“Where are your slippers?” I asked, startled.
The young boy stood before me, balancing two heavy bags of fruit with practiced ease. A woollen cap hugged his head, a jacket wrapped tightly around his thin frame—but his feet were bare, stiff against the winter ground.
“They broken,” he said softly, eyes lowered. “I didn’t have the money to buy new ones.”
His words stayed with me all the way home.
I offered him an old pair of shoes. They didn’t fit. Then slippers—too small again. One pair after another, hope rose and fell between us. Tomorrow was my birthday. I don’t celebrate birthdays, but in that moment, I knew how I wanted to mark the day.
Winter was approaching, and no one should greet it barefoot.
I took him to the local market and asked him to choose a new pair. His face lit up like morning sunlight. After trying a few, he settled on royal blue shoes—his choice, proud and certain. I added a pair of socks, watching him smile shyly as if holding something precious.
“Do you have a blanket or quilt for sleeping at night?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
We walked to another shop. A soft, warm blanket caught his eye. When I handed it to him, his hands trembled—not from the cold this time, but from disbelief.
I did not light a diya on my birthday.
Instead, I tried to light a life.
That night, somewhere in the city, a hardworking young boy slept with warm feet and a warmer heart. And quietly, without candles or cake, my birthday found its meaning.
Pic : Unsplash
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