Curiosity of a Child

Little was I aware about the problems that awaited for me when I choose Accounting subject in my A’Levels. No matter how hard I studied, it made no difference.

With my head buried in my hands I saw the ” F ” grade on my mock examination paper, still mischievously glaring back at me. I was stuck. Tears welled up in my eyes and silently coursed down my cheeks. I was tired of trying. I quit. Grabbing my coat, I left my house with that thought encircling the core of my  mind. Undecided of my destiny I walked till the time I could fell pain in my legs due to formation of lactic acid and entered Bonjour Café.

As I entered, I could smell the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, deliciously baked cookies, and carefully toasted sandwiches. Amid this bustling environment sat a little six year-old boy. His eyes curiously searched for something new. His face lit up when the waiter served two cups of coffee to the man and women–probably his parents–sitting beside that child. Unable to hold his curiosity he glimpsed inside the cup and was taken up with the desire of touching that brownish liquid. Only after fulfilling his desire did he realize that the liquid was hot. Without paying sheer attention to his mild burn, he looked out of his side window.  Soon he started to jump up and down , waving his arms:

” Airplane! See mom, Airplane!”

Her mother, older and wiser, somewhat felt exhausted by the child’s enthusiasm.

“Okay dear, okay it’s a airplane.” She said unimpressed, “Now sit still in your chair, Mike”


Mike lowered himself in his chair and appeared to mutter to himself. He was upset just like me. This is how I felt, like a failure. Despite being passionate about studying Accounting, I successively kept failing class tests. What followed next surprised me. This time little Mike came up with an innovative idea for learning. He carefully observed the class of water placed right in front of him, and finally came to the conclusion that something could be done to it. Slowly he grabbed the pot of brown sugar without his parent’s realization and added few teaspoons to that half filled glass with water. Later came some Ketchup and white sugar. In the end, Mike also managed to sprinkle some Black pepper on his newly invented cocktail.

Mike’s face contort as he took a sip of his new invention, definitely he was disappointed at the failure of his experiment. Unable to hold back my laughter, I busted out.

This little guy taught me something that I had long forgotten. Life was not about quitting, it was rather about learning. As we grow up we enter a zone of ” What’s known before, and what’s done before” , we stop to acknowledge the life lessons around us and only concentrate on our textbook lessons. Since we have a adaptive nature as human beings, we develop a chain of instructions in our brain maps and follow them unquestionable. These are called Habits. But in doing so we forget to LEARN and to recall the fact that in order to learn we first must fail. That is how we learned to walk, only after falling a thousand time and hurting our-self.



I’m Bored!

” I’m bored is a useless thing to say. You live in a great, big, vast world that you have seen 0.00087 percent of. Even the inside of your own mind  is endless; it goes on forever, inwardly. The fact that you are alive is amazing, so you do not get to say ‘ I’m bored’. ” says a writer, highlighting the importance of life as though he knew deep insight of life of every person, and believed that it is same for all. Since life defers for every person, the way we look at it is also different. I personally think that there is no harm in saying that “I’m bored” , for one can not realize the importance of enjoying until he or she has tasted the bitter reality of being bored. I acknowledge the fact that the world around us is magnificent, but what we do is silently wriggle in our bed, pull the quilt over our head, take a small yawn, and sleep.  In spite of  being part of this world, we fail to notice how incredible things around us are. Neither do we live ourselves, nor do we allow others to live. Due to being consumed in our tiny, cozy apartment of worries, we fail to crane our heads and witness the marvels outside.

At the end of the day, ” Life is not the way it looks, rather it’s the way we see it.” ~ by Murk Sindhya. Only if we change the way we see the world around us, we would start to realize that life is beautiful, and garnished with some freshly chopped troubles and problems to enhance this short experience.

The Purpose

” Orphans are easier to ignore before you know their names; they are easier to ignore before you see their faces. It is easier to pretend that they are not real before you hold them in your arms, but once you do everything changes.” I read the quote written on the sign-post before the entrances of my orphanage, reminding myself the purpose of my short life.

That day as I entered, children came running to me in full speed. I was surrounded by high-pitched greetings, shrill voices, clutching and jostling with one another to climb into my arms. There were out-stretched little hands and appeals for attention. Some of them would call me amma ( Mother, in Sindhi language); I never corrected them. Far away I saw something: a young girl lying on floor of inner court yard. No sooner did I realized that it was not only one girl, rather two females. Beneath her was a women drawn with unclean choke lines — sketch of her late mother.

I still remember the day my life changed. That school afternoon it rained heavily, thunder grumbled and rain drops reported for duty. A gust of wind blew that parted the drooping branches of weeping willow tree. I caught a glimpse of what was under the tree: the stright-backed chair turned over, a rope dropping from a high branch, and my mother dangling at the end of it. That day I lost everything . The pain and sorrow shattered me.

I was taken to my Aunt’s home. The house was massive with breath- taking spectacular interior and exterior designs.

“How long is your nephew going to live here?” my uncle’s voice cracked with anger.

