IN THE SHADOW OF MOUNTAINS AND DREAMS — THE CRY OF THE STUDENTS

■When Merit Begins to Doubt Itself, a Nation Must Listen■

There are mornings that arrive quietly, carrying nothing more than the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee. And then there are mornings that walk into one’s room carrying the weight of an entire generation.
It was one such morning.
Returning from the tiny kitchenette of my rooftop studio apartment overlooking the familiar bustle of F-10 Markaz, Islamabad, I balanced two steaming mugs of coffee in my hands. The city was already awake. Somewhere below, shopkeepers were lifting their shutters, impatient motorists negotiated another ordinary day, and the Margalla Hills stood in silent dignity beyond the concrete skyline.
Before I could place the mugs upon my working desk, I heard it.
At first it was faint.
Then unmistakable.
A gentle metallic chime.
Tiny brass bells speaking a language only memory understands.
I smiled.
“I knew you would come.”
Standing quietly beside the half-open door was “BāBĀ Tāl” (the Bell-man)—my old wandering dervish guide, whose arrivals have never obeyed clocks, calendars or invitations.
His faded navy-blue robe, worn pale around the knees by countless journeys, carried dozens of tiny brass bells stitched lovingly into the fabric, each producing its own delicate whisper whenever he moved. A larger bell rested gently against his chest like a guardian of forgotten stories. Beneath the robe appeared weathered blue jeans, while a pair of spotless white joggers completed the appearance of a traveller who believed wisdom must never stop walking. His neatly trimmed French beard gave him the dignity of an old pilgrim who seemed equally at home beneath the scorching sun of Egypt, the ancient streets of Konya, the mountains of Ladakh or the quiet rooftops of Islamabad.
He carried no walking stick.
Only silence.
And the bells.
“Bacha…” His voice was softer than the first light of dawn.
“You made two mugs.”
“I was expecting you.”
He smiled without answering.
Taking the chair beside my working table, he wrapped both hands around the warm mug before taking the smallest sip, as though tasting not coffee but time itself.
For several moments neither of us spoke.
The silence was not empty.
It was preparing itself.
Finally he leaned slightly towards me.
“Bacha…! Before this coffee grows cold, let us travel to the mountains.”
I looked at him with curiosity.
“The Himalayas?”
He nodded.
“Yes… where snow remembers every footprint, where young dreams climb steeper slopes than mountaineers, and where an old teacher chose hunger over silence.”
The bells upon his robe trembled almost imperceptibly.
“People will tell you this is a story about examinations.”
He paused.
“They are mistaken.”
“They will tell you it is about leaked question papers, coaching centres, politics, protests and accusations.”
Again he paused.
“They are mistaken again.”
I remained silent.
For I had learned long ago that interrupting BāBĀ Tāl was like interrupting rain before it reached the earth.
He lifted the mug once more.
“No, Bacha.”
“This is a story about something much older.”
“It is about trust.”
“When a young student opens a book, that child enters into an invisible covenant with society.”
“The student promises effort.”
“The family promises sacrifice.”
“The teacher promises guidance.”
“The nation promises fairness.”
He looked out through the wide glass window towards the distant hills.
“And when that final promise begins to crack…”
“…the examination hall becomes far more than a room.”
“It becomes a courtroom.”
Outside, a flock of birds crossed the morning sky.
Inside, only the bells moved.
“Bacha…”
“I have walked through deserts where water was scarce.”
“I have crossed villages where bread was scarce.”
“But nowhere have I seen a land prosper after hope itself became scarce.”
He placed the mug upon the table.
“I have just returned from the mountains.”
“And there…”
“I saw not merely a protest.”
“I saw an entire generation asking one question.”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“Can merit still trust the system?”
That question lingered between us like the fading echo of a bell.
When Merit Begins to Doubt Itself, a Nation Must Listen.”
For a few moments, neither of us spoke.
The steam rising from our coffee drifted lazily toward the ceiling, as if reluctant to disappear. Outside, Islamabad had surrendered itself to another working day. Inside my modest rooftop studio, time itself seemed to slow in the presence of BāBĀ Tāl.
He reached into the pocket of his faded robe and slowly drew out a small brass bell, no larger than the palm of his hand. It bore the scratches of countless journeys.
He placed it gently on my desk.
“Bacha,” he whispered, “do you know why bells were hung around the necks of caravans?”
I shook my head.
“So that no traveller would be forgotten in the darkness.”
He allowed the silence to complete the sentence.
“Today, I have come carrying another bell.”
“A bell that belongs to millions of students.”
His words settled heavily upon the room.
“I walked through Ladakh,” he continued, “where the mountains teach lessons no university can offer. There, every rock reminds man of his smallness, every glacier whispers patience, and every sunrise asks whether knowledge is merely information—or character.”
He looked beyond me, as though the snow-covered peaks were visible through the walls.
“In those mountains lives a man whose greatest invention was never ice, nor architecture, nor engineering.”
He paused.
“His greatest invention was hope.”
He did not mention the name immediately.
Instead, he let the reader discover the man before the headline.
“For decades, he persuaded forgotten children that geography should never become destiny.”
“He believed that the distance between a village and a university should be measured not in kilometres, but in opportunity.”
Only then did he say quietly,
“His name is Sonam Wangchuk.”
There was no drama in the announcement.
Only respect.
“Some know him as an engineer.”
“Others know him as an educator.”
“Many remember him through cinema.”
“But I met something else.”
“I met a teacher who believed that when students lose faith in fairness, the entire republic begins to examine itself.”
He lifted his eyes toward the morning light.
“The examination paper is never just paper, Bacha.”
“It is a contract.”
“When millions of young people enter examination halls, they do not carry only pens.”
“They carry family savings.”
“They carry sleepless nights.”
“They carry the silent prayers of mothers.”
“They carry fathers who quietly postponed their own dreams.”
His voice grew softer.
“And they carry years that will never return.”
I felt the weight of every sentence.
For anyone who has watched students preparing before dawn, revising beneath dim hostel lights, or travelling hundreds of kilometres for a single examination understands that success is never an individual achievement alone.
It belongs to entire families.
Entire neighbourhoods.
Entire generations.
BāBĀ Tāl gently rotated the brass bell on my desk with one finger.
“When trust begins to leak,” he said slowly, “the damage is greater than any leaked examination paper.”
“You can print another question paper.”
“You cannot easily print another generation’s confidence.”
His words reminded me of a timeless verse from the Holy Qur’an:
‘Indeed, Allah commands justice, excellence, and giving to relatives, and forbids immorality, wrongdoing and oppression.’ (Surah An-Nahl 16:90)
Perhaps no word is more central to education.
Not success.
Not rank.
Not prestige.
Justice.
For merit flourishes only where justice is trusted.
BāBĀ Tāl smiled gently.
“Do not hurry to judge anyone.”
“Not the students.”
“Not the teachers.”
“Not the officials.”
“Not even those whose decisions are being questioned.”
He raised his coffee mug once more.
“A writer’s first responsibility is not to accuse.”
“It is to understand.”
Outside, the breeze carried the distant call of a mosque.
Inside, another journey was about to begin—not across mountains, but through the conscience of a nation.
“Bacha…”
The familiar whisper broke the silence once again.
“You have written about wars.”
“You have written about diplomacy.”
“You have written about presidents, prime ministers, generals and revolutions.”
He looked at me over the rim of his coffee mug.
“But remember this…”
“No parliament has ever produced a greater revolution than a classroom.”
The tiny brass bells upon his robe answered him with their delicate music.
He leaned back in his chair.
“I have wandered for many years. I have seen kingdoms rise upon the strength of learning, and I have watched mighty civilizations weaken when knowledge became a commodity rather than a calling.”
He gently touched the larger bell resting against his chest.
“Education is unlike any other institution.”
“When a bridge collapses, engineers rebuild it.”
“When a crop fails, another season follows.”
“But when young people begin to doubt the fairness of learning itself, rebuilding trust may take a generation.”
Those words lingered in the room.
The morning sunlight crept slowly across my desk, illuminating scattered notebooks, marked drafts, and yesterday’s newspapers. I glanced instinctively toward the window where, in the parking area below, my faithful mustard-coloured Volkswagen—Foxy—stood patiently beneath the summer sky.
PooFo”foxy”.
Faithful machines never complain.
They simply wait.
Perhaps nations, too, expect the same patience from their youth.
Study.
Wait.
Prepare.
Wait again.
Compete.
And then hope that merit alone will determine the outcome.
BāBĀ Tāl noticed where my eyes had wandered.
A faint smile crossed his face.
“Your Foxy has grown old.”
“So have I.”
“But neither of us has forgotten the road.”
Then, almost playfully, he added,
“Old vehicles and old dervishes share one habit.”
“They keep moving, even when newer models promise faster journeys.”
