Chapter: 1 From Poverty to Purpose
There was a small boy from a very poor family, not the kind of poor people talk about casually, but really poor. The kind where every day feels heavy.
They lived in tents, thin ones, clothes tearing from the sides. When the wind came, the whole place started shaking like it might fly away any second. There was no electricity, the nights were dark, not soft-dark… but deep, empty, dark.
No water system, no proper place for a toilet, just open land and dust everywhere, always dust. It stuck to skin, to clothes, to breath, and they never stayed long.
Every few weeks, men would come with their voices loud, angry faces. Government people, or maybe development authority… the boy never really knew. They used big words. “Illegal encroachment.” He didn’t understand it fully. But he understood one thing clearly—
It meant leave, again.
So they packed fast like they were used to running, no questions, no arguing just move.
Morning started early in that life before sunlight properly reached the ground. His mother would wake him up. Gently… but with tired hands.
“Utho…” (wakeup)
He would sit up slowly, eyes still heavy, body not ready, but he never complained. There was no space for that. Breakfast was small, sometimes dry roti, sometimes tea, and sometimes… nothing at all. Still, they called it. breakfast, then they walked.
Long roads. Dusty paths. Until the city started changing. Big houses appeared. Clean streets. Quiet walls. A different world. One that did not belong to them.
The boy carried an old, torn sack almost as big as he was. They searched through the garbage papers, plastic and bottles. Anything they could reuse or sell. He learned quickly what had value and what didn’t. Small hands working fast.
People passed by, some looked at him, some didn’t, and most just ignored him like he was part of the trash he was picking.
The sun grew harsh as the day moved heat pressed down on his head, his feet burned, his hands turned rough and dirty, but he kept going.
He had to because he had no choice.
Evening came slowly they returned with whatever they collected. Sometimes the sack was full, and sometimes it felt too light.
They sold everything for a few coins. Never enough, but enough to get through one more day, and that was life. Same routine, same struggle, no change, no pause, just survival.
Breaking the Cycle
Sabir.
That was his name, simple. He is the eldest son of nine siblings behind him, nine mouths, nine needs too much for one small boy. In his world, kids don’t stay kids for long.
They work. He was expected to work no discussion. no choice. Like others around him, he woke up, went out, and earned something.
School? No, not for them, but Sabir… he was different, quite different. Words on a piece of paper made him curious. He wanted to know about them. Strange thing to want in that life, almost useless, people would say, but the feeling stayed, didn’t go.
Sometimes he slowed near schools a little, looking inside, children sitting, clean, laughing, holding books like they matter.
Books…
He didn’t understand them fully, but he knew they had power, something big inside them.
At home, no one really listened to this or maybe… they couldn’t.
His mother cleaned houses all day, her hands always in water and tired. Her voice is low, her back bent.
His father drove a donkey cart, load after load, dust in his face, the sun on his head, the same road and the same struggle.
They worked hard. Still… money never stayed. It came and then was gone, not enough for food and small things. Everything eats money fast.
There was no space for dreams, not this kind. Sabir knew it. He wasn’t stupid.
Still… the wish stayed. Then there was another thing quite bigger.
His ancestors were from a Hindu scheduled caste. Then the partition happened. They became Muslim but life didn’t change much. Names changed, prayers changed, but people didn’t.
Sabir felt it. He looked from a distance at how people spoke… or didn’t speak.
“My community…” he once said, slowly, unsure, “…we are like untouchables.”
He didn’t know all of history, big words, or big politics.
But he knew the feeling of being less, being pushed aside without saying it directly.
Being there… but not really seen.
So he walked.
Same sack on the shoulder.
Same streets under his feet.
Same dream inside him.
A dream that didn’t fit his world.
Still… it refused to die.
(Wait for the next to fulfill your curiosity)
Don't miss Chapter 2
