Striding across the road with the handle of my olive green sling bag swaddled around my right shoulder, I bumped into a lad with soft brown hair and bushy brows. As he pulled my ravishing red silken suit, looking straight into my eyes with his crazily fascinating ones, my memory of the 7-year-old whom I had met a couple of days ago got jogged.
As the sun went above the horizon on the 10th of July in degrees, enveloping the sky with hues of positivity, perching myself down on a couch, I went through the columns of the “TOI” with my horn-rimmed glasses on. A couple of minutes had worn on when I heard a puerile voice shrieking “Paper lelo” at the top of his lungs. As I peeped to catch a glance at the frame of the puerile voice, I was astounded to see a lad with his arm swaddled around a stack of newspapers. Descending the stairs down, as I advanced towards him and my eyes met his virtuous dark brown ones, grinning like a Cheshire Cat, mellifluously, he said, “Didi, mein Jamal. Ek paper lelo na, Maths ka book khareedna hai.” As I stared at his virtuous eyes without nictitating for a second, I could see a million of dreams in them and a scad of hardships that the engaging grin camouflaged. Clenching to the newspaper which I had got for a five, I trudged back and to cherish my special meeting with him till my last breath, I had inked down,
“Dear Jamal, the human version of “ASPIRE TO INSPIRE BEFORE YOU EXPIRE”, thank you for casting an indelible impact on my life by stimulating me to hurtle after my dreams irrespective of the hardships.”
Fastening my letter for Jamal to the newspaper, I placed it on one of the shelves of my cupboard to treasure the memory till my last breath.