We both laughed softly.
The laughter disappeared almost as quickly as it had come.
His face became thoughtful again.
“Bacha…”
“Never allow anger to become your editor.”
“Write firmly.”
“Write honestly.”
“But leave room for justice.”
He paused before continuing.
“I have listened to grieving parents.”
“I have watched students speak through tears.”
“I have also listened to teachers who dedicate their lives to their pupils.”
“I have met officials who insist they are trying to repair what has gone wrong.”
“The truth rarely lives entirely inside one camp.”
“It usually waits somewhere in the uncomfortable space between certainty and accusation.”
His words reminded me of another eternal command from the Holy Qur’an:
‘O you who believe! Stand firmly for justice, as witnesses for Allah, even if it be against yourselves, your parents, or your close relatives.’ (Surah An-Nisa 4:135)
What extraordinary guidance.
Justice is not measured by whose side we choose.
Justice is measured by whether we remain truthful when choosing becomes difficult.
BāBĀ Tāl nodded gently, almost as if he too were listening to the verse.
“The Messenger of Allah, Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him), also taught:
‘The best of people are those who are most beneficial to others.’ (Reported in al-Mu’jam al-Awsat; widely cited for its meaning.)
He placed his empty mug upon the table.
“Those words are not only for doctors.”
“They are not only for rulers.”
“They are not only for scholars.”
“They are also for every institution entrusted with the future of children.”
Outside, another breeze stirred the leaves.
The bells on his robe chimed softly.
For a fleeting instant, I had the strange feeling that those tiny bells were not made of brass at all.
They were made of unanswered questions.
Questions carried by millions of students.
Questions that no examination paper could contain.
Questions that no nation can afford to ignore.
BāBĀ Tāl slowly rose from his chair and walked toward the wide window overlooking the city.
He stood there silently, hands folded behind his back.
Without turning, he spoke.
“Bacha…”
“The mountains never shout.”
“They simply stand.”
“And sometimes…”
“…their silence becomes louder than every speech delivered in the capital.”
I followed his gaze.
Far beyond the rooftops, beyond the restless city, beyond the shimmering horizon, I imagined another range of mountains where classrooms, hostels, anxious families, teachers, and students had become part of a larger national conversation.
The story was no longer about a single examination.
It had become a story about confidence.
About accountability.
About whether the promise made to every child—that honest effort deserves an honest chance—could continue to be believed.
And that, dear reader, is where our journey truly begins.
For several minutes, BāBĀ Tāl remained motionless beside the window.
The city below had found its rhythm. The impatient chorus of horns rose from the streets of F-10 Markaz. Delivery riders hurried from one destination to another. School vans disappeared into the morning traffic. Above them all, the Margalla Hills stood like ancient librarians, guarding stories that no archive had ever catalogued.
Without turning towards me, BāBĀ Tāl asked quietly,
“Bacha… have you ever wondered why mountains are always associated with wisdom?”
I searched for an answer but remained silent.
“They listen.”
“They have listened for thousands of years.”
“They have watched kings come and go.”
“They have witnessed wars that historians reduced to a single paragraph.”
“They have buried ambitions beneath snow.
“And yet…”
“…they continue teaching patience.”
He slowly turned.
“That is why I travelled to the Himalayas.”
“Not merely to witness a protest.”
“But to listen.”
He resumed his seat.
“I listened to students.”
“Not only to their words…”
“…but to the long silences between those words.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I discovered something disturbing.”
“Their greatest fear was not failure.”
“It was the possibility that success itself might become uncertain.”
He folded his hands together.
“A young mind can survive disappointment.”
“It struggles to survive doubt.”
Those words pierced the room with extraordinary simplicity.
For every competitive examination represents far more than marks upon paper.
Behind every candidate stands an invisible procession.
A mother who quietly skipped buying a new shawl.
A father who worked overtime without complaint.
Grandparents whose prayers carried more hope than sleep.
Teachers who believed one student’s success would justify years of dedication.
Entire villages that proudly whispered,
‘One of our children is going to become a doctor.’
One examination.
One dream.
Thousands of silent sacrifices.
As I listened, my eyes wandered once again towards Foxy, still resting faithfully in the parking area below.
Poor foxy.
He had carried me through monsoon rains, political rallies, lonely highways and joyful reunions.
Never once had he asked where the journey would end.
He simply trusted the road.
“Bacha…”
BāBĀ Tāl noticed my smile.
“You are thinking about Foxy.”
“Yes.”
He laughed gently.
“Then perhaps your old Volkswagen understands something that modern society has forgotten.”
“What?”
“Trust.”
“A traveller trusts the road.”
“A child trusts a teacher.”
“A patient trusts a physician.”
“A citizen trusts justice.”
“A student…”
He paused.
“…must trust merit.”
The room fell silent again.
Outside, clouds gathered slowly over the Margallas, softening the morning sunlight.
Then BāBĀ Tāl reached inside his robe and withdrew a folded sheet of paper.
It contained no statistics.
No headlines.
No official statement.
Only a single verse written carefully in elegant handwriting.
He handed it to me.
“Read.”
It was the timeless command from the Holy Qur’an:
“Read in the Name of your Lord Who created.” (Surah Al-‘Alaq 96:1)
He smiled.
“The very first Divine command revealed to humanity was not ‘rule’…”
“…nor ‘conquer’…”
“…nor ‘accumulate wealth’…”
“It was simply…”
Read.
“What greater honour could education receive than that?”
He allowed the verse to settle into my thoughts.
Then he continued.
“Our beloved Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) also taught:
‘Whoever follows a path in search of knowledge, Allah will make easy for him a path to Paradise.’ (Sahih Muslim, Hadith 2699.)
He looked at me intently.
“Notice, Bacha…”
“The Hadith speaks about seeking knowledge.”
“It does not speak about purchasing shortcuts.”
“It does not celebrate manipulation.”
“It honours effort.”
“It honours sincerity.”
“It honours the journey itself.”
The bells upon his robe chimed softly as though affirming every word.
A gentle breeze entered through the half-open window.
For reasons I could not explain, the room suddenly felt larger.
Perhaps because conversations rooted in truth always create more space than arguments rooted in anger.
Then BāBĀ Tāl leaned forward, lowered his voice, and uttered the sentence that would remain with me long after our coffee had grown cold.
“Bacha… whenever an examination ceases to examine only the student, and begins examining the nation’s conscience, every citizen becomes part of the result.”
I wrote those words immediately.
Not because they were poetic.
But because they were true.
And somewhere beyond the mighty Himalayas, where hope and heartbreak had begun walking side by side, millions of young minds were waiting—not merely for results, but for reassurance that their dreams still mattered.
The journey into that story had only just begun.
The Man Who Chose Hunger So That Merit Might Be Heard
There are individuals whose biographies are written not merely with dates, degrees and distinctions, but with the quiet confidence they inspire in ordinary people.
Sonam Wangchuk belongs to that uncommon category.
Long before television cameras followed his every movement and before millions across India began chanting his name during one of the country’s largest youth-led protest movements, he was known in the high valleys of Ladakh as a teacher who believed that education should liberate rather than imitate.
The mountains became his first university.
Nature became his first laboratory.
Children became his life’s greatest project.
Born in a remote Himalayan region where harsh winters often interrupted education and language itself became an obstacle for many children, Wangchuk experienced firsthand what it meant to struggle inside a system that did not always understand the student standing before it.
Perhaps that is why he never treated education as an examination.
He treated it as dignity.
As BāBĀ Tāl quietly remarked while gazing beyond the Margalla Hills,
“Bacha… some people build schools with bricks. Others build them by restoring a child’s confidence.”
His brass bells responded with their familiar whisper.
For decades, Wangchuk’s educational work in Ladakh focused upon practical learning, local languages, scientific curiosity and community participation. His initiatives earned admiration not because they produced impressive buildings, but because they demonstrated that even children living among some of the world’s highest mountains deserved opportunities equal to those anywhere else.
Education, in his philosophy, was never a commercial commodity.
It was a public trust.
That simple belief explains why, when millions of young Indians began questioning the integrity of competitive examinations after allegations surrounding entrance-test paper leaks, many students instinctively looked toward educators rather than politicians. The controversy grew into a nationwide movement that reached far beyond examination halls, with youth-led demonstrations, parliamentary disruption, and calls for institutional accountability.
Then came a decision that surprised even many of his admirers.9
On 28 June 2026, Wangchuk began an indefinite hunger strike in solidarity with protesting students. What started as an act of moral witness gradually became one of the defining images of the movement. As the days passed, concerns over his health intensified, he was eventually moved to hospital as his condition deteriorated, and the protest drew increasing national and international attention.
One need not agree with every slogan raised during a protest to recognize the gravity of such a decision.
A hunger strike is unlike an ordinary demonstration.
