Before I turned 10, I lost my parents. I lived alone in a room that a family member allowed me to use rent-free. To support myself, I began to deliver newspapers.
I would be up every morning by 5 am and walk five kilometers to the newspaper office. By 6 am, I would collect 50 copies of Urdu Daily — the bundle (一捆) must have weighed over 5 kilograms. My working area spanned (跨越) 3 kilometers. After distributing (分发) the copies, I would rush home — another 3 kilometers — quickly eat and be off to high school.
One morning when I got home after my deliveries, I found a boy my age at my doorstep. He introduced himself as Afzal and said his father wanted to see me.
I was greeted at the door by Afzal's mother, Naseem. She served tea and snacks as Afzal's father, Mr Kader, joined us.
Later, as I was about to leave after thanking them, Mr Kader asked me to wait. Naseem asked me, "How many miles do you walk every day?"
"A little more than six," I replied.
My reply shocked her. I saw Mr Kader emerge again, wheeling (推) a new bicycle. It was a Hercules, quite expensive in pre-Independence India.
"This is for you!" he said.
It took a few seconds for the love to sink in. It felt warm, like home, as if my mother were there for me. I didn't realize tears were rolling down my face.
Mr Kader said, "Your newspaper editor is a friend of mine. He gave me your address, so I knew you lived close by. Then Afzal told us more about you."
Confused, I asked Afzal how he knew so much about me. His reply surprised me. "Everybody, not just in school but the whole of Kachiguda, does!" he said.
I bowed, gratefully, shook hands with Afzal and left. This time I did not have to walk — I had the bicycle.
The bicycle saved my life for many years thereafter and taught me a life-long lesson: Help should always be need-based. Never try to feed a person who is dying of thirst.
