Karmic Reckoning
by Tariq Mirza- Australia
It was a bright and pleasant Sunday morning.
I had just finished breakfast—slowly, deliberately—making the most of the rare luxury that only Sundays seem to offer. A cup of tea still rested in my hand as I stepped out of the dining room and walked toward the chairs arranged in the backyard. I sat down, letting my body sink into the calm of the moment.
Steam rose gently from the cup, carrying a fragrance that intoxicated the senses. The sun had risen not long ago; its warmth was soft and reassuring, stroking the body rather than scorching it. That same golden sunlight shimmered across the grass and plants. Dewdrops clung to the blades of grass, sparkling as though they had grown shy before the sun’s majesty—melting away quietly, surrendering themselves to extinction.
Before me, a pure white tulip stood fully bloomed, as if saluting the sun. Nearby, flowers of countless colors displayed their youthful splendor with unrestrained pride. From the trees in our backyard came the familiar chorus of morning birds—perhaps narrating stories of the night that had just passed.
I found myself wondering why the world appears so beautiful on Sundays—and where this beauty disappears on working days.
Lost in these scenes and my own thoughts, I was suddenly jolted by the ringing of my mobile phone. Annoyed, I glanced at the device, then at the words flashing on the screen: Private Number.
Reluctantly, I answered.
On the other end, a woman spoke in a distinctly Australian accent, addressing me by name and asking for confirmation.
“Yes, this is Tariq Mirza,” I replied.
She said, “I’m calling from the Intensive Care Unit at Prince of Wales Hospital. One of our patients, Chaudhry Mohabbat Ali, has requested to see you.”
I was taken aback. I had no friend by that name. I asked her if she was certain the patient wished to see me, and whether the name she mentioned was correct.
This time, the nurse carefully spelled out my name to reassure me. She also confirmed that my phone number had been provided by the patient himself.
“He wants to see you urgently,” she added. “His condition is quite serious. I strongly advise that you come as soon as possible. If you delay, you may not get another chance.”
I had no idea who this man was. But the nurse’s final words left me little room for hesitation. I got into my car and set off toward the hospital, located on the far side of Sydney. The drive from my home would take no less than forty-five minutes.
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At the hospital, the patient I was taken to see was not Chaudhry Mohabbat Ali.
He was Majid Hussain.
I had known Majid Hussain for a long time—though only superficially. We had never been friends. I had last seen him six years earlier. The man lying before me now bore little resemblance to the Majid Hussain I remembered.
Even six years ago, he had entered old age, but he had been relatively healthy. Now he was little more than a skeleton stretched across a spotless hospital bed, as though presence itself had abandoned him. He was severely emaciated. His eyes had sunk deep into their sockets; his cheekbones jutted out sharply. A sickly yellow hue clung to his face. The blood and flesh seemed to have drained entirely from beneath the skin of his untrimmed white beard.
Everything about him suggested that he was a guest of only a few more hours—or at most, a few days.
The man who had once set out to conquer the world was now preparing to leave it behind, empty-handed.
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I had first met Majid Hussain in 1993, shortly after arriving in Australia. I had gone to the Rosebery office of the Road and Traffic Authority to obtain my driving license. A Sikh friend accompanied me that day—Daljeet Singh—who had traveled from a small town in inland Australia to Sydney for the same purpose.
That meeting turned into a lasting friendship.
As Daljeet and I spoke in Punjabi, a middle-aged man approached us and said,
“I’m from Pakistan. If you’re having any trouble getting your license, or if you need training, let me know. I can help.”
We welcomed the offer, assuming it was a gesture of goodwill—one Pakistani helping fellow newcomers. Later, we would learn that his help was anything but selfless.
That man was Majid Hussain.
He had many professions—this was merely one of them. He did help newcomers obtain driving licenses, but never free of charge. In fact, whenever possible, he would skin his victims alive. He blackmailed his own countrymen, extracting money wherever he could. Illegal immigrants were his preferred prey.
Beyond this, he was involved in numerous other illegal and unethical enterprises—details that would emerge in time.
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Majid Hussain’s true nature revealed itself gradually. In the early days, we lived in the same neighborhood. Though I never became close to him, I developed a friendship with another Pakistani man, Raja Parvez, who shared Majid’s apartment. Whenever I visited Raja Parvez, an encounter with Majid Hussain was inevitable.
Majid tried repeatedly to draw me into his world. He attempted to color me in his own shades, offering justifications for his questionable dealings. According to him, we had come abroad for one purpose alone—to make money. Whether that money was earned legally or illegally was irrelevant in his eyes.