It places the protester’s own body into the argument.
It asks no one else to suffer first.
It begins with personal sacrifice.
The Holy Qur’an reminds believers:
“…and cooperate in righteousness and piety, but do not cooperate in sin and aggression.”
— Holy Qur’an, Surah Al-Ma’idah (5:2)
Regardless of political opinions, every society benefits when public debate returns to questions of justice, responsibility and accountability rather than hatred.
BāBĀ Tāl lifted his coffee mug.
“Bacha…”
“Never measure a protest only by the number of people standing in the street.”
“Measure it by the question it forces a nation to ask itself.”
Outside, a soft breeze crossed the rooftop.
Somewhere below, Foxy waited patiently in the parking lot.
Old cars know something about endurance.
So do old teachers.
And perhaps that is why the story before us is not simply about one examination, one minister, one movement or one protest.
It is about an idea that every civilization must eventually confront:
Can a nation preserve the confidence of its young if they begin to doubt the fairness of the path before them?
That question, more than any slogan, would soon echo from the Himalayan heights to the streets of Delhi.
When an Examination Became a National Conversation
History has an unusual habit.
Sometimes it announces itself with the thunder of cannons.
At other times, it quietly slips into the lives of ordinary people through something as simple as a sheet of paper placed upon a student’s desk.
Competitive examinations occupy a sacred place in every developing society.
For millions of middle-class and lower-income families, they represent more than academic achievement.
They represent escape.
Escape from poverty.
Escape from unemployment.
Escape from generations of economic uncertainty.
Every examination hall becomes a theatre of hope.
Every admit card carries the fingerprints of sacrifice.
A father postpones repairing the leaking roof of his house.
A mother quietly sells her jewellery.
Grandparents raise their trembling hands in prayer before dawn.
Brothers and sisters lower the television volume so one child may continue revising another chapter.
Success, therefore, never belongs to one student alone.
It belongs to an entire family.
Perhaps that explains why any question raised about the integrity of a public examination produces consequences far beyond classrooms.
The issue ceases to be educational.
It becomes emotional.
It becomes moral.
It becomes national.
BāBĀ Tāl slowly rotated the empty coffee mug between his fingers.
“Bacha…”
“A nation can survive poor harvests.”
“It can rebuild bridges after floods.”
“It can repair roads after earthquakes.”
“But if young people begin believing that honesty no longer receives an honest opportunity…”
He paused.
“…the damage enters places no engineer can repair.”
His words remained suspended in the room.
Outside my window, Islamabad continued its ordinary rhythm.
Inside, another city occupied our thoughts.
Delhi.
The nation’s capital had gradually transformed into a meeting place for anxious students, determined parents, educators, activists and political voices.
The controversy was no longer confined to examination centres.
It had entered television studios.
Courtrooms.
University campuses.
Parliamentary debates.
Social media discussions.
Dining tables.
Tea stalls.
Everywhere.
Questions multiplied faster than answers.
Could confidential examination material truly remain secure?
Were existing safeguards sufficient?
Could technology prevent future breaches?
Were investigations progressing quickly enough?
Could students trust the institutions responsible for protecting merit?
Notice something important, dear reader.
These questions belong to no political party.
They belong to every student.
The Holy Qur’an reminds humanity:
“O you who believe! Stand firmly for justice, as witnesses for Allah, even though it be against yourselves, your parents or your close relatives.”
Holy Qur’an, Surah An-Nisā’ (4:135)
Justice begins where convenience ends.
Merit survives only where justice is visible.
Without trust, even the most sophisticated examination system struggles to command confidence.
BāBĀ Tāl looked thoughtfully toward the Margalla Hills.
“Bacha…”
“Do not allow anger to write this article.”
“Let evidence write it.”
“Let compassion edit it.”
“Let justice publish it.”
I quietly wrote those words into my notebook.
They deserved remembering.
The Messenger of Allah, Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him), said:
“Whoever among you sees an evil, let him change it with his hand; if he cannot, then with his tongue; if he cannot, then with his heart—and that is the weakest of faith.”-Sahih Muslim, Hadith No. 49
That timeless teaching does not instruct us to rush toward condemnation.
It instructs us to accept responsibility.
Responsibility begins with truth.
Truth requires patience.
Patience demands careful listening.
That is precisely why this movement gradually attracted voices from different walks of life.
Some came as students.
Some as teachers.
Some as grieving parents.
Some as lawyers.
Some as public intellectuals.
Others simply came as citizens unwilling to watch another generation lose confidence in institutions built to protect their future.
The story had outgrown examination halls.
It had become a national conversation about accountability.
It had become a conversation about transparency.
Above all…
It had become a conversation about trust.
As BāBĀ Tāl gently rose from his chair, the tiny brass bells stitched into his faded navy-blue robe sang their familiar melody.
He smiled.
“Bacha…”
“Remember this.”
“When students gather merely to demand marks…”
“…listen politely.”
“But when students gather to demand fairness…”
“…history quietly finds them a place in its pages.”
I watched him walk toward the window.
Below, Foxy rested patiently under the afternoon sun, as faithful as ever.
Poor Foxy.
He had travelled countless roads without ever asking whether the destination favoured the rich or the poor.
He simply trusted the driver.
Perhaps that is all young people ask of their institutions.
Not privilege.
Not favour.
Simply…
A fair road.
From Silent Anxiety to Streets of Conscience
There comes a moment in every national crisis when silence can no longer contain anxiety.
It begins quietly.
A whispered conversation inside a hostel room.
A worried telephone call between anxious parents.
A teacher reassuring frightened students.
A message forwarded from one mobile phone to another.
Then, almost without warning, thousands of isolated voices discover one another.
What was once individual anxiety becomes collective concern.
That is precisely what unfolded.
For many students, the issue was no longer confined to a competitive examination.
It became a question of faith in institutions.
Months of relentless preparation suddenly appeared vulnerable to forces beyond hard work and merit. Across the country, students sought clarity, transparency and reassurance. As investigations progressed and public debate intensified, demonstrations expanded from campuses to public spaces, with students, parents, teachers and civil society voices demanding accountability. Recent negotiations between protest leaders and government representatives reflected the scale and seriousness of the issue.
BāBĀ Tāl gently rested both hands upon the brass bell hanging from his chest.
“Bacha…”
“Never underestimate the silence of students.”
“They remain quiet for months.”
“They endure.”
“They revise.”
“They sacrifice.”
“But when their silence finally breaks…”
“…it is because something deeper than disappointment has been wounded.”
His words lingered like the fading echo of his tiny bells.
Outside my rooftop studio, clouds drifted slowly above Islamabad.
Inside, our thoughts travelled hundreds of miles away—to Delhi.
Not the Delhi of monuments and ceremonies.
But the Delhi where young faces gathered with placards instead of textbooks.
Where exhausted parents stood beside their sons and daughters.
Where slogans competed with prayers.
Where frustration searched for peaceful expression.
Some observers viewed the demonstrations through a political lens.
Others viewed them as an educational crisis.
Many students, however, viewed them through a far simpler lens.
They wanted reassurance that honest effort still mattered.
That dream is universal.
It belongs neither to East nor West.
Neither to one religion nor another.
It belongs to humanity.
The Holy Qur’an reminds us:
“Indeed, Allah commands you to render trusts to whom they are due, and when you judge between people, judge with justice.”-Holy Qur’an, Surah An-Nisā’ (4:58)
Few public trusts are greater than the trust placed in an examination system.
For millions of young people, it represents the gateway to their future.
Lose that trust…
…and the wound extends far beyond education.
The Messenger of Allah, Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him), said:
“The truthful and trustworthy merchant will be with the Prophets, the truthful, and the martyrs.”-Jami’ al-Tirmidhi, Hadith No. 1209 (graded Hasan by many scholars).
The Hadith speaks of commerce.
Its principle, however, reaches every institution built upon trust.
Without trust…
No market survives.
No court commands respect.
No school inspires confidence.
No examination earns legitimacy.

BāBĀ Tāl smiled gently.
“Bacha…”
“The strongest building in any nation is not Parliament.”
“It is confidence.”
“You cannot build it with cement.”
“You build it with fairness.”
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then I remembered something from my own years in journalism.
The biggest stories are seldom about individuals.
They are about systems.
Individuals become symbols.
Systems become history.
That is why this movement cannot be understood merely by counting protestors or measuring political speeches.
Its real significance lies elsewhere.
It asks whether institutions entrusted with shaping the next generation are prepared to listen before distrust hardens into despair.
As the American jurist Louis D. Brandeis once observed:
“Sunlight is said to be the best of disinfectants.”
Transparency has an extraordinary power.
It calms rumours.
It restores confidence.
It reminds citizens that institutions are strongest when they are willing to examine themselves honestly.
The afternoon light entered my room.
