The sun rose over the tremendous, open fields where a young man strolled shoeless, his feet solidified by long stretches of stepping on harsh landscape. His garments were worn, his hands calloused, yet his eyes held a flash — a fantasy that would not blur. His name was Harish, and however the world saw him as simply one more shepherd kid keeping an eye on his family's dairy cattle, he viewed himself as another component.
Harish spent his experience growing up in a little town, encompassed naturally and quietness. The main sounds were an intermittent calls of the creatures and the far off gab of different townspeople. He frequently pondered the world past his town — about schools where kids wore regalia, about books loaded up with information, and about individuals who resided in enormous urban communities with tall structures.
He had no cash, no direction, and no thought how to change his predetermination. Yet, he had a certain something — a deep longing to learn. At the point when he saw kids going to class, conveying their packs loaded up with books, he felt an ache of yearning. He would remain outside homerooms, looking through windows, attempting to get a couple of expressions of the examples being educated. He had no note pads, so he jotted letters on the ground with sticks, attempting to show himself how to peruse and compose.
His family didn't figure out his strive after instruction. To them, endurance was a higher priority than dreams. "Books won't fill your stomach," they frequently said. In any case, Harish accepted in any case. He realize that information had the ability to change lives, to break the chains of neediness.
At some point, he made a quiet guarantee to himself: **"I won't allow my conditions to characterize me. I will cut my own fate, regardless of how hard the excursion is."**
That was the start of his battle — a battle against destiny, against restrictions, and against a world that questioned a shepherd kid's fantasies.