“Collect as much cash as you can,” he would say. “Then go back home and live like a king.”
Raja Parvez and I tried to reason with him. We spoke as friends, appealed to morality, and warned him of the law. Majid Hussain dismissed our arguments with mocking laughter. To him, we were naïve fools.
“When easy shortcuts exist,” he argued, “why waste your life working from morning till evening for a limited income? That’s not wisdom—that’s stupidity.”
Majid possessed a sharp mind. Often, I found myself thinking that had he used his intelligence positively, he could have become wealthy with ease. But for reasons known only to him, he chose the darker path. He had no tolerance for advice and no patience for restraint. Worse still, he tried to turn others into versions of himself.
One thing became clear: Majid Hussain would never change.
I distanced myself from him. When I later moved to another area, all contact ceased.
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Even after we lost touch, stories about Majid Hussain continued to circulate.
Someone said he had opened a driving school. Later, he shut it down and bought a petrol station. Then came a property business, followed by an Indo-Pak restaurant. Six months to a year later, that too disappeared. Afterward, he launched a money exchange and informal remittance operation.
None of these ventures were meant for honest trade. Each business was merely a façade for fraud.
Majid took loans from banks with no intention of repayment. He filed multiple false insurance claims—many of which succeeded. Through forged credit cards, he spent thousands of dollars and discarded them without consequence. He possessed numerous fake documents, the extent of which would only become apparent later.
Over time, he amassed hundreds of thousands of dollars through deception and plunder.
When Majid sensed that the law was closing in on him, he vanished.
His disappearance was timely. Soon after, investigations into his fraudulent activities surfaced. He owed vast sums to financial institutions and businesses. Dozens of taxis under his control had unpaid rent, license fees, and insurance premiums. All vehicles had been purchased through bank loans, with installments long overdue.
Taxi license owners, banks, insurance companies, and radio dispatch offices were left staring in disbelief—while Majid Hussain fled with the money.
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For weeks, newspapers carried reports of his fraud and escape. The most astonishing revelation was that Majid Hussain had been living in Australia illegally—despite extorting illegal immigrants himself.
How he managed to establish businesses under such circumstances remained a mystery. Most likely, the same deception that defined his life had once again come to his rescue.
His urgency to gather money quickly now made sense. He knew his exposure could come at any moment. He wanted to leave before the net tightened completely.
And he did.
With briefcases—perhaps pockets—full, Majid Hussain disappeared.
Time passed. His name faded from conversations. His crimes blurred into the dust of memory.
Then, scarcely a year later, he returned.
No one could believe it.
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During his earlier stay in Australia, Majid Hussain had filed multiple applications for permanent residency. Most were rejected. One application, however, continued processing even after his escape.
A year later, the unimaginable happened.
Majid Hussain was granted permanent residency in Australia.
The news stunned everyone—including Majid himself.
Permanent residency in Australia is no trivial achievement. Some people spend their entire lives chasing that dream, only to fail. Others lose thousands of dollars to lawyers and migration agents, yet never succeed.
For migrants from Pakistan, India, and many other countries, Australian residency represents more than a legal status—it secures the future of generations. Economic security, safety, freedom, democracy, and dignity are all contained within that single document. Even retirement pensions, housing support, and healthcare are bound to it.
Majid Hussain understood all of this.
But he also knew what awaited him upon return.
The law.
And the victims he had robbed.
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After extensive consultation with lawyers, Majid decided to return to Australia. He knew he could not escape justice—but he also knew that financial crimes often carried limited punishment. As for repayment, the money no longer existed.
As expected, he was arrested at the airport upon arrival. Weeks later, he was released on bail. The case dragged on. Majid remained unconcerned.
As a permanent resident, the government provided him a lawyer. He began receiving unemployment benefits and housing assistance. Some companies pursued the case half-heartedly. Eventually, Majid was sentenced to six months in prison.
He had anticipated this.
Australian prisons are not places of misery. For Majid, even those six months felt indulgent. Upon release, life seemed almost generous. Government housing, welfare support, and the clean, secure Australian environment awaited him.
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Majid settled in a government-provided apartment in Surry Hills, close to Sydney’s city center. He was now over sixty years old. Retirement pension followed.
He spent six months of each year in Pakistan and the remaining six in Australia—carefully balancing his stays to ensure his pension remained uninterrupted.
For a long time, I had no contact with him.
People spoke of him occasionally. He had many acquaintances, but no friends. He visited no one and invited no one. His reputation ensured distance.
Six years ago, I encountered him again—by chance—outside the Surry Hills Islamic Centre after Friday prayers.
Time had passed, but Majid Hussain remained unchanged.
