lot. If I had run away with your hotel keys, you'd be in huge trouble." She gave a small laugh, "But now… you owe me a treat, Mr. Famous Writer."
She paused when her eyes met Ali's.
His face was pale, his eyes dark and sunken, like they hadn't seen peace in ages.
Ali mumbled, "My head… it aches too much…"
And before Hiba could respond, he collapsed right there—fainting.
Ali opened his eyes.
For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was.
The ceiling above him was plain white, too bright, and smelled faintly of medicine. The steady beep of a heart monitor echoed softly. He blinked slowly. Pain tugged at his chest like invisible claws.
He turned his head—just a little.
There she was.
Hiba, fast asleep on the hospital chair, her head tilted to the side, arms folded tightly around herself as if hugging her own silence. No makeup. No words.
Ali's fingers twitched.
He wanted to reach out. To touch her wrist, to call her name.
His dry lips parted, but all he managed was a faint gasp, like air escaping from a cracked balloon.
His hand barely moved an inch toward her.
Then—
The door opened sharply.
"Doctor!" a voice called. It was Ashad—Ali's office colleague. He looked startled, then rushed in. "He's awake!"
Footsteps followed. White coats, clipped voices, gloves snapping.
"Mr. Ali," the doctor said, kneeling beside the bed. "You're stable for now. But listen to me carefully."
Ali looked at him, weakly.
"Your fainting wasn't ordinary," the doctor continued, voice slow and heavy. "Your lungs… they're not okay. The infection you developed in prison… it caused deep scarring. Pulmonary fibrosis. It's not reversible."
Hiba had woken up now, silently watching from the corner. Her eyes widened.
The doctor went on, "Your breathing will get worse with time. You won't be able to walk fast. You'll get tired from speaking too much. And writing—typing for hours like you used to—will make it worse. Every word will feel like dragging a rock uphill."
Ali stared blankly.
"You can't push yourself anymore. Not like before. You need oxygen therapy. Inhalers. Peace."
Peace?
He felt none.
Hiba walked over slowly, placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, but Ali turned his face away.
The doctors checked the monitors, gave quiet instructions, then left with Ashad. Hiba stayed behind a moment longer, just watching him.
But Ali closed his eyes, not wanting her to see the tears threatening to spill.
One week later.
Every morning, he'd sit by the small window, sunlight spilling across the table. He'd lay the pages out, hold the pen in his trembling hand…
And try.
But the words—his magic—wouldn't come.
His fingers grew too stiff. His back would ache. Chest tightened after just a few lines. Even reading what he had written drained him. The once-sharp mind that spun whole worlds now paused after every second sentence.
By evening, he would lie down quietly on the bed, the pages blank beside him.
A notebook once filled with dreams now held nothing but ink stains and the scratch of a pen that barely moved.
He never asked for help.
He never told anyone how much it hurt.
He just wrote less.
And breathed less.
And hoped—somehow—that he could finish one last line before it all ended.
He was famous.
People knew his name now. They read his books. Some even cried over them. But his health… was like a dead pan—no life, no glow.
That evening, he sat alone in the hotel room.
Paper, a pen, and shaking hands. He was trying to write, page after page… but the words wouldn't flow. His breath was short. His vision blurry.
He coughed.
Blood stained the lines.
He wiped it off, tried again. Wrote a few more words, his fingers trembling. He paused. Tried to inhale. Failed.
He pushed the pen aside.
Rested his head on the table.
Eyes half-open.
His body shook once… then stilled.
He died there.
Beside his unfinished book, stayed unfinished, his fame, and the silence