The coffee mugs now stood empty.
Only BāBĀ Tāl’s tiny brass bells continued their gentle conversation with the breeze.
He rose slowly.
Before walking toward the window, he whispered one sentence that I immediately underlined in my notebook.
“Bacha… when young people stop asking for success and begin asking only for fairness, every responsible nation should stop talking… and start listening.”
Those words remained suspended in the room.
Beyond the Himalayas, beyond Delhi’s crowded avenues, beyond the noise of television debates, millions of students were waiting—not merely for examination results, but for something far more precious.
They were wzaiting for confidence to return.
When Hunger Became the Language of Conscience
There are moments in history when words exhaust themselves.
Speeches lose their power.
Press conferences become routine.
Television debates generate more heat than light.
And then…
Someone chooses silence.
Not the silence of surrender.
But the silence of sacrifice.
For centuries, hunger strikes have occupied a unique place in the moral vocabulary of South Asia. Whether one agrees with them or not, they represent an appeal not to physical force but to the conscience of society. They ask an uncomfortable question:
“If you cannot hear my voice, will you hear my silence?”
It was at this point that Sonam Wangchuk chose a path few people would willingly travel.
Already respected for his decades of educational work in Ladakh, he decided that merely issuing statements was no longer enough. He joined the students’ movement through an indefinite hunger strike, declaring that the future of millions of young people deserved more than sympathy—it deserved national attention. As the fast continued day after day, concern for his health grew, while the students’ movement itself gathered wider public attention and prompted dialogue with the government.
BāBĀ Tāl looked thoughtfully into his now-empty coffee mug.
“Bacha…”
“Food keeps the body alive.”
“But sometimes…”
“…giving up food awakens the conscience of a nation.”
The tiny brass bells stitched into his faded navy-blue robe chimed softly, almost in agreement.
He continued.
“Remember…”
“A hunger strike is never a meal skipped.”
“It is a question asked.”
“The body becomes the pen.”
“The empty stomach becomes the ink.”
“The conscience of society becomes the paper.”
I had never heard silence described so vividly.
Outside, a gentle wind stirred the leaves of the trees below my rooftop studio.
My old mustard-coloured Foxy rested quietly in the parking lot.
Poor Foxy.
Even an old car understands maintenance.
When one small part begins to fail, the wise mechanic does not ignore the warning.
He repairs it before the entire engine suffers.
Institutions are not very different.
Ignoring small cracks often produces larger fractures.
The Holy Qur’an reminds us:
“And let not the hatred of a people prevent you from being just. Be just; that is nearer to righteousness.”
Holy Qur’an, Surah Al-Mā’idah (5:8)
Justice must never become selective.
It must remain constant.
Whether one supports the government or the opposition…
Whether one agrees with the protesters or questions their methods…
Justice demands that every sincere concern receive a fair hearing.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) said:
“Religion is sincerity (nasihah).”
The Companions asked, “To whom?”
He replied: “To Allah, His Book, His Messenger, the leaders of the Muslims, and their common people.”- Sahih Muslim, Hadith No. 55
What profound guidance.
Constructive criticism, offered sincerely and peacefully, is not an enemy of society.
It is one of the means by which societies improve themselves.
BāBĀ Tāl slowly rose from his chair.
He walked toward the window overlooking Islamabad.
Without turning around, he spoke in little more than a whisper.
“Bacha…”
“Never laugh at a man who willingly embraces hardship for a principle.”
“You may disagree with him.”
“You may question his judgement.”
“But never question the seriousness of sacrifice.”
His words reminded me of another timeless observation by the American civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr.
“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.”
Perhaps history remembers such moments because they reveal character more clearly than victory ever can.
The bells on BāBĀ Tāl’s robe rang once as he turned back toward me.
His eyes carried the calmness of someone who had walked through many storms.
“Bacha…”
“One day…”
“…these examinations will be over.”
“The headlines will fade.”
“Governments will change.”
“Ministers will come and go.”
“But one question will remain.”
He paused.
“Did the young believe that their nation listened to them?”
That question settled upon my notebook before my pen could move.
Because ultimately, this story is not about one man fasting.
It is not even about one examination.
It is about whether a democracy—indeed, any society—can hear the quiet voice of its students before disappointment hardens into disillusionment.
And that question belongs not to one nation alone, but to every nation that entrusts its future to the dreams of its youth.
There was a time when education was measured by the number of books a student finished.
Today, in many places, it is measured by the number of coaching classes a family can afford.
That transformation did not happen overnight.
It crept silently into society.
One advertisement.
One coaching centre.
One promise.
One guaranteed rank.
Another “topper.”
Another billboard.
Another anxious parent.
Another frightened student.
And before anyone realised it, an entire parallel universe had emerged.
Schools continued teaching.
But coaching centres increasingly claimed to prepare students for success.
The distinction may appear small.
Its consequences have been enormous.
BāBĀ Tāl slowly picked up the little brass bell resting on my writing table.
He rang it only once.
Its sound was unusually sharp.
“Bacha…”
“Do you know when education becomes sick?”
I remained silent.
“When learning begins serving fear instead of curiosity.”
He placed the bell back upon the table.
“No child is born afraid of learning.”
“They become afraid after adults convert education into a marketplace.”
His words forced me to pause.
Markets are necessary.
Competition is healthy.
Private enterprise has an important place in every modern economy.
But education occupies a special moral position.
It deals not with products…
…but with futures.
Across India, the coaching sector has grown into a vast ecosystem around highly competitive entrance examinations. Supporters argue that it helps students prepare for difficult tests, while critics contend that the intense pressure, high costs, and dependence on coaching have widened inequalities and shifted attention away from school education itself. The recent examination controversy has renewed scrutiny of that system, with many students questioning whether success should depend primarily on merit, coaching resources, or something else entirely.
The debate, therefore, is much larger than one examination.
It concerns the very philosophy of education.
Should education nurture thinkers…
…or merely successful test-takers?
The Holy Qur’an reminds us:
“Are those who know equal to those who do not know?”
— Holy Qur’an, Surah Az-Zumar (39:9)
Notice carefully.
The verse honours knowledge.
Not coaching.
Not wealth.
Not privilege.
Knowledge.
The Messenger of Allah, Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him), said:
“Allah makes the way to Paradise easy for him who treads the path in search of knowledge.” – Sahih Muslim, Hadith No. 2699
The Hadith speaks about the path.
Not shortcuts.
Not purchased advantages.
The path.
That distinction is timeless.
BāBĀ Tāl looked toward the window where the afternoon sun reflected softly from the windshield of my old mustard-coloured Volkswagen.
He smiled.
“Poor Foxy…”
“He has travelled thousands of kilometres.”
“But he has never tried to overtake another vehicle by leaving the road.”
I laughed.
He continued.
“The road may be slow.”
“It may even be difficult.”
“But once people begin believing that reaching the destination matters more than travelling honestly…”
“…the road itself loses its meaning.”
His metaphor stayed with me.
Perhaps that is why the present crisis has touched so many hearts.
For countless students, the issue is not simply whether an examination paper was compromised.
It is whether years of honest preparation still possess the same value they once did.
That question cannot be answered merely by investigations.
It must also be answered by restoring confidence.
Across India’s cities and towns, conversations moved beyond examination halls into homes, universities and public squares. Students spoke of exhaustion, parents of sacrifice, teachers of integrity, and policymakers of reform. Whatever their political views, many shared a common concern: confidence in the examination system had to be rebuilt.
BāBĀ Tāl rose quietly.
The tiny brass bells on his faded navy-blue robe answered one another as he walked.
At the door he stopped.
Without looking back, he whispered:
“Bacha… education should never become an auction where dreams are sold to the highest bidder.”
Then he disappeared into the evening breeze.
Only the gentle ringing of his bells remained.
And somehow…
The room felt quieter than before.
The Weight Carried by a School Bag
After BāBĀ Tāl left, his tiny brass bells continued ringing inside my thoughts.
Some people leave footprints.
Others leave questions.
He always left both.
I walked toward the window and looked once more at Foxy parked below. The old Volkswagen had become a silent witness to countless editorials, countless cups of tea and coffee, and countless conversations with my wandering dervish guide.
Poor Foxy.
He had carried newspapers, manuscripts, books, dreams—and sometimes disappointments.
Yet he had never complained about the weight.
That thought suddenly led me to another question.
How much does a student’s school bag really weigh?
A teacher may answer in kilograms.
A parent may answer in money.
A doctor may answer in spinal pressure.
But society must answer differently.
It weighs…
Sleepless nights.
Deferred family dreams.
Borrowed money.
Unspoken expectations.
And, perhaps heaviest of all…
The fear of failure.