Despite his age, he appeared sharp and agile. The familiar sarcastic smile lingered. He still looked at the world—and those within it—as inferior beings, lacking intelligence and courage.
When he saw me, he said,
“How are you? It’s been a long time.
We met outside the mosque.
The Friday congregation had just ended, and worshippers were dispersing—some lingering in quiet conversations, others slipping back into the routines of life. Majid Hussain stood there as though time had never touched him. When he saw me, the same familiar confidence surfaced in his eyes.
“How are you?” he asked casually. “It’s been a long time.”
I replied politely. We exchanged a few formal words. He invited me for tea at a nearby café. Out of courtesy—and perhaps curiosity—I agreed.
As we sat across from each other, Majid spoke at length. He spoke of Australia, of the system, of how easily it could be manipulated if one possessed intelligence and courage.
“This country rewards the clever,” he said with a grin. “And punishes only the foolish.”
I listened silently.
He spoke of Pakistan with disdain—its chaos, its people, its corruption—yet spoke of his own corruption with pride. According to him, morality was nothing more than a tool used by the weak to console themselves.
“Life is short,” he said. “Take what you can. In the end, no one asks how you earned it.”
I asked him a simple question.
“And peace?” I said. “Do you sleep peacefully?”
For the first time, his smile hesitated.
“Peace?” he scoffed. “Peace is for those who fail. I sleep very well.”
But something in his eyes betrayed him.
We parted soon after. As he walked away, I felt no anger toward him—only a strange heaviness. It was as though I had just witnessed a man who had outrun society, the law, and even people—but could never outrun himself.
That was the last time I saw Majid Hussain in good health.
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Six years passed.
Then came the phone call.
The hospital room was silent except for the steady hum of machines. Tubes and wires surrounded Majid Hussain like the final cords binding him to life. When he opened his eyes and saw me, a faint flicker of recognition appeared.
“You came,” he whispered.
I pulled a chair closer.
“You asked for me,” I said. “I came to see why.”
For a long moment, he stared at the ceiling. His breathing was labored. The man who once boasted of conquering systems now struggled to draw air.
“I am dying,” he said finally.
I said nothing.
“I have many visitors,” he continued. “Relatives. Acquaintances. People who come to see whether I am truly finished.”
He paused, then added,
“But no one to talk to.”
His voice trembled.
“I need to speak,” he said. “Before it ends.”
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Majid began to speak—not hurriedly, but as though every word carried weight.
“I have lived exactly as I wished,” he said. “I took risks. I took money. I deceived people who deserved it—or so I told myself.”
He turned his head toward me.
“But now, everything is meaningless.”
He spoke of sleepless nights, of faces that returned to him in dreams. People he had cheated. Families he had ruined. Prayers he had mocked.
“I thought conscience was a myth,” he whispered. “But it waits. Patiently.”
Tears formed in his sunken eyes.
“I am afraid,” he said. “Not of death—but of what comes after.”
For the first time, Majid Hussain—who had feared nothing—was terrified.
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Then came revelations I had never imagined.
Majid had married twice—once in Pakistan, once in Australia. Neither family knew of the other. From both marriages, he had children.
“In Pakistan, they think I am a respectable man,” he said bitterly. “In Australia, they believe I am alone.”
He had provided money, but never presence. He had given shelter, but never love.
“My children do not know me,” he said. “And soon, they never will.”
He tried to lift his hand but failed. His fingers trembled.
“All my life,” he said, “I believed control was power. Now I cannot even control my own breath.”
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He looked at me with desperation.
“Tell me,” he said, “was I wrong?”
The question hung in the air.
I did not speak as a judge. I spoke as a witness.
“You gained everything that can be counted,” I said gently.
“But you lost everything that counts.”
Tears rolled down his face.
“Is it too late?” he asked.
I did not answer directly.
“Regret,” I said, “is meaningful only when it changes something. If not in this world—then perhaps in the next.”
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Two days later, Majid Hussain died.
There were no crowds at his funeral. No tears of loss—only formalities. People came, offered prayers, and left. His wealth had vanished long before he did.
He left behind documents, disputes, and unanswered questions. Two families would mourn him differently—each unaware of the other’s existence.
And I was left with a story.
A story of a man who believed he had outsmarted fate—only to discover, at the very end, that fate had been patiently waiting.
________________________________________
Life keeps its own accounts.
Some debts are collected by courts.
Others by conscience.
And some—by time.
Majid Hussain had escaped the law more than once.
But he never escaped himself.
(Tariq Mirza is a Sydney-based writer whose literary contributions span travelogues, short stories, and scholarly research)
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