‘’Amir bhaiya, will our lives always be like this?’’ asked my innocent little brother, sitting cross-legged on the ground facing me.
‘’Of course not Ali,’’ I said meeting his downcast eyes,’’ I will change our life, remember, I promise.’’
I felt sick to my stomach lying outright to Ali that way. He was probably right. Our lives would never change. But I could not tell him that, could not bear the sadness that I knew would overwhelm his face. He was a beautiful child, with chocolate-brown skin, and dark curly hair like Papa’s, falling into his eyes. And his eyes, grey and thoughtful, would crinkle when he smiled, just like Mama’s did when she did, once upon a time, smile.
He smiled now. ’’I know you will’’.
I looked away, not wanting to meet …show more content…
I stroked his soft, curly hair, as his eyelids drooped. I could sense the exhaustion coursing through his veins. His breathing was labored and his heartbeat was slow and steady. I watched the dark circles under his eyes, more prominent than ever before. I, too closed my eyes, knowing that I would not sleep. I would stay awake for Ali, who would, as per routine, scream due to his horrible nightmares every night. I would comfort him when he would cry out, remind him that I was there for him, and that I would fight against the world to protect him. I had nightmares too. Maybe that was another reason I would resist sleep. I dreamt of my papa, who had died three years ago. He was shot by a ghastly man who held a gun fifteen inches long. He killed him in front of me, scarring me forever. My papa died in front of my very own eyes, lying in a pool of blood. I would see his dead body, gruesome and bloody, whenever I drifted asleep. I could not save him, but I would save …show more content…
Ali opened his weary eyes, ready to go off to work.’’ Good morning, Ali,’’ I murmured, stretching my legs. Nodding at me, Ali went inside the broken-down hut a few feet away from where I stood. To meet mama, I knew. But mama never acknowledged him, not once after papa’s death. After he died, mama stopped living. She never smiled and never spoke. Not even to Ali. She would spend her time, laying on a worn-out cotton mattress. Her eyes were always rheumy, bloodshed, and dead, and she frightened me. I had stopped seeing her, but Ali was more insistent. He longed for her to love him, and to hold him when he cried. He never said so, but I knew. He was a little boy who had nothing left in the world. Who could blame him for just wanting a mother who would