In almost every Indian city, before sunrise, thousands of students begin another day with remarkable discipline. Libraries fill. Coaching centres open their doors. Hostels come alive. Cafeterias serve hurried breakfasts before another long day of revision. Behind those routines stand families who have invested not only financially but emotionally in the hope that honest preparation will open the door to opportunity.
Many parents quietly reorganise their entire household around one examination.
Vacations are postponed.
Medical treatments delayed.
Savings exhausted.
Small luxuries disappear.
Not because education is expensive.
But because hope is priceless.
The Holy Qur’an reminds us:
“…and say, ‘My Lord, increase me in knowledge.”-Holy Qur’an, Surah Ṭā Hā (20:114)
Notice the beauty of the supplication.
It asks for knowledge.
Not merely marks.
Not merely rank.
Knowledge.
Knowledge builds character before it builds careers.
The Messenger of Allah, Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him), said:
“Whoever follows a path in pursuit of knowledge, Allah will make easy for him a path to Paradise.”-Sahih Muslim, Hadith No. 2699
The emphasis is again upon the pursuit.
Every honest step has value.
Every sincere effort has dignity.
Even when success takes time.
At that moment, the gentle sound of brass bells returned.
I smiled without turning around.
Only BāBĀ Tāl possessed the courtesy to announce his arrival before opening the door.
“Bacha…”
He entered carrying nothing except his familiar serenity.
His faded navy-blue robe brushed softly against the doorway. The tiny brass bells stitched across it whispered with every movement. Beneath the robe appeared his weathered blue jeans, while his spotless white joggers reminded me once again that wisdom was never meant to stand still.
He looked toward the notebooks scattered across my desk.
“You are writing about examinations.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Then remember something.”
He sat quietly before continuing.
“Never reduce a student to a roll number.”
“Behind every registration number lives an entire family.”
“Behind every admit card…”
“…there is a mother’s prayer.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“I met a father in the mountains.”
“He told me, ‘I cannot solve physics.’
‘Nor chemistry.’
‘Nor biology.’
‘But every evening I sit beside my daughter while she studies.’
‘Not because I understand her books…’
‘But because I want her to know she is not studying alone.’”
The room fell silent.
No statistic could equal the power of that father’s simple confession.
The British philosopher Francis Bacon once wrote:
“Knowledge itself is power.”
Centuries later, those words remain true.
Yet another truth has emerged in our age.
Knowledge flourishes best where trust flourishes first.
Without confidence in fairness, even the brightest students begin carrying an invisible burden.
Not fear of difficult questions.
But fear that honesty alone may no longer be enough.
BāBĀ Tāl slowly finished the last sip of coffee.
Then, looking directly at me, he whispered:
“Bacha… a nation should never ask its children to carry the weight of its failures.”
His words stayed with me long after he had fallen silent.
Because somewhere, beyond the snow-covered mountains, beyond the crowded streets of Delhi, beyond every classroom and coaching centre, millions of school bags were being carried by young shoulders.
They looked ordinary.
But inside them rested nothing less than the future.
There was a time when only students entered the examination hall.
Today, entire families do.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Every competitive examination has become a silent contract signed by many hands.
One signature belongs to the student.
The remaining signatures belong to parents who quietly rearrange their lives around a single dream.
Some mortgage family savings.
Some postpone building a house.
Some cancel long-awaited medical treatment.
Some leave secure employment and move to unfamiliar cities simply so their children may study in places believed to offer a better chance.
An examination, therefore, is never answered by one candidate alone.
It is answered by an entire household.
BāBĀ Tāl returned just before sunset.
The familiar fragrance of old sandalwood entered the room before he did.
His faded navy-blue robe brushed gently against the doorway.
Tiny brass bells stitched across the robe whispered their timeless melody.
His weathered blue jeans disappeared into spotless white joggers—the footwear of a traveller who had walked farther than maps could measure.
He smiled.
“Bacha…”
“I met a mother yesterday.”
“Where?”
“In the crowd.”
“What did she say?”
He lowered himself into the chair beside my writing desk.
“She did not speak about politics.”
“She did not speak about governments.”
“She spoke only about her son.”
“’For two years,’ she said, ‘our home has revolved around one examination.’”
“’My son stopped attending weddings.’”
“’He rarely met his friends.’”
“’He studied while we quietly prayed.’”
“’Now tell me…’”
He paused.
“’How do I explain uncertainty to a child who never cheated, never complained and never stopped believing in honest effort?’”
The room fell into silence.
There are questions for which statistics provide no comfort.
The recent protests across India drew strength not only from students but also from parents who feared that confidence in the examination system had been shaken. As demonstrations widened and discussions with government representatives continued, many families said their principal concern was restoring trust in public examinations rather than prolonging confrontation.
The Holy Qur’an reminds us:
“Indeed, Allah commands justice, excellence and giving to relatives, and forbids immorality, wrongdoing and oppression.” -Holy Qur’an, Surah An-Naḥl (16:90)
Justice is not an abstract principle.
It is deeply personal.
For a student, justice means believing that preparation matters.
For parents, justice means believing that sacrifice has meaning.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) said:
“Each of you is a shepherd, and each of you is responsible for those under his care.” -Sahih al-Bukhari, Hadith No. 7138; Sahih Muslim, Hadith No. 1829
Those words extend beyond the home.
Teachers.
Administrators.
Institutions.
Governments.
All who hold responsibility over the future of young people carry a trust.
BāBĀ Tāl gently lifted one of the brass bells hanging from his robe.
“Bacha…”
“Listen carefully.”
He rang it once.
“Do you hear that?”
“It sounds ordinary.”
“But imagine if this bell were cracked.”
“It would still make a sound.”
“Yet everyone would know something inside had changed.”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“Trust is exactly like that.”
“Once cracked…”
“…it can be repaired.”
“But it can never be repaired by pretending the crack never existed.”
His words carried no anger.
Only wisdom.
Outside, the evening breeze stirred the leaves.
Below, poor Foxy waited faithfully beneath the fading sunlight.
Age had dulled his paint.
Not his loyalty.
For years he had carried me over rough roads without asking whether the destination was important.
Duty alone was enough.
Perhaps institutions, too, are expected to travel that road.
Not perfectly.
But faithfully.
As the American writer Maya Angelou observed:
“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”
Perhaps that is where every society eventually arrives.
Not at perfection.
But at the courage to improve.
As BāBĀ Tāl rose to leave, the tiny brass bells sang softly once more.
At the door he stopped.
Without looking back, he whispered:
“Bacha… when a parent begins losing sleep over whether honesty still has a future, the examination has already escaped the classroom. It has entered the conscience of the nation.”
I watched him disappear into the gathering dusk.
Only the echo of his bells remained.
And somewhere beyond the mountains, countless parents waited—not merely for results on a screen, but for something no mark sheet could ever print.
Confidence.
The Generation That Refused to Whisper
There is something remarkably different about Generation Z.
Older generations often misunderstand them.
“They spend too much time on their phones,” some complain.
“They are impatient.”
“They question everything.”
Perhaps.
But every generation inherits different battles.
Previous generations fought wars with rifles.
Some fought dictatorships with pamphlets.
Others fought censorship with printing presses.
Generation Z fights algorithms.
They organise through encrypted messages.
They debate through livestreams.
They mobilise through hashtags.
They document history before historians arrive.
They have transformed the mobile phone into both a classroom and a public square.
BāBĀ Tāl looked thoughtfully at my own mobile phone lying beside the scattered manuscripts.
He smiled.
“Bacha…”
“People say young people are always looking down.”
“They forget…”
“…sometimes they are looking into the future.”
His tiny brass bells laughed softly with him.
I could not help smiling.
He continued.
“Do not mock the language of youth.”
“Every generation invents its own vocabulary.”
“Your generation wrote letters.”
“The next sent faxes.”
“Then came emails.”
“Now…”
“…history sometimes arrives as a notification.”
How beautifully he reduced half a century into four sentences.
The recent student movement demonstrated something beyond frustration. It showed that young people today can connect across cities and regions with extraordinary speed, sharing information, organising peaceful demonstrations, and keeping public attention focused on issues they believe affect their future. Whether one agrees with every tactic or not, their ability to communicate collectively has become a defining feature of modern civic engagement. (This section should be checked against the final verified chronology during editing.)
The Holy Qur’an reminds believers:
“…Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is within themselves.”
-Holy Qur’an, Surah Ar-Ra’d (13:11)
How extraordinary that this verse speaks first about inner transformation.
Every lasting reform begins there.
Not with slogans.
Not with anger.
But with conscience.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) said:
“The strong person is not the one who overcomes others by strength, but the one who controls himself when angry.” – Sahih al-Bukhari, Hadith No. 6114; Sahih Muslim, Hadith No. 2609
That Hadith deserves careful reflection.
Real strength is disciplined.
Not destructive.
Perhaps that explains why peaceful civic engagement often leaves a deeper mark upon history than uncontrolled rage.
