Today was the third day her balloons didn’t sell. She got tired standing on the road, so she dragged the bag of balloons with small steps towards a broken tap two streets away to drink some water. For three days, no one bought her balloons, and for two days, there was no fire in the stove at home. On the way, she’d dig through the dirty sacks hanging outside the scrap dealer’s shop, find a few pieces of bread, and run away before anyone saw. The scrap dealer in black clothes would chase her, hurling abuses filthier than his own dirty tongue, and throw stones at her. But the little girl, panting and trembling, always escaped.
The next day, her pajama got caught on a stone on the road, and she fell face-first. Scared, she quickly looked back—no scrap dealer. She took a deep breath, rested her head on the ground, and stared helplessly at the scattered balloons. She tried to get up, but dizziness hit her. Then she felt something cold and wet trickling down her ankle. She lifted her face, covered in dust and tears, and looked at the sky.
She remembered—that day, a rich man’s child had fallen. His blood was so clean. Why was her blood so dark? She gathered all her strength, first cleaning the twigs and chicken feathers stuck to her pajama, then wiping the blood mixed with dirt. She was confused—that clean, rich kid’s blood wouldn’t stop, so why was hers clotting like it was at a loss? Nearby, an open gutter made her thankful the bread pieces and balloons hadn’t fallen in—how would she have gotten them out? Curious, she peeked inside, then jumped back in fear.
She survived on scraps, but she was alive. She stood up again to sell balloons. The contractor’s ugly, mustached face flashed in her mind—she still had to pay him his cut. A few days ago, bricks fell on her mother’s feet, leaving her bedridden. Mom had struggled to get work at a construction site, begging the contractor. Out of her daily wages, thirty rupees went to him. Mom had big hopes for those thirty rupees: "Once I get familiar with people, this cut will stop. Then, without the contractor’s reference, if I get daily wages, I’ll save these thirty rupees for your dowry. So much money is being wasted."
She sold balloons all day but never touched one herself. Mom had stitched her a cloth doll from trash baskets, and she played with it. But since the bricks crushed Mom’s feet, she had to come home to feed her. Mom couldn’t even get up. I was saving for your dowry, and now I’m stuck to this cot.
While warming stale bread with oil, she spotted a tiny golden ant. She shook the bread hard, slapped it against the cot to get rid of all the ants.
I told Mom I’ll only get event decor from the same brand Minister Akmal Khan used for his daughter’s wedding. It’s about status, our name matters in this city. I want people to remember this wedding for years. Our outfits must be unique, like something out of a dream. The event should feel like an English reality show, not some desi wedding!
The daughter of London’s top businessman was excited about her wedding in two months. Meanwhile, there was silence—no response. The new commissioner, Zaman Shah, was too busy staring at the dirty little girl playing on the beach outside his window to care about the city’s big event planning.
Mom’s wound was festering. She thought it would heal in a few days, but then her leg started swelling too. On Mom’s orders, Nuri tried everything—turmeric, alum, heating them in a pillowcase—but nothing helped. Mom screamed in pain, and Nuri cried in fear. When she begged the contractor for money, he cursed and shooed her away.
She reached the beach, quickly set the balloons aside. Today, she sold all thirty rupees’ worth. Mom’s words echoed "Now MOM will save for my dowry." The thought made her jump on the sand. When waves crashed, she ran back; when they retreated, she searched for seashells. Today, she found so many. She laughed. Someone had forgotten a pot of biryani and a fruit basket. She was thrilled—she’d take it home, throw a stone at the scrap dealer’s shop, and run, laughing as he hurled abuses.
Zaman Shah watched her from afar. He saw her open the pot, stuff handfuls of biryani into her mouth, then gasp at the fruits. She jumped around, eating and playing. He was happy—he had secretly left those things where she always played.
She happily headed home, the heavy bag of biryani and fruits making her pause to catch her breath. She couldn’t wait to give Mom the thirty rupees so she’d start saving for her dowry.
At the hut, she pushed aside the torn curtain—Mom was asleep. The street dog barked loudly. She threw some biryani at it, then played until evening. When Mom didn’t wake, she called, "Mom, it’s 4 PM, wake up!" No answer. She kept playing. Then she thought, "Mom, why won’t you open your eyes? I brought the thirty rupees! You were always worried about the contractor’s cut, right? Here, take it!
She ate a guava, knowing Mom hadn’t eaten since morning. Last night’s stolen bread, half-eaten and wormy, was all they had. She shook Mom harder. No movement. The flickering bulb scared her. She cried, Mom, wake up, I’m scared!
She remembered the neighbor. But today, everyone was at a wedding feast. She was alone. She looked at Mom’s open eyes—she was silent, not answering. She cried louder. No one was home. Sleep took her as she curled next to Mom.
At dawn, the mosque’s call to prayer woke her. She tried waking Mom again—nothing. The neighbor finally came. Little one, she died last night!
Nuri clung to Mom, wailing. By evening, the men arranged a quick burial—a nameless corpse. She screamed, kicked, cried. The women consoled her. But the next day, the neighbor left for her village.
Nuri was alone. She called for Mom, but the buried don’t return. She sold balloons listlessly, crying into Mom’s clothes at night.
Zaman Shah finally found her. At dawn, she slept hidden under the cot, her arms around the dog. He wished the earth would swallow him. He cried, then gently lifted her into his jeep.
So what if they’re dirty and orphaned? We’ll clean them, educate them. What will we even do with such a big house?
He convinced his fiancée to ditch the wedding splurge and shelter orphans instead. She gasped, What about our status?
To hell with your status!
Zaman hung up. The engagement ring returned, wedding plans canceled. He didn’t stop. Twenty years later, he proudly shared his shelter kids’ achievements.
"You never married your whole life, now why force me? I won’t leave you!"
Nuri, now grown, refused to marry. Who needed parents when this man had given them everything?
People marry to have kids, but I already got you all. Who’d take care of you?
You could’ve dumped us in a hostel!
Zaman’s face paled. He lit a cigar.
When you have kids, you’ll understand—a parent’s pain.
His voice broke. He left. Everyone scolded Nuri. She cursed herself all night—if she hadn’t been born, Mom wouldn’t have died, and Zaman Baba wouldn’t have spent his life alone.
She gave in. She married Omar Ahmed, a new magistrate. The night before the wedding, she opened an old trunk, hugged Mom’s clothes, and cried. She found the thirty rupees Mom had saved. "If only the contractor hadn’t taken it, Mom would’ve had thirty rupees every day."
She tiptoed to Zaman’s room, slipped the money under his papers.
After the wedding, she became a magistrate too. One night, Zaman found the thirty rupees. He understood.
He sat, staring at the ceiling, thinking:
Someone has to step forward to save society. These little saplings must be nurtured—or how will society survive?
The End.
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