I was born on June 25, 1995, in a small rented house on the outskirts of Faisalabad, Punjab.
My parents, without land or savings, counted every coin to pay the rent each month. Even as a young boy, I felt their silent worries: my mother’s gentle sighs in the night and my father’s long, dusty walks to odd jobs around the city. Yet within those walls, I learned my first and most significant lesson—no matter how humble your beginnings, hope can take root anywhere.
When I turned six, I began Class 1 at a nearby private school. The playground swings were broken, and the wooden desks bore centuries of scratches, but the teachers believed in me. I remember clutching my new pencil on day one, my heart racing as I drew my very first mango tree. Those five years—Classes 1 through 5—were filled with spelling tests under the neem tree’s shade and the excitement of sharing each small victory around our dinner table.
In 2006, I moved to MC High School for Classes 6 to 10.
The building’s grey walls peeled under the sun, and each morning I walked two kilometres along dusty lanes, my patched shoes stirring up clouds of grit. Shopkeepers teased me about my worn uniform, but I learned to meet their jests with a smile, valuing kindness over new clothes. Inside the classroom, I discovered my passions: numbers dancing in math class and the rhythm of English lessons with Miss Shaheen. After school, I delivered grocery orders for neighbours—earning a few rupees to buy notebooks—then studied late under a single, flickering bulb.
By the time I was in Class 10 in 2010, I had experienced both failure and success.
I cried in the courtyard the first time I failed a science test, fearing I had let my parents down. Yet later that year, I topped my class in Urdu, and my father surprised me with a plate of jalebi—a sweet reminder that small joys can heal even the biggest disappointments.
After passing my matriculation exams, I enrolled in Government College Faisalabad for Intermediate Commerce (I.Com), completing it in June 2013. The college’s grand banyan trees shaded tall, white walls, and at first, I felt out of place among students from wealthier families. But I balanced lectures on bookkeeping and finance with evening chores and tutoring younger students in commerce, earning enough to help cover rent and bills. I learned that commerce was not just numbers, but a language unlocking new possibilities.
On 25 June 2013, I stood outside our rented home with my I.Com certificate folded carefully in my pocket.
My mother’s eyes shone with tears, and my father’s proud clap echoed louder than any applause. In that moment, I saw how every step—from broken swings to banyan-shaded halls—had led me here.
My journey from 1995 to 2013 is a simple but real story of rented homes and patched shoes, dusty walks and dim study lights, small defeats and sweeter triumphs. I am Muhammad Naqash, shaped by the streets and schools of Faisalabad, living proof that hard work and hope can carry you farther than any map.
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