The streets of Karachi were full of their usual hustle and bustle. Liyana, perched on her stool at the window in the kitchen of her father’s café, watched the children play cricket in the street, while stopping from time to time for traffic or passers-by. Her weekend afternoons were usually spent here, breathing in the sweet aroma of the cardamom tea her father was making and listening to the murmurs of conversations between the busy workers.

Uncle Hashem was one of her father’s friends and also owned a coffee shop, though a little smaller than her father’s, and also had a daughter a little younger than Liyana. However, Liyana wasn’t like Uncle Hashem’s daughter who helped the waiters. She couldn’t run around taking orders or balancing trays on her head. Liyana used a wheelchair. Polio had struck her when she was a toddler, leaving her legs weak. But Liyana didn’t let that define her. Her mind was sharp, her wit even sharper.

A new family had recently moved into the neighbourhood and their son, Ahmed, was the centre of attention. Ahmed was Liyana’s age, but, unlike the other children who came to play cricket, Ahmed never joined. He mostly sat on the footpath; a frown etched on his face as he watched others.

That day, curiosity got the better of Liyana. She wheeled herself towards Ahmed.

“Why don’t you ever play?” she asked, her gentle voice breaking the silence between them.

“This,” Ahmed’s frown deepened replied and as he gestured at his leg, covered in a metal contraption, “won’t let me play.”

Ahmed had a limp, barely noticeable unless you looked closely. It was then that Liyana also noticed the crutches placed on the side. Yet, it held him back just as much.

“So what?” she said, in a defiant tone, “There are other ways to play.”

Ahmed scoffed. “Like what? Watch everyone run around?”

Liyana generously extended a hand. “Come here,” she said.

Ahmed initially hesitated, and then slowly got up with the help of his crutches. Liyana explained her idea for a modified cricket game, where they could bat and bowl from their chairs, using a lighter ball. They placed two chairs in place of the bowler and the batsman. A wicket was placed and the game started, just the way street-cricket games, without any particular fielder or wicket-keeper.

At first, Ahmed was sceptical. But as the afternoon wore on, their game attracted a crowd. The neighbourhood children, initially curious, were soon cheering them on. Even Ahmed’s frown melted away and was replaced by a wide grin. He looked happier than he had ever been.

News of their game spread. Soon, other families with differently-abled children realised that their kids could also enjoy the simple pleasures of life by using their abilities that were different from those of others. Such families started visiting the café, and their children, who usually stayed hidden indoors, would now have fun on the street outside. Liyana, the girl in the wheelchair, became their leader, their champion. She would gather at the café with her squad of both children who could run and children who could not run, every evening after she was done with her homework. They formed a little league, and their laughter spread through the streets, like a sweet melody that challenged the old ways of thinking.

One evening, a group of older boys, the usual cricket players, approached Liyana. Their leader was a lanky boy with a know-it-all smirk.

He mocked. “This isn’t cricket. This is pathetic.”

Liyana met his gaze bluntly. “Maybe,” she said. “But it’s our cricket. And it’s showing everyone that being different doesn’t mean being less.”

Raza’s smirk faded. The other children, emboldened by Liyana’s words, chimed in, sharing stories of how their friends with disabilities were just as capable, just as awesome. Raza and his group mumbled something and walked away.

Liyana’s street-cricket became a symbol of inclusion and no one dared to challenge them. It was a place where the children’s laughter and friendship brewed stronger than any cup of tea. Their message was clear: show respect, not pity.

Liyana, the girl in the wheelchair, had shown everyone that a certain disability didn’t limit your ability to be extraordinary.

Published in Dawn, Young World, August 3rd, 2024