Three days had passed, and the sorrow in the neighborhood was nearly at an end. The shanty hut at the corner of the slum, into which Bilal's body the five-year-old child had been carried immediately after the catastrophe had lost most of its interest for the curious, although the noses of a few idlers were still pressed against the door in apparent search of something beyond the meager possessions of its poor occupants. Now that the funeral was over, the women, whose windows commanded a view of the house where the dead child had been lying, had taken their heads in and resumed their sweeping and washing. The little child had been devoured by the jaws of death. Although still decked in the dirty finery his mother remained silent, unable to talk, understand, breathe, the poor maid, who toiled to earn a living for a family of seven.
A few days before a dinner-company were gathered at my house. We were people of wealth and leisure, who enjoyed throwing parties for our social acquaintance. The dinner was appetizing, and conversation turned lightly from one subject to another. After a sumptuous meal I walked into my room, where I saw Bilal, the maid’s boy playing with my old mobile phone. There was a glint in his eyes that I had never seen before. My mother followed. Seeing him so engrossed, we both looked at each other. Realizing our presence, Bilal immediately left the phone and ran away. My mother walked over to me and said,” You know this little boy is suffering from a rare disease, his days are counted.”
I was shocked. My mother lovingly advised, “Now that you have got your new phone why don’t you give this one to Bilal.” At that moment I agreed. I put it in my drawers, as it now no longer belonged to me, but Bilal!
In our fast paced society it is easy to lose track of the things. So many burdens clutter our lives that it is often hard to concentrate on anything else. Our relentless routines begin to control our lives before we realize it. Constantly stressing...