Waiting, Building, and the Strange Midnight Arrival of History

As usual, it was midnight, and I was sitting in my studio apartment on the rooftop of a plaza in F-10, Islamabad.
The city below had begun surrendering itself to sleep. The traffic had thinned. The markets had fallen silent. Even the Margalla Hills seemed content to disappear into darkness.
Only the kettle remained awake.
Its whistle has fascinated me since childhood. I have never been able to explain why. Some sounds do not belong merely to the ears; they belong to memory. Before the tea arrives, the whistle announces that conversation is on its way.
Tonight there were two mugs.
One for me.
One for BaBa Tal.
The kettle had barely begun its familiar song when a fragrance entered the room.
Moments later came the faint ringing of brass bells.
Then BaBaTal [the Bell-Man] himself emerged from the darkness.
His navy robe carried dozens of tiny brass bells stitched along its edges. His jeans looked older than some governments. His eyes carried the peculiar expression of a man who had spent the evening listening to history whispering behind closed doors.
Without invitation he took his usual chair.
Without ceremony he picked up his tea.
Without warning he delivered the first verdict of the night.
“Child,” he said, “the world has entered a waiting room.”
I smiled.
“BaBaTal” had once again managed to summarize global geopolitics in a single sentence.
Washington was waiting.
Tehran was waiting.
Brussels was waiting.
Moscow was waiting.
Beijing was waiting.
Islamabad was waiting.
The Middle East was waiting.
Europe was waiting.
The world was waiting.
Everywhere one looked, important decisions seemed trapped behind curtains.
Rumours travelled faster than facts.
Predictions multiplied faster than realities.
Diplomats travelled.
Generals briefed.
Markets reacted.
Television analysts filled screens with certainty.
Yet certainty itself appeared to be missing.
The wars continued.
The peace agreements remained hidden.
The alliances shifted.
The uncertainties multiplied.
The world was not marching forward.
It was hesitating.
Europe appeared exhausted.
The continent that once exported philosophies, empires, revolutions and confidence increasingly seemed occupied with managing crises rather than shaping destinies.
Across the Atlantic, America remained the most powerful nation on earth, yet often looked like a nation debating not merely its future, but its purpose.
Russia and Ukraine remained trapped in a conflict whose consequences stretched far beyond the battlefield.
China watched carefully.
India calculated patiently.
The Gulf states diversified strategically.
Africa reorganized itself quietly.
Everyone appeared to be preparing for something.
Nobody seemed entirely certain what that something would be.
BaBa Tal lifted his cup.
Steam drifted upward.
“History,” he said softly, “does not always arrive on horseback. Sometimes it sits quietly outside the door while everyone argues about whether it is coming.”
Perhaps the defining condition of our age is not war.
Not peace.
Not prosperity.
Not decline.
Simply waiting.
Waiting for the next agreement.
Waiting for the next election.
Waiting for the next crisis.
Waiting for the next leader.
Waiting for the next chapter.
Yet waiting has always been one of humanity’s most difficult tests.
Nations dislike uncertainty.
Leaders dislike uncertainty.
Markets dislike uncertainty.
Ordinary people dislike uncertainty even more.
We want tomorrow’s headlines today.
We want guarantees where only possibilities exist.
But history has never operated according to our preferred timetable.
At this point, a verse of the Holy Qur’an came to mind:

“And perhaps you dislike a thing while it is good for you, and perhaps you love a thing while it is bad for you. Allah knows, while you do not know.”
(Surah Al-Baqarah 2:216)

