My hut keeps burning throughout the night, until it burns into ashes. I keep staring it so as to mind myself about the restless life that is to just going to begin…

It did begin but not now, a few years back, when I was alone. The shadows of my dear ones were also there with me. The dead leaves, the fallen dews and the dried rivers were also there. Nothing lacked but sorrows or everything lacked but happiness.

The clouds did not seem to justify with the rain, they let it shower at odd times. Just like the world that unjustified with me when placing me in a slum instead of a palace with its luxurious life. The girl in that car locked by tainted glass did not seem to be happy whereas if I were in her place, I would have driven away, in a place where everything would be just as I wished.

My wishes, my desires and my dreams are like that because I am a street survivor. An individual, who has nothing but dreams, nobody but himself, no life but death, a dead life. Nothing to eat or drink till mere miracles shine over my darkened life, fills my emptied stomach with meal and my broken heart with happiness enough to encourage me living, or rather surviving for another day.

Such mentality belongs only to the ones who encounter life and death closely; struggle for life against death; struggle with every moment that comes through, to survive, to exist.

Each morning in my life would arrive with full of uncertain adventures. And I would start my day with the same dubious look, uncertain of the adventures that I have to go through. I call them adventures because when looking for meal, I go through things I can never expect.

I and my family would wake up at the latest possible time because they say- “the early worm gets eaten by the bird, so sleep late”. And then start our day with a live toad in order to ensure that nothing worse happens for the rest of the day.

But the worst things never stop happening in the lives of street survivors like us, especially that day when I was selling roses in the middle of the traffic road. A black car stopped by my side and in it two young girls were chatting with each other. It seemed like I interrupted them when asking them to purchase a dozen of roses that were dying in my sweated hands. I knew that I was annoying them and continued to do so in case I do not miss the very last piece of bread left at home before somebody else grasps it.

What I mistook to consider anyway was the car driver, who no longer obscured himself from my dark, cordial eyes. He got down with full arrogance from that huge black car as if both the car and the road belonged to him. He then slapped me with his rough merciless hand. I instantly fainted down on the middle of the street and when came back to senses, found it busy with millions of transports driving over my 12 pieces of roses, which are now torn into million pieces and drifting away. The very first thought that struck my head then was about the endless time that I have to bear to drift away like these roses from this ruthless world. I believed that life hereafter is no less than a beautiful garden with all great comforts one can ever have. There must be no struggling for life, survival, existence and no merciless human beings.

Finally when I got back home late at that night wandering aimlessly, everything was unclear and everywhere was filled with darkness. Far away was a light diminishing now and then. I tried to give that a closer look and when took my steps forward, what I saw was better not to be seen. It was unexpected indeed, like one of the uncertain adventures I keep talking about all the time.

The bodies of my dear ones are burning on that fire, lit by the furious people whom we had borrowed cash from. I was staring at it, hardly letting any tears drop by my cheeks. That does not mean I am not sad, I was numb to witness this act of brutality. I stood there for all night long in a stagnant posture and watching my little hut that keeps burning throughout the night, until it burns into ashes. I keep staring it so as to mind myself about the restless life that is to just going to begin…


Is it time yet to start thinking about the lives and fates of the children in the streets, who struggle each day to survive?

(Photo: Collected from the Web)


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s