The shopkeepers and onlookers were amazed by Bibi’s story. They were equally surprised to hear her speaking in the local dialect. Some found her request to be filmi. Some responded with a query, ‘Are you originally from Pakistan, Bibi? How did you get separated?’ A few even sympathized, but soon dispersed and melted into the crowd.

‘Perhaps she’s deranged,’ said an onlooker sarcastically.

‘Yes, I am from Pakistan, was separated due to unforeseen circumstances,’ she responded so softly that her own ears could barely hear it. She kept moving, not disheartened by the lukewarm responses she received. It was a precious business hour for the shopkeepers and they felt irritated by her queries. Some rudely shooed her away, and called her senile. Others displayed helplessness and disinterest. Not one to give up, Bibi kept walking, stopping and asking anyone who seemed remotely interested in her story. She covered the entire market in three hours but nothing came out of it. Dejected, she sat down on the parapet. Her feet were aching, her heart was weeping and her spirit was on the verge of dying.

Then she looked around and saw a vendor serving hot tea in small earthen cups. She looked at him. The old man, wearing a long salt-and-pepper beard, smiled and said, ‘You look tired. Let me serve you some tea and biscuits. You’ll feel better.’

‘No,’ replied Bibi quickly. ‘I am not carrying any money, Bhaijaan. Some other time. Thank you.’

But the vendor wasn’t going to give up. He poured hot tea into a cup and arranged biscuits on a plate. He then carried the tray to Bibi. ‘You must have come to pay obeisance at the holy Punja Sahibji. And to serve pilgrims is a very pious task. Please accept this as a small token of service. I shall be grateful.’

She smiled and accepted the tea. The old man sat next to her holding the tray in his hand. Overwhelmed by the humility of an ordinary and simple-looking roadside vendor, Bibi began chatting with him, explaining the reason for her visit. The vendor, Aleem Khan, tried to jog his memory but failed to match any face with that on the paper in Bibi’s hand. ‘Oh, I am sorry, Begum Sahiba, but it would not be possible to trace your husband and two grown-up sons, who by now would themselves be in their sixties just by their names or this old picture. I understand what you are going through, but, honestly speaking, you’re wasting your time. Only Allah can help you. Please pray.’

Bibi had seen that coming and said, ‘I know, Baba, but this is my only chance. I am old and don’t know for how long I will live. I don’t want to give up. I am sure someone will help me.’

The tea vendor empathized and said, ‘Perhaps one of these shopkeepers can help?’