BāBĀ Tāl slowly walked toward my bookshelf.
His faded navy-blue robe brushed against the wooden shelves.
The brass bells stitched near the hem produced their familiar, gentle music.
His weathered blue jeans and immaculate white joggers reminded me once again that wisdom need not wear ancient sandals to remain timeless.
He pulled out an old notebook.
Its pages had yellowed with age.
“What is that?” I asked.
“My unfinished diary.”
“You still write?”
He laughed.
“No.”
“I leave blank pages.”
“Why?”
“So young people may complete the story.”
Those words struck me with unexpected force.
Every generation inherits an unfinished manuscript.
It either adds another hopeful chapter…
…or tears out the pages written before it.
Outside my rooftop studio, dusk settled gently over Islamabad.
The lights of the city flickered on one by one.
Below, poor Foxy rested beneath a streetlamp.
His paint had faded.
His engine had aged.
Yet every morning he was still willing to begin another journey.
There was a lesson in that old Volkswagen.
Age does not diminish usefulness.
Nor should youth be dismissed simply because it asks uncomfortable questions.
The Irish statesman and philosopher Edmund Burke is often credited with observing:
“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing.”
Whether quoted exactly as written or expressed through later paraphrase, the underlying truth remains timeless:
Silence has consequences.
So does courage.
As BāBĀ Tāl prepared to leave, he placed his weathered hand gently upon my shoulder.
The bells fell silent.
His voice became little more than a whisper.
“Bacha… never fear a generation that asks difficult questions.”
He paused.
“Fear the day when it stops asking them.”
For a nation whose young people no longer care…
…has already begun surrendering its future.
The bells sounded once.
Then the old dervish disappeared into the gathering night.
Only his words remained.
And somewhere, beyond the mountains where dreams and disappointments had begun sharing the same road, millions of young voices were proving that hope does not always shout.
Sometimes…
It simply refuses to whisper.
When Conscience Knocked at the Doors of Power
Power possesses magnificent buildings.
Conscience possesses no address.
Power travels with official convoys.
Conscience often walks alone.
Yet history repeatedly reminds us that when conscience knocks persistently enough, even the heaviest doors eventually begin to open.
For weeks, India’s student movement continued to grow. What had begun as anger over alleged examination irregularities evolved into a broader public conversation about accountability, transparency, and the future of education. Demonstrations spread across cities, Parliament witnessed repeated disruptions, and discussions between protest leaders and senior government ministers began as pressure mounted from multiple directions.
Inside my rooftop studio in Islamabad, BāBĀ Tāl sat unusually quietly.
His coffee had already grown cold.
The tiny brass bells stitched across his faded navy-blue robe remained still for once.
I looked at him.
“You are silent today.”
He smiled.
“Bacha…”
“When nations begin talking…”
“…old dervishes listen.”
After a long pause, he continued.
“Remember…”
“A government is not weakened because citizens ask questions.”
“It is strengthened by the courage to answer them.”
Those words deserved to be written exactly as spoken.
Across the country, the movement had reached a stage where dialogue became as important as demonstration. Government representatives sought additional time for negotiations with protest leaders, while the protesters maintained that restoring confidence in the education system required meaningful accountability. Even after educator Sonam Wangchuk ended his 26-day hunger strike, movement leaders announced that peaceful protests would continue until their principal demands were addressed.
This is where democracies reveal their true character.
Not when everyone agrees.
But when disagreement remains peaceful.
The Holy Qur’an teaches:
*“…whose affairs are conducted by mutual consultation (shūrā) among them…” -Holy Qur’an, Surah Ash-Shūrā (42:38)
How remarkable.
Consultation.
Dialogue.
Listening.
These are not merely political virtues.
They are moral responsibilities.
The Messenger of Allah, Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him), said:
“The religion is sincerity.”
The Companions asked, “To whom?”
He replied: “To Allah, His Book, His Messenger, the leaders of the Muslims, and their common people.” -Sahih Muslim, Hadith No. 55
Sincerity includes speaking honestly.
It also includes listening honestly.
BāBĀ Tāl finally lifted his coffee mug.
It was empty.
He laughed softly.
“Bacha…”
“An empty cup teaches an important lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“It can receive fresh coffee.”
He placed the mug gently upon my desk.
“But a cup that believes it is already full…”
“…cannot receive anything.”
How many institutions, I wondered, forget that lesson?
Outside, the evening breeze carried the scent of rain across the Margalla Hills.
Below, poor Foxy waited faithfully beside the curb.
The old Volkswagen had one admirable quality.
Whenever something rattled inside its ageing engine, I never increased the volume of the radio to hide the sound.
I opened the bonnet.
Problems ignored seldom disappear.
They usually grow louder.
Perhaps institutions are no different.
The American President Abraham Lincoln once observed:
“Public sentiment is everything. With public sentiment, nothing can fail; without it, nothing can succeed.”
Whether in politics, education or public administration, confidence remains the invisible bridge between institutions and citizens.
Once weakened…
It demands patience to rebuild.
As negotiations continued, both the government and protest leaders publicly indicated a willingness to keep talking, even while disagreeing on key demands. The outcome remained uncertain, but one reality had become undeniable: the voices of students could no longer be dismissed as a passing headline.
BāBĀ Tāl stood.
The brass bells stitched upon his robe answered one another as he walked slowly toward the door.
Before leaving, he turned.
His weathered face carried neither optimism nor despair.
Only balance.
He whispered,
”Bacha… power should never fear peaceful questions.”
He paused.
”For unanswered questions have an extraordinary habit…”
“…they eventually become chapters in history.”**
The bells rang once.
Then silence returned.
Not the silence of indifference.
The silence of a nation waiting to see whether conversation could restore confidence where controversy had taken root.
When the Chair Became Smaller Than the Classroom
The speed of politics is astonishing.
One headline replaces another before yesterday’s newspaper has finished travelling from the press to the breakfast table.
Yesterday, the nation asked questions.
Today, another question has arrived.
The resignation of an Education Minister may satisfy some voices.
It may calm others.
It may reshape the political landscape.
But no resignation—however dramatic—can, by itself, restore the confidence of millions of young minds who have spent months wondering whether merit alone is still enough.
History has always distinguished between responsibility accepted and trust restored.
The first may occur in a day.
The second often requires years.
Late last night, I sat alone in my rooftop studio overlooking Islamabad’s sleeping skyline. The second mug of coffee had grown cold. Foxy rested quietly beneath the plaza, his faithful air-cooled heart hidden beneath the rear deck lid, as though reminding me once again that the most important things are seldom found where crowds first look.
Just then…
The familiar fragrance arrived before the man.
Then came the gentle music.
Tiny brass bells.
BāBĀ Tāl entered without haste.
His faded navy-blue robe moved softly with the evening breeze. Dozens of tiny brass bells stitched along its edges answered one another with every measured step. Beneath the robe appeared his weathered blue jeans, and on his feet, the spotless white joggers of an old traveller who still believed that wisdom should keep walking.
He neither greeted me nor reached for the coffee.
Instead, he looked at the unfinished manuscript lying across my desk.
“Bacha…”
“Have they changed the minister?”
“I have just heard so.”
He nodded gently.
Then came a silence that seemed longer than the night itself.
Finally, he spoke. “Never mistake the movement of a chair for the movement of a nation.”
I looked at him. He continued. “A chair belongs to one person.”
“A classroom belongs to generations.”
Those words struck deeper than any political speech I had heard.
The Holy Qur’an reminds us:
“Indeed, Allah commands justice, the doing of good, and generosity to relatives, and He forbids immorality, wrongdoing and oppression.” – Surah An-Naḥl (16:90)
Justice does not end with identifying responsibility.
Justice reaches completion only when confidence returns to those who felt wronged.
The Messenger of Allah Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) said:
“Each of you is a shepherd, and each of you is responsible for those under his care.” – Sahih al-Bukhari, Hadith 7138; Sahih Muslim, Hadith 1829
Responsibility is not measured merely by office.
It is measured by trust.
Outside, dawn had not yet arrived.
The city remained quiet.
Only the faint hum of distant traffic rose from the avenues below.
BāBĀ Tāl walked toward the window.
His bells fell silent.
Without turning around, he whispered:
“Bacha… when students begin doubting examinations, the examination has already begun for the nation itself.”
He paused. Then added one final sentence.
“Remember this when you finish writing…”
“A resignation may close one chapter.”
“Only restored trust can begin the next.”
The bells rang once.
He was gone.
I looked again toward poor Foxy.
The old Beetle had weathered storms, rough roads and the passing of decades. Yet every morning, its unseen heart was ready for another journey.
Perhaps nations are asked to do the same.
Not merely replace drivers.
But ensure the engine of trust still runs.
The Morning After the Headlines
Morning has an unusual habit.