Few verses describe geopolitics more accurately.
Entire nations frequently discover that what appeared disastrous became beneficial.
Likewise, what appeared promising sometimes became catastrophic.
History repeatedly reminds mankind of a simple reality: Allah sees the complete picture while human beings see only fragments.
For a brief moment my thoughts drifted toward Africa.
Even in an age of waiting, there are places where people are still building. A young captain in Ouagadougou has attracted attention not because he commands a superpower, but because he speaks the language of roads, agriculture, industry and self-reliance. History has not yet delivered its verdict on Ibrahim Traoré. That verdict belongs to tomorrow. Yet his popularity reveals a growing global hunger for builders rather than performers.
Across continents, citizens are becoming tired of political theatre.
They are tired of endless speeches.
They are tired of carefully rehearsed promises.
They are tired of slogans that produce applause but not results.
Increasingly they ask a simple question:
Who is actually building something?
Who is creating?
Who is producing?
Who is shaping tomorrow rather than merely commenting on yesterday?
The question is larger than one leader.
Larger than one country.
Larger than one ideology.
It is the question haunting modern politics.
BaBa Tal slowly stirred his tea.
Then, as though answering a question nobody had asked aloud, he recalled a beautiful saying of the Holy Prophet Muhammad: [Peace and blessings be upon him]
“If the Final Hour comes while one of you has a sapling in his hand, and he can plant it before the Hour comes, let him plant it.”
(Musnad Ahmad)
How extraordinary.
Even if the world appears to be ending, Islam instructs humanity to keep building.
Keep planting.
Keep improving.
Keep contributing.
Keep working.
The believer is not permitted the luxury of hopelessness.
Perhaps that is why civilizations rise.
Not because they possess certainty.
But because they continue building despite uncertainty.
For a few moments silence settled over the room.
Outside, Islamabad slept peacefully.
Inside, three cups of tea continued releasing small clouds of steam into the darkness.
Suddenly another verse entered my thoughts—not from the Qur’an this time, but from the poetry of Ghalib:

Thousands of desires, each worth dying for; many were fulfilled, yet too few they seemed.

Nations, too, possess dreams, ambitions and fears. Some are fulfilled. Others remain standing outside the door of history, waiting for permission to enter.
“BaBa Tal” smiled.
“Bacha! [ kid]” he said, “every nation dreams. The difference lies in whether it spends its energy dreaming about tomorrow or building it.”
The words lingered.
Then another voice entered the conversation.
Not from Islamabad.
Not from Washington.
Not from Tehran.
But from a poet who died long before any of today’s politicians were born.
William Butler Yeats once wrote:
“The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.”
Whether one agrees with Yeats or not, many observers looking at the modern world can understand the anxiety behind those words.
Across continents, people increasingly wonder whether wise leadership can keep pace with loud leadership.
Whether thoughtful governance can compete with political spectacle.
Whether builders can prevail over performers.
The kettle had finally fallen silent.
The tea was growing cooler.
The night was growing deeper.
Then history interrupted our conversation.
A breaking announcement suddenly appeared.
The very agreement that had spent weeks hiding behind diplomatic curtains appeared to step into the light.
Pakistan’s Prime Minister announced that a peace agreement between the United States and Iran had been reached and that a formal signing ceremony was expected in Switzerland.
For a moment I stared at the screen.
Then I looked at BaBa Tal.
Then I looked at the cups of tea.
The Bell-Man smiled.
” Bacha!,” he said, “it appears the waiting room has lost a customer.”
Perhaps that was the lesson of the evening.
History often moves strangely.
For weeks, months, sometimes years, nothing appears to happen.
Analysts become impatient.
Journalists become frustrated.
Citizens become cynical.
Then suddenly a single announcement changes the atmosphere.
A signature appears.
A handshake occurs.
A possibility emerges.
A door opens.
The world we inhabit today is not a world lacking events.
It is a world overflowing with transitions.
An old order is struggling to leave.
A new order is struggling to arrive.
The result is uncertainty.
The result is hesitation.
The result is waiting.
Yet waiting itself can be deceptive.
Beneath the surface, nations continue preparing.
Engineers continue building.
Scientists continue discovering.
Farmers continue planting.
Teachers continue teaching.
Dreamers continue dreaming.
The future is not standing still simply because headlines appear confused.
The future is under construction.
A few hours earlier, I had been staring at an almost empty page, searching for a topic.
Instead, the topic had been searching for me.
The world had appeared trapped inside a waiting room.
Yet before the tea could grow cold, one of the doors had opened.
And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of geopolitics.
The unseen future belongs neither to kings nor presidents, neither to generals nor journalists.
The unseen belongs to Allah alone.
The duty of nations is not merely to predict tomorrow.
The duty of nations is to prepare for it.
The duty of leaders is not merely to speak.
It is to build.
The duty of ordinary men and women is not to surrender to uncertainty.
It is to keep planting trees whose shade they may never sit beneath.
BaBa Tal finished the last sip of his tea.
The brass bells on his robe chimed softly as he rose from his chair.
Before disappearing into the darkness, he turned and offered one final observation.
“Bacha! people think they are waiting for history. Most of the time, history is waiting for people.”
Then he vanished.
The bells faded.
The kettle cooled.
The city slept.
And somewhere beyond the mountains, beyond Washington, Tehran, Brussels, Moscow, Beijing, Ouagadougou and Islamabad, dawn was already preparing its first light.
History, having finally opened one door, was quietly searching for another.