The Cosmonaut Chronicles: Planet Pakistan, “Walking on Air, Tea in Hand”
It was a bright morning in Islamabad, or at least as bright as a city could get when half its population had decided traffic rules were just “polite suggestions.” The Cosmonaut sat cross-legged on a cloud—not a metaphorical one, but an actual cloud, drifting slowly above the Faisal Mosque. His tea cup hovered obediently beside him, steaming like a locomotive.
“Ah,” he sighed, “this is the perfect spot to review gravitational theory over a cup of chai.”
Gravity, of course, had long given up trying to apply itself to the Cosmonaut. It wasn’t that he had invented anti-gravity boots or a flying machine. No, this was a gift, a quiet whisper of permission from Allah that said: “You may walk where others fear to fall.”
Down below, a group of amused children pointed skyward.
“Uncle! How are you flying?” one boy shouted.
The Cosmonaut smiled. “I’m not flying, beta. I’m just walking with extra confidence.”
This answer seemed perfectly reasonable to the children, who returned to their cricket match. One boy hit the ball so hard it disappeared into another dimension—an entirely normal event in Planet Pakistan, where physics often took tea breaks.
Later, the Cosmonaut stepped off the cloud and strolled casually across Rawal Lake. Ducks paddled past him, nodding politely. People on the shore stared in disbelief, dropping their samosas.
A reporter, scrambling for an exclusive, yelled, “What technology are you using? Is it American? Chinese? Alien?”
“No, no,” chuckled the Cosmonaut, “it’s Pakistani—powered by dua, yaqeen, and a healthy breakfast of parathas.”
The reporter fainted.
That afternoon, he decided to test dimensional travel. He closed his eyes, recited a verse of Qur’an softly, and imagined Lahore’s Badshahi Mosque. In less than a blink, the city appeared around him: fragrant kebabs sizzling on roadside grills, the hum of rickshaws, and the laughter of families strolling in the evening breeze.
An uncle at a food stall gawked. “Bhai, you came here poof! Like a WhatsApp message!”
The Cosmonaut winked. “Unlimited data plan, courtesy of Allah.”
As he travelled across Planet Pakistan—Karachi’s sea breeze, Multan’s mango orchards, the snowy peaks of Hunza—he realised something profound: space was not a barrier for those who remembered Allah at every step.
And yet, every journey was wrapped in humour. He slipped on a goat’s tail in Gilgit, was mistaken for a drone in Gwadar, and once materialised in a classroom mid-lecture, where a teacher sighed, “Even space travellers can’t escape parent-teacher meetings.”
That evening, perched on a mountaintop, the Cosmonaut reflected:
“True travel is not measured in miles, but in the hearts touched along the way. A righteous servant doesn’t conquer distance; he transcends it by permission of the One Who owns all directions.”
With that, he vanished again—not into the sky, but into another pocket of dimension, smiling at the thought of his next adventure: visiting Saturn’s rings to set up a chai dhaba.