It does not ask who won yesterday’s argument.
It simply asks…
“What remains?”
Newspapers arrive folded.
Television studios prepare fresh debates.
Social media abandons yesterday’s outrage in search of today’s excitement.
Yet inside countless homes, time moves differently.
A mother still wakes her daughter before sunrise.
A father quietly prepares breakfast before leaving for work.
Another student opens the same biology book.
Another dream resumes from the page where sleep interrupted it.
For them…
Politics has changed.
The syllabus has not.
The resignation of a minister may dominate headlines.
But a student’s greatest question remains painfully simple.
“Can I trust the system that will judge my years of hard work?”
That question cannot be answered through a press conference.
It must be answered through action.
As dawn spread across the Margalla Hills, I found BāBĀ Tāl already standing near the edge of my rooftop.
He had arrived before me.
The first rays of sunlight touched the tiny brass bells stitched upon his faded navy-blue robe, making them sparkle like drops of dew.
He did not turn.
Instead, he watched the awakening city below.
“Bacha…”
“Do you hear it?”
“I hear nothing.”
He smiled.
“Exactly.”
“What you hear is hope returning to work.”
He pointed toward the roads.
“Teachers.”
“Students.”
“Bus drivers.”
“Street vendors.”
“Parents.”
“They are the true custodians of a nation.”
“Governments govern.”
“But ordinary people carry civilisation upon their shoulders.
His words drifted gently across the cool morning air.
The Holy Qur’an declares:
“And say, ‘Work, for Allah will see your deeds, and so will His Messenger and the believers.’” -Surah At-Tawbah (9:105)
The verse does not command appearances.
It commands work.
Steady.
Honest.
Visible work.
Likewise, the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) said:
“Allah loves that when one of you performs a task, he perfects it.”
– Reported in al-Bayhaqi, Shu’ab al-Iman (commonly cited; scholars differ on its chain, but its meaning is widely accepted).
The lesson is timeless.
Rebuilding confidence demands excellence, not merely explanation.
Below the plaza, poor Foxy waited patiently.
Morning sunlight reflected from his ageing mustard-coloured body.
His little air-cooled engine, hidden beneath the rear deck lid, had never cared who occupied high office.
It only asked one question every morning.
“Are we ready to move forward?”
There was wisdom in that old Volkswagen.
Progress is not achieved by replacing signposts.
Progress begins when the journey itself becomes trustworthy again.
The American civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. Once observed:
“The time is always right to do what is right.”
History has repeatedly confirmed those words.
Every society eventually arrives at a moment when repairing public confidence becomes more important than protecting public image.
Education is one of those moments.
It is the bridge between one generation and the next.
If cracks appear in that bridge, repairing them cannot wait.
BāBĀ Tāl slowly adjusted one of the tiny brass bells upon his robe.
Then he looked toward the eastern sky.
The sun had fully risen.
“Bacha…”
“Do you know the difference between sunlight and headlines?”
I shook my head.
He answered with a smile.
“Headlines illuminate a day.”
He paused.
“Education illuminates generations.”
Without another word, he began walking toward the stairway.
The bells answered one another softly.
I watched until he disappeared from sight.
Then I opened my notebook.
On the top of a fresh page, I wrote a single sentence:
A resignation may begin accountability.
Only justice can restore confidence.
And somewhere below, poor Foxy seemed ready once again to carry another day’s journey—never the fastest on the road, perhaps, but always faithful to the destination.
The Republic’s Report Card
Every summer, millions of students wait anxiously for their report cards.
Some open them with trembling hands.
Some smile.
Some cry.
Some quietly fold the paper before anyone else can read it.
But there comes a rare moment in the life of every nation when the examination hall changes its direction.
The students are no longer being examined.
The Republic is.
The question paper is simple.
Can it protect merit?
Can it reward honesty?
Can it admit mistakes?
Can it correct them without fear or favour?
History shows that nations are not judged merely by economic growth or military strength. They are also judged by whether ordinary citizens believe that public institutions are fair. Education is among the first places where that confidence is either strengthened or weakened.
As I sat revising the manuscript, the familiar music returned.
Not music from a radio.
Not the call of birds.
The tiny brass bells.
BāBĀ Tāl entered slowly.
His faded navy-blue robe moved gently in the morning breeze. The small brass bells stitched along its edges chimed softly. His weathered blue jeans carried the dust of long journeys, while his spotless white joggers reminded me that an old traveller never truly retires.
He smiled.
“Bacha…”
“Have you ever seen a report card issued to a nation?”
“No.”
“Neither have I.”
He laughed quietly.
“Yet every generation writes one.”
He sat beside the window.
“No examination authority prints it.”
“No university awards it.”
“It is written…”
“…inside the hearts of young people.”
He pointed toward my notebook.
“Write this carefully.”
“When children lose confidence in fairness, the first marks deducted are not from their examination papers…”
He paused.
“…they are deducted from the nation’s moral report card.”
I wrote every word.
The Holy Qur’an declares:
“O you who believe! Stand firmly for justice, as witnesses for Allah, even if it be against yourselves, your parents, or your relatives…”- Surah An-Nisā’ (4:135)
This verse is extraordinary.
Justice is not conditional.
It is not reserved for friends.
Nor suspended for convenience.
Its first command is simply:
Stand firmly.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) said:
“The truthful and trustworthy merchant will be with the Prophets, the truthful, and the martyrs.” -Jami’ al-Tirmidhi, Hadith No. 1209 (graded Hasan by many scholars).
Though spoken about trade, its spirit extends to every public trust.
Education, too, is a trust.
An examination, too, is a trust.
Public confidence, once earned, becomes one of a nation’s greatest treasures.
Outside, I looked down toward poor Foxy.
Morning sunlight rested upon his mustard-coloured body.
Visitors often admired his rounded shape.
Children smiled when they saw him.
But very few knew where his heart truly lived.
Hidden beneath the rear deck lid…
The little air-cooled engine quietly waited.
I smiled.
How much like trust.
Rarely noticed when working.
Immediately missed when lost.
The British statesman Winston Churchill once observed:
“The price of greatness is responsibility.”
Every institution entrusted with educating the young should remember those words.
Greatness is not claimed.
It is demonstrated.
Through fairness.
Through transparency.
Through accountability.
BāBĀ Tāl slowly rose.
The bells answered one another like distant memories.
At the doorway he turned.
His eyes carried neither accusation nor applause.
Only hope.
He whispered:
“Bacha…”
“A nation does not become great because every student succeeds.”
Another pause.
“It becomes great because every student believes the race was fair.”
He disappeared. The bells faded. I closed my notebook.
Outside, another day had begun.
Another generation had opened its books.
Another Republic had quietly begun writing its own report card.
Beyond the Headlines, Beyond the Borders
There comes a moment when every newspaper must make a choice.
Will it merely report what happened yesterday?
Or will it ask what tomorrow may remember?
Headlines are travellers.
They arrive with urgency.
They depart with equal haste.
But ideas…
Ideas linger.
Long after the television cameras have been packed away.
Long after the microphones have fallen silent.
Long after the political arguments have found newer battlegrounds.
Education is one such idea.
It belongs to no political party.
It bows before no ideology.
It recognises neither language nor geography.
A child opening a textbook in Leh, Delhi, Chennai or Kolkata carries exactly the same invisible luggage as a child anywhere else in the world.
Hope.
Expectation.
And the quiet belief that honest effort should receive an honest reward.
As I stood beside the window, dawn had yielded to a brilliant morning. Below, poor Foxy waited with the patience that only old companions possess. His mustard-coloured body bore the marks of countless journeys, yet beneath the rear deck lid rested the same faithful air-cooled heart that had carried me through years of changing seasons.
The soft chiming announced him before I saw him.
BāBĀ Tāl.
His faded navy-blue robe moved gently in the breeze. Tiny brass bells stitched along its hem sang their familiar melody. His weathered blue jeans and spotless white joggers made him appear, as always, like a wandering dervish who belonged equally to ancient caravans and modern streets. He stood beside Foxy for a moment before climbing the stairs. When he entered, he looked at the stack of newspapers scattered across my desk.
“Bacha…”
“How many headlines are here?”
“Hundreds.”
“And tomorrow?”
“They will become yesterday.”
He smiled.
“Exactly.”
Then he lifted a student’s notebook lying beside them.
“And this?”
“This is different.”
“Why?”
“Because a notebook writes tomorrow.”
He gently closed it.
“Never allow a temporary headline to become greater than a permanent lesson.”
Those words settled into my heart.
The Holy Qur’an reminds mankind:
*“Read in the name of your Lord Who created.” -Surah Al-‘Alaq (96:1)
Remarkably, the first revealed command in Islam was not to conquer.
Not to rule.
Not to accumulate wealth.
It was simply:
Read.
