The Unbreakable Spirit of Akram Akram wiped the sweat off his forehead as the sun blazed over Karachi’s bustling streets. His hands, rough and calloused, held a worn-out cloth, which he used

The Unbreakable Spirit of Akram

Akram wiped the sweat off his forehead as the sun blazed over Karachi’s bustling streets. His hands, rough and calloused, held a worn-out cloth, which he used to wipe the dust off the rickety pushcart he used for selling fruits. Each morning, he walked five miles to the wholesale market, bought bananas, apples, and oranges, and arranged them carefully on his cart before pushing it to the crowded streets.

Life had never been kind to Akram. Born into poverty, he had started working as a child, selling newspapers at traffic signals. His father, a construction laborer, had died in an accident when Akram was just ten, leaving behind a widow and three children. From that day, Akram became the man of the house, sacrificing his childhood for survival. 

Now in his forties, Akram still carried the same burden. His wife, Sakeena, managed the household while their two children, Ahsan and Amina, studied in a government school. He dreamed of giving them a future better than his own. Every night, despite exhaustion, he helped Ahsan with his homework, encouraging him to become an engineer. 

One evening, as Akram was wrapping up his stall, he heard a commotion.

A municipal officer, accompanied by two policemen, was seizing pushcarts. “Illegal encroachments!” the officer shouted, signaling the policemen to confiscate Akram’s cart.

“Please, sir, don’t take my cart! This is my livelihood!” Akram pleaded, his voice cracking. 

The officer looked at him with indifference. “Rules are rules. You should have proper documentation.” 

“But I barely earn enough to feed my children!” Akram cried. 

His pleas fell on deaf ears as the cart was loaded onto a truck. Akram stood frozen, his world crumbling before his eyes. Without his cart, he had nothing. 

That night, he returned home empty-handed. Sakeena’s eyes filled with tears when she saw him. Ahsan held his father’s hand, sensing his pain. “Abbu, don’t worry. We will find a way.” 

Akram sighed. “I don’t know what to do, beta.” 

The next morning, Akram sat on the footpath, watching life go on around him.

Just then, an old friend, Jameel, approached. “Akram, I heard what happened. I have some savings. Take this and start again.” 

Akram hesitated but knew he had no choice. With Jameel’s help, he rented a small stall in the market. It wasn’t much, but it was legal. Slowly, he rebuilt his business. 

Months passed, and Akram’s stall thrived. His customers returned, drawn by his honesty and hard work. One day, Ahsan came running, holding a piece of paper. “Abbu! I passed my exam! I can apply for college!” 

Tears welled in Akram’s eyes. He hugged his son, realizing that no hardship could break his spirit. He had lost a cart but gained something greater—a future for his children.

Akram wiped the sweat off his forehead as the sun blazed over Karachi’s bustling streets. His hands, rough and calloused, held a worn-out cloth, which he used to wipe the dust off the rickety pushcart he used for selling fruits.