Four years ago
Earth, February 2025 – Gokul Town, Sinus Country, Asia
The cold wind slipped through the half-open classroom window, carrying the faint scent of damp soil and distant street food. Outside, sky was pale and washed-out, the kind of blue that made you think the day might end earlier than it should.
"Your final exams begin next week," Teacher Day announced, chalk tapping the blackboard in a rhythm that matched his words. "The school will be closed starting tomorrow so you can all prepare. Don't waste the time."
A ripple of reactions passed through the forty-something students. Some whispered about study plans, others about cricket matches in the empty schoolyard. Most sat upright, scribbling notes as the teacher continued his explanation.
But in the far corner, by the window, Hatim sat still.
His chin rested in his palm, his gaze fixed on the clouds drifting lazily above the town. The sound of the classroom seemed far away — like voices heard through water.
Teacher Day's voice broke through the haze. "Hatim."
No answer.
The boy in front of him — Ramesh, always quick to notice trouble — turned in his seat and muttered, "Oye, Hatim! He's talking to you!"
Hatim blinked and straightened. "Sir?"
"I was talking about the exam," Teacher Day said, folding his arms. "You seem to have found something more important outside the window. Care to share it with the class?"
"Sorry, sir." Hatim stood, eyes lowered.
The truth was, he hadn't been looking at anything in particular. His mind had wandered — not to the clouds, but to the white walls of the hospital room where his mother lay.
It had been two weeks since she was admitted. Two weeks since he'd watched her chest rise and fall with effort, her breaths shallow and uneven. Every evening after school, he visited her, bringing the few things she asked for — her shawl, a thermos of tea, the radio she liked to keep by her bed.
But none of those could fix what was wrong. The doctors had said she needed further treatment, something expensive, something that came with a bill he carried folded in his school bag like a heavy stone.
"Is something troubling you?" Teacher Day asked, his tone softer now. "If there's a problem, you can tell me."
Hatim hesitated. For a moment, it looked like he might speak — but the words caught in his throat. "No, sir. Nothing."
The bell rang, ending the lesson. Chairs scraped the floor, chatter filled the air, and students spilled out of the classroom into the corridor.
Hatim packed his books into his worn bag. The zipper had broken months ago, so he tied the strap in a loose knot to keep everything from falling out.
Ramesh caught up with him at the door. "You've been quiet lately. Everything okay?"
Hatim gave a faint smile. "Yeah, just… tired."
"We're playing cricket tomorrow afternoon," Ramesh said. "Come join us. You can't just bury yourself in books before exams."
"Maybe," Hatim replied, though they both knew he wouldn't. Tomorrow afternoon, like every afternoon, he'd be at the hospital.
Outside the school gates, Gokul Town stretched out in a patchwork of narrow lanes, small shops, and scattered trees that had shed most of their leaves for winter. Vendors called out their wares from carts — roasted peanuts, steaming samosas, paper cones of spiced chickpeas. The air smelled of fried snacks and wood smoke.
Hatim took the familiar path home. The road wound through a crowded residential area where houses leaned close to each other, their walls painted in faded blues and yellows. Women sat outside chopping vegetables, their bright shawls fluttering in the breeze. Children darted between doorways, chasing a battered rubber ball.
"Hatim!" a voice called.
He turned to see Mrs. Amina standing at her doorstep, her hands dusted with flour. She was a plump woman in her fifties, with a voice that could carry over the noise of the street. "I heard about your mother," she said. "I'll send over some food tonight. You need to eat properly too."
Hatim lowered his head in gratitude. "Thank you, Auntie."
She gave him a gentle look. "You're a good boy. But don't try to do everything alone."
He didn't answer, just offered a small smile before continuing down the lane.
At the far end of a narrow, uneven path, his home came into view — a small, old house with two rooms and a kitchen. The walls were a mix of weathered wood and mud plaster, patched here and there where rain had eaten away the surface. The roof sagged slightly on one side, covered in mismatched tin sheets. But the frame was sturdy, and the front door, though it groaned on its hinges, still held strong.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of old wood and dried herbs. The living room could barely hold its low table and two mismatched chairs. Against one wall stood a shelf with their most precious things: a framed photograph of his parents on their wedding day, a brass oil lamp, and a radio that only worked if you hit it just right.
Hatim set his bag down in the corner and sat on his bed, the thin mattress sinking under his weight. From his spot, he could see the faint orange light of sunset spilling in through the window.
His eyes drifted to the shelf where the photograph stood. His father's face looked young, smiling, unaware of how short his life would be. Hatim remembered little of him beyond scattered memories — the sound of his laughter, the rough warmth of his calloused hands.
After his father's death, his mother had carried the weight of everything — cleaning houses, washing clothes, taking whatever work she could find. For years, it had been enough to get by. But when her health began to fail, their fragile stability collapsed with it.
From his bag, Hatim pulled out a folded piece of paper — the hospital bill. The bold numbers at the bottom stared back at him, unchanging, unmerciful. He pressed it flat against his knee, staring at it until the light in the room grew dim.
Outside, the street noises softened. A dog barked somewhere far away. The evening call to prayer rose and faded on the wind.
He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, trying to push away the image of his mother lying in the hospital bed, her hand cold when he held it.
Tomorrow, he would visit her again. And somehow, he would find a way to get the money.
"Money ..where can I get enough money
May be I I have to sell the gold ring of father"
He thought
He didn't want to sell it but he has no other options left.
Thinking about all of this, his eyes turned red and tears welled up."
He wanted asked God, "Why are there so many problems in my life? Why can't I just play and study like everyone else?"
But no one answer