Knowledge became the opening doorway to civilisation.
The Messenger of Allah Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) said:
“Whoever follows a path in pursuit of knowledge, Allah will make easy for him a path to Paradise.” -Sahih Muslim, Hadith No. 2699
That path should never become obstructed by fear, uncertainty or the loss of confidence in fairness.
The American educator John Dewey wrote:
*“Education is not preparation for life; education is life itself.”
Whether one agrees fully with his philosophy or not, the observation captures a profound truth.
Education cannot be treated as a seasonal political issue.
It is the continuous heartbeat of a nation’s future.
BāBĀ Tāl reached into the pocket of his robe and produced one tiny brass bell.
He placed it in my palm.
“Bacha…”
“Do you know why every bell has a hollow centre?”
I shook my head.
“So it may carry a sound greater than itself.”
He closed my fingers around it.
“So it is with a teacher.”
“So it is with a student.”
“So it is with a nation.”
“We are remembered not for the metal we possess…”
“…but for the truth we are able to carry.”
For a long while neither of us spoke.
Outside, the city moved with its usual urgency.
Cars hurried.
People hurried.
News hurried.
Only wisdom refused to hurry.
As BāBĀ Tāl walked toward the door, the tiny bells stitched across his robe answered one another with quiet dignity.
He paused only once. Without looking back, he whispered:
“Bacha… borders divide maps.”
A brief silence followed.
“They must never divide our respect for learning, nor our compassion for students.”
The bells faded into the corridor. I remained at my desk. The newspapers before me would soon be forgotten.
The notebook beside them…
…was still writing the future.
Every story eventually arrives at a place where words must surrender to silence.
Not because there is nothing left to say.
But because the reader has already heard what the writer could never fully explain.
The mountains of Ladakh had not moved.
The classrooms still opened each morning.
Students still sharpened their pencils.
Parents still whispered prayers before examination days.
Teachers still entered their classrooms carrying books—and something far heavier than books.
Responsibility.
The headlines had changed.
Political conversations had shifted.
Television debates had found fresh subjects.
Yet one question refused to disappear.
Had trust returned?
Trust is unlike a document.
It cannot be signed.
Unlike a law, it cannot simply be enacted.
Unlike a ministerial chair, it cannot be vacated or filled.
Trust returns quietly.
One honest decision at a time.
One transparent examination at a time.
One fair opportunity at a time.
That evening, a cool breeze swept across my rooftop studio in Islamabad.
Below, poor Foxy rested after another day’s faithful service. His mustard-coloured body reflected the fading light of sunset. Hidden beneath the rear deck lid, his little air-cooled heart had once again completed another journey without asking for applause.
Some companions never demand recognition.
They simply remain dependable.
The familiar fragrance entered before the footsteps.
Then…
The soft music.
Tiny brass bells.
BāBĀ Tāl had returned.
For what I somehow knew would be the last conversation of this manuscript.
His faded navy-blue robe seemed older than before.
The brass bells stitched along its edges shimmered softly.
His weathered blue jeans carried the dust of countless roads.
His spotless white joggers looked ready for another journey beyond the horizon.
He did not sit.
He remained standing beside the window, looking toward the distant outline of the Margalla Hills.
After a long silence, he spoke.
“Bacha…”
“When I was young…”
“I believed nations were built by kings.”
He smiled gently.
“Then I grew older.”
“And I discovered…”
“…they are built by teachers.”
His words filled the room more completely than any speech.
The Holy Qur’an declares:
“Allah will raise those who have believed among you and those who have been given knowledge by degrees.” -Surah Al-Mujādilah (58:11)
Notice what the verse honours.
Knowledge.
Not noise.
Not position.
Not power.
Knowledge.
The Messenger of Allah Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) said:
“The best of people are those who are most beneficial to people.” – Al-Mu’jam al-Awsat by al-Tabarani (the narration is widely quoted; scholars differ regarding its chain, but its meaning is accepted by many scholars).
Perhaps that is the true measure of every educator.
Not the number of students enrolled.
But the number of lives illuminated.
I looked once more toward poor Foxy.
How strange.
An old Beetle had quietly become a lesson in endurance.
His heart was hidden.
His service was visible.
Maybe trust works the same way.
People rarely praise it when it exists.
But everyone notices when it disappears.
BāBĀ Tāl slowly removed one tiny brass bell from the sleeve of his robe.
He placed it upon my manuscript.
“This is not for you.”
“For whom, then?”
“For the first student who reads your words and decides…”
“…not to surrender.”
The room fell silent.
The English poet William Wordsworth wrote:
“The Child is father of the Man.”
How profound.
Every society is, in truth, shaped by the children it educates today.
Not by the arguments it wins today.
At the doorway, BāBĀ Tāl turned one final time.
The bells no longer chimed.
His voice was scarcely more than the wind itself.
“Bacha…”
“Never write merely to criticise power.”
A pause.
“Write so that the powerless discover hope.”
He smiled.
Then he was gone. No footsteps. No farewellOnly the memory of tiny brass bells lingering in the evening air. I closed my notebook.
The article was nearly complete. Yet I knew its ending would not belong to me.
It would belong to every student who still opened a book believing that honesty was worth another attempt.
And perhaps…That belief alone is the first page of every nation’s future.
There comes a moment when every writer must place the pen upon the table.
Not because every question has been answered.
But because the remaining answers belong to the reader.
When I began writing these pages, I thought they would become a story about examinations.
Then I believed they had become a story about protests.
Soon afterwards they appeared to become a story about accountability.
I was wrong.
This has always been a story about trust.
Trust between a student and a classroom.
Trust between parents and institutions.
Trust between a nation and its future.
Headlines will continue to change.
Governments will continue to change.
Policies will continue to change.
Even ministers will continue to come and go.
That is the rhythm of democracy.
But there is one rhythm that must never be broken.
The quiet heartbeat of a young mind that still believes honesty is worth the effort.
The resignation of a minister may become an important political event.
It may even mark the acceptance of public responsibility.
Yet no resignation, however significant, can by itself return confidence to millions of students.
That work begins only when institutions become more transparent, examinations become more secure, accountability becomes consistent, and every young candidate once again believes that merit alone will determine the outcome.
A resignation is not the destination.
Restoring trust in students is.
The Holy Qur’an leaves mankind with a timeless reminder:
“Indeed, Allah does not change the condition of a people until they change what is within themselves.” -Surah Ar-Ra’d (13:11)
No reform lasts unless it is accompanied by moral reform.
No institution earns confidence through promises alone.
Confidence returns through integrity, demonstrated day after day.
The Messenger of Allah Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) said:
*“The truthful and trustworthy person will be with the Prophets, the truthful, and the martyrs.”? -Jami’ al-Tirmidhi, Hadith No. 1209
Truthfulness is not only a personal virtue.
It is the foundation upon which public institutions stand.
As dawn approached, I folded the last page of my manuscript.
Outside, poor Foxy waited quietly beneath the fading streetlamp.
His little air-cooled heart rested beneath the rear deck lid, ready for another journey when morning came.
He had carried me through many roads.
Some smooth.
Some broken.
Yet he had taught me a lesson no university ever could.
The destination matters.
But the journey must deserve the traveller’s trust.
The familiar fragrance returned one last time.
No footsteps.
Only the gentle sound of tiny brass bells.
I looked toward the doorway.
BāBĀ Tāl stood there. The faded navy-blue robe. The tiny brass bells. The weathered blue jeans. The spotless white joggers. He smiled exactly as he had on the first night. He said nothing for a long while. Then, almost in a whisper, he spoke.
“Bacha…”
“When you were young, you thought education was about passing examinations.” He smiled.
“Now you know…”
Another silence.
“Education is what remains after the examination has ended.”
He turned to leave. The bells answered one another softly. Halfway through the doorway he stopped without looking back. One final whisper floated through the room.
“Never measure a nation’s greatness by the height of its mountains…”
A pause.
“…measure it by the confidence with which its children climb them.” Then…
Nothing.
Only silence.
Only dawn.
Only hope.
I walked to the window. The eastern sky had begun changing colour. Somewhere, a teacher was unlocking a classroom.
Somewhere, a parent was waking a sleepy child.
Somewhere, a student was opening a book with a silent prayer. May that prayer never again overshadowed by doubt.
May merit always outrun manipulation.
May classrooms always be stronger than controversy.
And may every nation remember that its greatest monument is not built of marble or stone…
…but of children who still believe that honesty has a future.

◇◇◇POETEARS◇◇◇
[coined by T. Hejazi — Where tears become poetry, and poetry becomes tears.]
Do not ask who occupied yesterday’s chair,
Ask whether today’s child still believes the race is fair.
For kingdoms rise on speeches and fall with passing years,
But nations live forever…
When they learn to honour the dreams behind their children’s tears.