I am a street child

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I am a street child. The shallow lanes my home. When I was five, my family sold me to a man who claimed to make me a hero. I left my mothers finger and clutched onto the mans, who claimed he could make me earn more and so my family would not have to worry,anymore. He took me into a dark place. Mysterious and gloomy it was. The walls reeked with decay of metal and the floor screamed with pain of its own. He placed me on the floor and soon I was unconscious, but I woke up to knew why the floor screamed of pain for so long. I awoke with broken limbs, I perfectly had them two hours ago. He claimed to make me a hero, made me a crippled zero. It was agony and pain, the sort you would not know. Have you ever just woken up to find, that you will not be walking without sticks anymore? He laughed as I sobbed and saw my deformed limbs-useless on the cold floor. A stabbing pain in my heart- I knew my dreams were broken, alas! An inflicted wound on my existence- I knew I was nothing more than a cripple. "Get used to it", he said And after months of crying I did. My entity died, my hope shattered and I came to the conclusion that I was nothing more than a beggar. I replaced it all with nothingness. Nothing mattered to me anymore. I am a street child. I knock on your fancy car doors. I beg for money. I beg for pity. I beg for change and nothing more. Scorching sun, rainy days, summer, winter and spring are all the same. The shallow lanes are my home. They are my solace. I have friends now, and we are all the same. Playing with our broken limbs and walking sticks. Smoking a cigarette a day. The morning comes and we get ready for work. The night comes and we count the pennies we earned. I am a street child and nothing more. "Sahab jee, kuch paisay he de do."

I am a street child. The shallow lanes my home. When I was five, my family sold me to a man who claimed to make me a hero. I left my mothers finger and clutched onto the mans, who claimed he could make me earn more and so my family would not have to worry,anymore. He took me into a dark place. Mysterious and gloomy it was. The walls reeked with decay of metal and the floor screamed with pain of its own. He placed me on the floor and soon I was unconscious, but I woke up to knew why the floor screamed of pain for so long. I awoke with broken limbs, I perfectly had them two hours ago. He claimed to make me a hero, made me a crippled zero. It was agony and pain, the sort you would not know. Have you ever just woken up to find, that you will not be walking without sticks anymore? He laughed as I sobbed and saw my deformed limbs-useless on the cold floor. A stabbing pain in my heart- I knew my dreams were broken, alas! An inflicted wound on my existence- I knew I was nothing more than a cripple.
“Get used to it”, he said
And after months of crying I did. My entity died, my hope shattered and I came to the conclusion that I was nothing more than a beggar. I replaced it all with nothingness. Nothing mattered to me anymore.
I am a street child. I knock on your fancy car doors. I beg for money. I beg for pity. I beg for change and nothing more. Scorching sun, rainy days, summer, winter and spring are all the same. The shallow lanes are my home. They are my solace. I have friends now, and we are all the same. Playing with our broken limbs and walking sticks. Smoking a cigarette a day. The morning comes and we get ready for work. The night comes and we count the pennies we earned. I am a street child and nothing more.
“Sahab jee, kuch paisay he de do.”

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About Bano

I’m trying to find a better introduction but since, I can’t? Hi! I’m Sheher Bano Zafar and I write. I write not because there lies aspiration to be a writer someday but because, it keeps me sane. I love the color silver, black and grey. I also realize that they fall under the same color tone. Whatever, I write is a result of my 3 a.m blues or insomniac depressive tendencies. I can’t write during the day. I’m addicted to caffeine and well, anything and everything (if I like it). Also, I suck at conversations. I bite my nails. Most of the time I’m clueless about the world around me. I love politics and youth activism. People tell me that art and politics don’t belong in the same mind, but I’m passionate about both. One day I might be drawing on a canvas or writing a story and the very next day I will be heading off to attend a summit on the role of youth at the United Nations. I have multiple people trapped in the same body. Each side does try to express itself, in minimal ways if not fully. I’m currently going through a rough patch in life. I guess, I’m adjusting to the world through multiple perceptions. I absolutely love talking to myself because an expert opinion is always required. Most of the time, I just play scenarios in my mind that would never happen. I’m very contradictory in my thought process and actions but it is okay, people get to be what they want to be as long as no other soul is hurt. Peace out!

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