Real Life Story Based After India and Pakistan Partition 1947
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What is Real Life Story Based After India and Pakistan Partition 1947
Read Real Life Story Based After India and Pakistan Partition 1947 fanfiction written by the author Youtube_Channel_3134 on WebNovel, This serial novel genre is others fanfic stories, ✓ Newest updated ✓ All rights reserved
Writer: Iqra Manzoor Abdul Hakim From life imprisonment to death freedom He cried when he heard my sad story Those who try me, try me and cry I am a stateless traveler My name is helpless Who is mine in this world? Who hugged and cried ۔ In fact, this place is a tourist destination not only from all over the country but also from abroad. Thousands of people visit here every year. But when they went there, they found out that a young man had drowned there yesterday, so it is forbidden to go near the police and rescue teams. Were looking for After lunch we were free and after that I started walking around. I was not interested in any girl in the class so I started walking alone. Some students were taking pictures, some were walking in groups. Some were live house. They were watching the scene. There was a good crowd. People were watching the police. They were talking about all sorts of things. Some say this place has become a death spot. Some say no. They couldn't control themselves. "I saw his parents weeping from yesterday that they are helpless. He was the only son. He was married sixteen days later, but the death of the one who is pleasing to Allah has drawn him here." I was saddened to hear all this. I wish his son would find him alive. I also prayed from my heart. I took tea from a wheelbarrow and sat down to drink. My thoughts were busy weaving a new story. I was lost in the imaginary world. ۔ It was only two minutes later that I heard someone crying "O Allah, if this life is a punishment for any of my sins, then forgive me. You are the Most Merciful, my Lord. Forgive me. Now I am just tired of seeing people die every day and call me to You too." The voice began to come. "Forgive me, my lord, forgive me." The sound of crying was coming from a squirrel behind me. It was an old man in a poor look. I approached him. When I greeted him, the old man wiped away the tears from his face and replied, "Baba ji, do you have any problem?" I asked while sitting next to him. "No, son, I am fine, thank God." I saw his face full of shadows. If there is a problem or there is a problem that is not being solved, then he asks for such prayers only because he is tired of life. I heard you. Can I solve your problem? He was still silent. Asking for death is a sin. Why are you doing this? Son, death is also a blessing of Allah. We live our part in this world and then the days of life begin to unfold one by one that everything slips out of our hands. Age, children, responsibilities ... There was a silence. I wanted to say something but I was forced to think about where to start. Baba, you live here. I changed the suit. No, I sleep where it is at night. Now you are poor. Come with me. I have a camp there. I want to talk to you. He thought of something and said, 'I don't need help, son. He came to the camp with me. Ma'am and Sir saw him and asked in a gesture, "Who is it?" I said, "Baba, this is my Ma'am and Sir." After the prayer, he and I sat down. Sir made tea for us. Began to tell. "My name is Ghulam Bakhsh" He looked at me and smiled. What are you talking about, son? Want to know about you He was an old man about ninety years old, about six feet tall and his face was very sad and tired, but he still smiled when he looked at me. Mem Iman was pointing at Sir Arsalan in the eye I was very upset to see his clothes. He could only see his dirty and torn clothes from place to place, not that he was sad. I turned to Baba again and he was looking at the walls of the camp. "I want to know this." Why are you sad? Why were you begging for your death? Feel free to tell me. He touched my head lovingly and smiled. Where should I start? In fact, things are so old. I lived in Haryana, India. My father's name was Imam Bakhsh and my mother was Taji who died in my childhood. I was eight years younger than my three siblings and when I regained consciousness, I started helping my brothers in the work I inherited, ie farming.
