Gudia’s Prayer: A Child’s Hope for Her Friend Guddu

Gudia’s Prayer

BY:Khan

I am Gudia. Right now, I am sitting in the long, silent corridor of a hospital. The floor beneath me is cold, and so is the air around me. It feels like the whole world has fallen asleep, except for me and the sound of my own thoughts.

I know my mother must be worried at home. I never returned last night, and she must be pacing, waiting, maybe even crying. In the morning, when I finally go home, she will scold me, perhaps even beat me with the corner of her dupatta the way she does when she is angry. And I will take it silently, because I know she is worried out of love.

But how can I leave? How can I go home when Guddu is lying here in this hospital, fighting for his life?

Maybe you don’t know who Guddu is. How would you? Let me tell you. Guddu is not just a friend—he is my secret-keeper, my laughter, my world. He is the one who buys me small pieces of roasted corn from the street, who treats me to a kulfi when the heat becomes unbearable, who listens to me when no one else does.

But let me tell you how we first became friends.

One afternoon, my mother sent me to the market to buy vegetables. On the way, I saw Guddu sitting outside his house, selling candies. I wanted one so badly. I asked him, “Please give me a candy. I’ll bring the money tomorrow.” He didn’t ask questions, didn’t frown. He just smiled and handed me a candy without taking a single coin.

That was the beginning. After that day, we were always together.

Our neighborhood is dirty, filled with garbage dumps at every corner. The air often smells of rotting food, and stray dogs fight over scraps in the alleys. But somehow, in that ugliness, our friendship blossomed.

Guddu and I would sit near the railway crossing, right by the old iron gate where trains would thunder past. He would count the coins he earned from selling candies, his small hands moving carefully as if every coin was a treasure. And I would chatter endlessly—about my school, my mother, my dreams. He would listen, smile, and sometimes laugh out loud.

Life was simple, even if the world around us wasn’t.

But then came the day everything changed.

We were walking home together, chatting as usual, when we came across one of those garbage piles. We tried to walk carefully, stepping around it, but in the blink of an eye, something sharp hidden inside the trash pierced Guddu’s foot. He winced in pain. Blood began to flow from the wound, staining the dust beneath his feet.

I quickly tore a strip from my dupatta and pressed it against his foot to stop the bleeding. Guddu tried to laugh it off, pretending it was nothing, but I could see the pain in his eyes.

After that day, he was never the same.

He started falling sick more often. His laughter faded, his energy drained. His mother took him to the hospital, and then came the words that no child should ever hear: “He has AIDS.”

At first, I didn’t understand what that meant. All I knew was that the doctors whispered as if they carried bad news, and people began to look at Guddu differently, as if he was carrying a shadow that could spread.

But I knew only one thing: Guddu was my friend. And friends don’t leave each other behind.

Now I sit here on the cold floor of the hospital corridor, praying with all my heart. I press my hands together tightly, whispering every prayer I know.

“Please, God. Don’t take Guddu away. Please don’t let him die.”

Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I believe that if I keep praying hard enough, if I keep believing, then maybe a miracle will happen.

Maybe Guddu will open his eyes tomorrow, smile at me, and say, “See, Gudia? I told you I won’t leave you.”

I believe in that hope. I must. Because what is friendship without hope?

Dear children, if you are reading my story, I want to ask you something. Please whisper a prayer with me. Say it softly, in your heart: “Gudia’s Guddu will live. He will not die.”

Because when many hearts pray together, miracles can happen.

I know life is cruel sometimes. Our world is full of dirt, pain, and poverty. Children like Guddu and me are often forgotten. But in the middle of all this, love still exists—love in the form of friendship, kindness, and loyalty.

That is why I believe Guddu’s story will not end here.

Yes, maybe the doctors have given up. Maybe the neighbors whisper that his days are numbered. But I believe differently. I believe that prayer is stronger than fear, and friendship is stronger than disease.

So I sit here through the night, on the cold hospital floor, waiting for dawn. The world sleeps, but I stay awake. Because somewhere in that room, on that hospital bed, my best friend is fighting for his life.

And I will not leave him alone.

Not tonight.
Not ever.