When the Lights Went Out, The Lessons Didn't Stop | Pakistan

It was one of those long summer evenings in Karachi—hot, sticky, and dark. The city had lost power again, and so had our little academy. No fan, no light, and no hope of it coming back anytime soon.

I glanced at the students sitting in front of me—some had walked miles to attend class at Saeed Academy of Commerce & Economics. They were quiet but not ready to leave. One of them, barely 16, whispered, “Sir, if you teach, we'll still learn.”

So I lit a few candles from the storeroom, placed them on the desks, and picked up the chalk.

We continued the lesson—Accounting I, balance sheets and trial balances—under flickering candlelight. The shadows danced on the walls, but not once did their eyes leave the board. That day, the equations were less about debit and credit and more about resilience and will.

I remember one student saying, “Sir, your voice is clearer in candlelight.”

I smiled. Because in that moment, I realized something: when you teach with heart, electricity is optional.

We finished class 30 minutes late. My shirt was drenched. Their notebooks were filled. And no one complained. They just said thank you, packed up, and promised to return the next day.

That's the spirit we built the academy on. Not on facilities, but on faith. Not on resources, but on relationships.

Teaching, for me, was never just about content. It was about showing young people that no excuse—no darkness—is big enough to dim the light of learning.

Even when the lights went out, the lessons never did.