“We can’t leave him alone in…” my aunt replied in a meek voice.

“This is not an orphanage!” my uncle’s face turned the color of molten lava and his fist came down on the table with a loud bang.

“Your house is big enough to accommodate me, but your heart isn’t!” I stamped my foot in anger.

“How dare you-” my uncle’s eyes flashed bolts of lighting. With hands trembling from anger, he slapped me hard.

With tears streaming down my cheeks, I stormed out of the house unaware of where I was going. I recalled the day my teacher slapped me; my cheek turned red and warm. Sobbing my heart out I narrated the incident to my mother. I still remember quiet vividly my pain vanishing, as my mother ran her soft hand over my cheek. What am I going to do next? First father and now mother…both left me alone in this world. Struggling with these thoughts, I turned a corner and entered a street. I saw swallows swooping and circling overhead; I was envious of their freedom. Soon I heard a gaunt,old man with an toothless smile informing an other man that a new airline company was selling there tickets on discounted rates. As soon as I heard that offer, I knew what to do.

I paced around the room clenching and unclenching my fists, then I lowered myself in the rocking chair with blank face, and eyes glued to the alarm clock and my suitcase. At precisely 5:30 am my alarm clock sprang to life. Grabbing my few belongings and some money, I left without informing my aunt or uncle. Cold sweat trickled down my forehead when I bought the ticket and finally departed on my flight–flight to freedom. What followed next was hard labour and sleepless nights, but I never regretted getting on that plane. My long awaited happiness came soon after I was hired in an orphanage, to do something significantly close to my heart.

I tried to scoop the girl from her sketched-mother’s lap. She protested. She kicked.

“Come to me, dear!” I whispered. She relaxed herself and allowed me to take control. Tears welled up in my eyes, as I buried a pair of hands under her armpits and raised her from ground. With the girl in my arms, I made my way to the garden. Outside the sun was like glorious conflagration, blazing with fabulous red and yellow colours. That massive sphere reminded me of one of my heart reports: it clearly showed a couple of arteries, veins, and chambers, and announced that I had a life-threatening disease.

“You would live no more than a few years.” I heard the doctor saying, but I cared not. What I only cared about were these orphans.

Until now I thought I provided the children with what they needed. Little did I realize that the fight was not for providing them with shelter or bread, rather ‘love and affection’ — which are difficult to afford.

I let the girl cry in my lap until there were no more tears left in her eyes.


The track was flanked on either side by knee-high grass, which snaked uphill to a flat field where wild bushes grew in clusters and amid all that stood my old house. I vaulted over the obstacles that now laid in front of my house. No sooner had I reached the garden that the entrance door flung open. The double swinging door opened into a tiled lobby where my childhood photos were encased in glass displays. There was a picture in which my father was holding me in his arms, and beside him stood my ugly one-eyed Mother — whom I hated the most. Hurtful memories flashed my mind, as I saw her disgraceful face.

“Once again she came to my school!” I gritted my teeth in anger, my face contorted with rage and fury, ” She always does that to make me feel embarrassed. I hate her!”

“Dear do not utter such words about your mother.” Mullana Zafarullah said, trying to pacify me.

Mullana Zafarullah was my teacher. The one who taught me to read. He was the one who patiently looked over my shoulder as my lips mispronounced the words, and my index finger lingered beneath each word, pressing until my nail bed went white as if I could squeeze out the meaning out of those symbols. It was easier to share anything with Mullana Zafarullah than to anyone else.

“All of my fellows were laughing at me, Mullana sahab, as they got to know that she was my mother… I wish I could run away only then shall I find comfort in life.” I said, my voice dwindling to a velvety timber, almost a whisper.

“No! No my child! Your mother is the most precious gift by Allah, and one day you shall realize that.” Mullana Zafarullah said cupping my face with his old, wrinkled hands.

Today, it have been twenty years since I ran from this house. Now as a successful business man in a foreign country, life again bought me back to this house. Struggling with these

thoughts, I stumbled in something. A piece a paper fell on the ground. “To my son” it said in a neatly written hand-writting. A letter! What is it about? Tears streamed down my face as I read it:

Dear son,

I hope you would be leading a beautiful life aboard with your family. I think about you all the time, grazing at your childhood photos. I am sorry for being a reason of embarrassment to you.

Long ago, when you were only three-year old, you lost your eye due to an infection. As a mother, I could not bear the pain of watching you grow with one eye. I gave you mine.

I’m glad that today you can see the marvelous world for me, in my place, with that eye. I always pray for your. May God bless you.

With love,

Your mother

Grief, remorse, and depression covered me like a thick checking blanket, after I completed that letter. With tears running uncontrollably down my cheeks, I knelt down and cried: “I have always been such an unfilial son! Forgive me Mother! ”

But it was too late for forgiveness. Outside, wild wind blew, slamming shut the windows and scattering dry leaves everywhere. For a moment I stood still, listening carefully, as if there were melodies to be heard — my childhood melodies with my mother.