The woman who sold happiness in bottles

 


Urban Fables | Title: The Woman Who Sold Happiness in Bottles

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

🏙️ What Is an Urban Fable?

An urban fable is a contemporary tale wrapped in symbolism, built on everyday settings—marketplaces, train stations, coffee shops—but carrying deep psychological or moral truths. It mirrors the absurdity, alienation, and silent longing in modern urban life.

These stories don’t preach—they whisper truths you already suspect.

The Woman Who Sold Happiness in Bottles

Every Friday, just before sunset, she’d appear at Metro Gate No. 7, where broken concrete kissed rusted railings. No one knew her name.

She wore a green shawl embroidered with faded suns and moons, carried a suitcase filled with glass vials, and sat cross-legged on a flattened jute rug like a healer from another age.

No signboard. No marketing. Just one phrase spoken gently to whoever stopped:

"Real joy. No side effects. First drop is free."

Each bottle was smaller than a thumb, sealed with red wax, and filled with a faint golden mist. And those who sipped it—just one drop on the tongue—described strange things:

  • A memory they’d forgotten resurfaced, soft and unblemished.
  • The smell of their mother’s kitchen.
  • The first time they laughed until their ribs ached.
  • The moment before heartbreak, when everything still felt possible.

People Flocked

In a city drowning in concrete and noise, she became an underground legend.

  • Office clerks lined up before their 9 a.m. shifts.
  • Heartbroken lovers came with trembling hands.
  • Even a minister's son, bored of luxury, arrived incognito.

They offered her anything: cash, wristwatches, phones, promises.
But she always replied:

"You don’t pay me. I collect sorrow. Just one moment. One memory of pain. I’ll keep it. You go free."

The Price They Didn’t See

No one asked where their sorrow went.

And why would they?

They walked away lighter, brighter, a little more whole.
Some got married. Some forgave. One even danced in public.

But weeks later…

  • One woman forgot her daughter’s name.
  • A writer could no longer cry—and his poetry went numb.
  • A man who once wept at funerals laughed awkwardly beside his mother’s grave.

They had lost something more than sorrow. They had lost texture.

One Day, A Boy Asked

He couldn’t afford joy.
He didn’t even ask for it.

He simply sat beside her and whispered,
"Where do you keep all the pain?"

She smiled, for the first time anyone had seen.

“In me,” she said. “That’s the deal. I keep it safe. But sometimes… it leaks.”

That night, she collapsed.

They found her body the next morning, surrounded by shattered bottles. The golden mist had turned grey. Her suitcase was empty.

She had absorbed too much.

The authorities dismissed her as a street magician.
But no one else took her place.

Now, every Friday evening at Metro Gate No. 7, people still come.
They whisper prayers.
They leave old letters, burned photographs, and tiny glass bottles filled with notes:

"Come back."
"I didn’t know what I lost."
"I kept the sadness. I’m stronger now."

✍️ Why We Tell Urban Fables

Because the cities we live in don't leave space for magic.
Because in a world of noise and numbness, the sharp edge of a fable cuts deep.

Urban fables are not entertainment. They are exorcisms.

We write them for those who’ve tasted joy and feared its cost.
And for those brave enough to feel everything, no matter how much it hurts.

📌 Explore more strange truths and whispered allegories at:
🔗 farazparvez1.blogspot.com
Where fiction becomes reflection. And sorrow, a source of light.


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