This story does not seek to blame any institution or individual. It reflects the difficulties an ordinary person may face while seeking justice—and asks a simple but uncomfortable question: who understands the struggle of the person trying to reach the last door of justice?

Sahil was at home when his childhood friend Aslam called.
“Do you recognise me?”
Sahil laughed. “How could I forget your voice? So many years have passed, but it is still the same.”
The conversation soon turned nostalgic. Aslam told him he had been feeling restless and wanted to spend a few days away from home.
“Come over,” Sahil said. “My home is your home.”
The next day, Aslam arrived. They spent two days recalling childhood memories before Sahil decided to show him around.
They visited springs, scenic spots, historic buildings, shrines, mosques, temples and educational institutions. Finally, Sahil said, “There is one more place. A new judicial complex has been built here. It is quite impressive.”
“Then let us see it,” Aslam replied.
The building was indeed grand. But at the entrance, an employee stopped their car.
“Vehicles are not allowed inside.”
They parked outside and walked in.
Inside, however, the grandeur faded. Dust lay in corners. Cigarette butts and empty packets were scattered around, while some places bore signs of neglect. The washroom on the third floor was in poor condition.
Aslam looked at Sahil. “The building looks magnificent from outside. But who is responsible for what happens inside?”
He approached an employee.
“Brother, if someone has a problem here, whom should he approach?”
“I am only a junior employee,” came the reply.
“And if a person seeking justice faces a problem here?”
“For legal matters, there are the judges.”
“And if the problem concerns the management itself?”
The employee paused.
“Then an application has to be submitted to the concerned association.”
Aslam smiled faintly. “So, people come here with problems, and if they face another problem here, they have to submit another application.”
They moved through crowded corridors filled with anxious faces, files and waiting people.
Then Aslam noticed a young man sitting quietly. His eyes were red and his face showed exhaustion.
“What happened?” Aslam asked.
The young man hesitated.
“My father died,” he finally said. “He was the only earning member of our family. He had been seriously ill for a long time.”
“May Allah grant him peace.”
“Ameen.”
The young man lowered his eyes.
“After his death, we needed an important certificate to settle the legal and financial matters he left behind. But the work has not moved forward for months.”
“What happened?”
“First, a document was missing. I arranged it. Then another document was required. Then an identity card, a photograph, a guarantor, a surety bond… every time I return, something else is needed. And every time, there is another date.”
“Did you hire a lawyer?”
“Yes. I paid the fee. There are good lawyers, of course, but sometimes a poor and worried person needs more than representation. He needs someone to guide him through the process.”
Then the young man broke down.
“We have been sleeping hungry for three nights,” he said. “There is no food at home. My mother is ill, but I could not even buy her medicines. Even the fare to come here has to be borrowed.”
Aslam stood speechless.
The young man wiped his tears.
“We are not saying that the law or its procedures are wrong. We understand that documents have to be completed and requirements have to be fulfilled. But when every small deficiency means another visit, another expense and another day lost, where does a poor person find the money and time?”
He paused.
“My father was the breadwinner. After his death, we were already struggling. Now we keep moving from one counter to another, one office to another, one date to another.”
His voice fell.
“The most painful part is that we do not know where to go in the end.”
Aslam had no answer.
As they walked out, he looked back at the magnificent judicial complex. From outside, it still appeared imposing. But what remained in his mind were not its walls or corridors. It was the helpless face of an ordinary man.
“We came to see the beautiful places of your area,” Aslam said quietly. “But today I saw something far more powerful than any building.”
“What?”
“The helplessness of an ordinary person.”
Sahil remained silent.
After a few steps, Aslam stopped.
“If a person faces injustice, he comes to court seeking justice, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And if he reaches this last door and still feels helpless…”
He looked at Sahil.
“Where does he go then?”
Sahil had no answer.
The two friends walked on in silence.
Behind them stood the magnificent court building.
But the question remained:
If the last door of justice becomes difficult to reach, where does an ordinary person go?

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