The staircase at apartment 108

 

🏙️ The Staircase at Apartment 108

A Heartwarming Tale of Urban Connections, Small Gestures, and Unsaid Words in Karachi

By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)

Karachi – Clifton Block 4 – Apartment Building “Seaview Heights”

It wasn’t a posh high-rise, but it had character. Paint peeled off the stairwell walls, but the plants at the entrance were lovingly tended. The lift often groaned and sighed but worked — most days.

At Apartment 108, lived Mrs. Zehra Farooq, a widowed school principal in her 60s, stern with words but soft with her evening prayers. Known across the building as “Madam,” she wore neatly pressed white shalwar kameez and had a reputation for correcting grammar mid-conversation.

Down the hall in Apartment 112, Shayan, a young software developer from Islamabad, had moved in recently. Introverted, polite, always wearing headphones. His parents wanted him married; he just wanted to finish a gaming app he was building in secret.

On the floor above lived Ainy, a single mother with a six-year-old son, Maaz, who had made it his life mission to press the elevator button before anyone else. Ainy worked at a boutique and had learned to wear a smile even when the gas pressure dropped at 6 PM.

The Staircase Becomes a Stage

It started with a broken elevator — again. One hot Wednesday morning, all residents were forced to use the narrow, spiraling staircase.

That day, Zehra Madam was carrying a tiffin for a sick teacher at her school. She tripped on the third floor. Shayan, returning from a night shift, caught her mid-fall. Wordlessly, he helped her down, took the tiffin from her, and simply said,
"Yeh main de deta hoon. Aap rest karein."
(“Let me deliver this. You should rest.”)

Zehra was surprised. He was the kind who barely spoke.

Later that evening, she slipped a sticky note under his door:
"Good boys do good deeds. Also, your socks don’t match."

Unlikely Bonds Form

The next week, Maaz lost his toy truck on the stairs. Ainy was frantic — it was his only birthday gift from his late father. The building WhatsApp group turned useless.

But then, a quiet knock at her door: Shayan stood there, holding the truck.

“It was on the ledge near the emergency light,” he said.
Ainy was stunned.
“You noticed that?”
He shrugged. “I notice more than people think.”

She invited him in for chai. For the first time in years, someone laughed at her impression of Pakistani TV dramas.

Enter the Eid Cake

On Chand Raat, the entire building smelled of fried samosas and fresh mehndi.

Zehra made her famous almond cake and decided to share it for the first time in years. Three small boxes — one each for Ainy, Shayan, and even the grumpy landlord on the top floor.

When Shayan received his box, he opened it slowly. Inside, a tiny card:
"Beta, we don’t say it often, but people like you are the reason neighbors still matter."

That night, Shayan added a feature to his app: “Offline connections – a place to log moments with strangers who feel like home.”

Epilogue – Six Months Later

  • Mrs. Zehra now teaches a weekend English club in the building.
  • Shayan and Ainy are “just friends,” but Maaz insists on calling him “Chacha.”
  • Apartment 108’s staircase is freshly painted — by Shayan and Maaz — and adorned with a hand-painted sign:
    “Take the stairs. You might find stories.”

🌇 In the noisy, fast-paced cities of Pakistan, real connections still bloom in the quiet stairwells, over borrowed tiffins, forgotten toys, and unexpected friendships.

📚 For more weekend stories that warm the heart:
🔗 farazparvez1.blogspot.com
🔗 mysticwisdomhub.blogspot.com

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