- By Waqar Hussain
3 MINUTES
By Waqar Hussain
In the early autumn days of October, when the leaves begin to fall, Khizer, a 32-year-old man, sits in solitude on a bench at a bus stop as the evening sun dips toward the horizon. The city sounds as usual, but to him, there is only silence. Sad and contemplative, he watches people happily heading to their destinations, all the while thinking about a life he never had. Regret looms over him, yet he still smiles, finding solace in the happiness of others.
As he sits there, a woman named Farah, 31, eventually joins him on the bench. In a hurry, she waits for her bus to arrive. Khizer glances at her and she looks familiar. Suddenly, he recognizes her and waves of nostalgia flood his mind. He slowly says her name, and she turns to him with a surprised expression, but then recognizes him too.
“Khizer… what are you doing here?” Farah asks, astonished.
“That’s the same question I want to ask,” Khizer replies, excitedly.
Farah points across the street. “I work over there at an interior designing company.”
Khizer smiles, recalling how passionately she wanted to be an interior designer. “Wow… your dream finally came true.”
As memories circle in his mind, he realizes how much time has passed and how much he wants to ask and tell. “Do you want to eat something? Let’s have dinner together,” Khizer suggests.
“Some other day, Khizer. My bus is arriving in three minutes. I need to get home early,” Farah responds after a pause.
Khizer feels disappointed but understands. “Then let’s talk here… we still have three minutes.”
Farah, surprised by the encounter, bombards him with questions, “This is so unexpected… what are you doing here? Where have you been? What are you doing nowadays? There are so many questions I want to ask. Since the second year of college, we haven’t even talked. It’s like you disappeared… like a lost memory.”
As Khizer contemplates her questions, his smile fades. Gathering courage, he starts explaining. “Many things have happened in the last 13 years, Farah. The Khizer you knew is gone, along with everything he had.”
“Did you get married?” Farah asks.
Khizer shakes his head. “No.”
“What about your friends?” Farah inquires.
Khizer, head down, reminisces. “They all left. They needed something from me and abandoned me once they got it. All those efforts for temporary happiness didn’t even leave a lasting memory. I’m just surviving day-to-day.”
He looks at Farah, “What about you? Did you get married?”
“Not yet, but I’m living my best life,” Farah says with a smile.
“You always knew how to navigate life. I failed at that. But we had a good run. The only good memory I have from that time is of you. You were true to me, and I lost you chasing others. Remember the Bands of Friendship I got for us? I said we’d always remember each other and be friends forever.” They both chuckle. “I lost that band too,” Khizer admits, finally finding some closure.
A silence falls between them. Farah has one more question, one she’s always wanted answered. “Why did you leave, Khizer?” she asks, hoping for the truth.
Khizer hesitates but decides to be honest. “Because… at that time, I needed relief, and you could only give me hope.”
“And now?” Farah asks eagerly.
“Now I want hope,” Khizer says, looking at her with tears in his eyes.
They look at each other, holding back so much they want to say, but time doesn’t allow. The three minutes they had are up as the bus arrives. Farah stands and says, “It was good to see you. We will meet again.”
“I hope so,” Khizer replies with a bittersweet smile.
As Farah leaves on the bus, Khizer notices she left something on the bench. He picks it up and realizes it’s the Band of Friendship he gave her.
Looking in the direction of the bus, he feels she gave him back what he had lost—a sense of hope.
