Palmist Tawakkul Hussain, Mediacom Trade Center, ground floor, Shah Faisalabad (2025)

05/05/2025

The Day I Didn’t Recognize Atif

It was just another busy day at the industrial exhibition. My stall, nestled among hundreds of others—selling cosmetics, mosquito repellents, and all sorts of things—had drawn its usual curious crowd. People came and went. Some stayed, some asked questions, most showed me their palms and moved on with a spark of wonder in their eyes.

In the rush, a young man stepped forward and extended his hand. I didn’t look at his face—I rarely do when I’m busy. I began reading. His hand revealed many things: his past choices, the kind of person he was, how he approached life. I spoke plainly, focused only on the hand.

When I finished, he paused for a moment, then said with a smile, “Man, look up.”

I did. And I was stunned.

It was Atif—my classmate from junior school, someone I hadn’t seen in years. I blinked in disbelief. “Atif, it’s you? I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you!”

I asked him to sit down properly, stepped outside the stall, and bought some cold drinks for us. It felt like a reunion. But just as I returned to the stall, I overheard his friend whispering to him:
“He definitely recognized you. That’s why his reading was so perfect.”

I smiled quietly.

That moment stayed with me. Not because they doubted me, but because their doubt was actually a hidden compliment. They couldn’t believe I could read someone that accurately without knowing them. But that’s exactly what happened. I hadn’t recognized Atif at all. His hand told me everything—and I had simply listened.

That day reminded me why I do this work. It’s not about memory, guessing, or tricks. It’s about connection, observation, and honesty. And sometimes, the most sincere praise comes from disbelief

02/05/2025

The Martian Girl and the Wooden-Floored Shop

In 1998, I spent a summer in Murree — a tourist hill station in Pakistan where clouds wander through the streets, and every second shop seems to promise either magic or memories. I was a hand reader then, renting a tiny, creaky shop on Mall Road, just above a colonial-era building whose wooden floor moaned like an old man with every step. The shop seemed like it could collapse at any moment, but I loved it. It had character — and a table with two chairs out front where I’d read palms for curious passersby.

Above my shop was the public library. A quiet place with an even quieter librarian who never really liked me. Maybe he thought I was some street magician, or maybe he just didn’t like the idea of hands revealing truths that books sometimes couldn’t. He avoided eye contact. We never exchanged more than polite nods.

One day, while sitting with a neighboring gem seller — a friend of mine — an American girl walked in. She must have been around 18 or 19, beautiful, curious, and full of traveler’s energy. She examined a few stones, and I, ever ready to make conversation, asked her about the rings on her fingers. “Do you know what they mean?” I asked. She didn’t. So I explained — the meaning of each finger, the energy they carry, the language of wearing a ring.

She grew interested. I told her I read palms. She agreed to a reading.

We walked to my wooden-floored shop, where I read her hand with the same honesty I offered everyone. She was surprised — even moved — and we talked more. I told her about hypnosis, and to my amazement, she had already been hypnotized before, during her time studying in China. She was traveling back to America now, but Pakistan had caught her curiosity, and she'd made a detour.

I offered to hypnotize her again, and she agreed. In that quiet session, I took her back — not to some past life, but to a simple, imagined homecoming. I described her parents welcoming her after two years. The scent of the house, the joy in their eyes, the relief, the laughter. It moved her. When I brought her out of the trance, she had tears in her eyes.

I asked, “Did I touch something too deep?”

She smiled, a little embarrassed. “It’s not sadness. It’s just… fear, maybe. Or maybe something else.”

For the next few days, she walked beside me through the streets of Murree. People noticed. A young foreign girl in a local boy’s company — not something you saw every day. She left eventually, as all travelers must. But something had changed.

After she was gone, I walked into the library again. The same librarian who once avoided me suddenly smiled, nodded, and said, “Oh, the Martian boy is here.” I wasn’t sure if he meant Martian as in alien, or martian as in from Murree — but either way, something had shifted. The same people who had ignored me now greeted me. They respected what I did. Maybe it was because she had respected it first.

I wasn’t a magician. I wasn’t special. But in those few days, through an unexpected friendship and a strange kind of acceptance, I became visible.

04/04/2025

From the age of 13, I was fascinated by palmistry—first as a mysterious art, then as a profound science. Over the years, I discovered that hands reveal not just fate, but a person’s state of mind, hidden talents, and untapped potential. Unlike traditional palm readers, I combine palm analysis with psychological insight, acting as a counselor to help people uncover their strengths and navigate life’s challenges. My precision and intuitive guidance have transformed lives with countless clients achieving success by applying my advice. Now, I’m dedicated to helping you decode your unique path—because your hands don’t just tell your story; they hold the blueprint to your growth.

24/03/2025

Celebrating my 12th year on Facebook. Thank you for your continuing support. I could never have made it without you. 🙏🤗🎉

Address

Mediacom Trade Center, Ground Floor
Shah Faisalabad
38000

Telephone

+923009745969

Website

https://premium.chat/Tawakkul

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