The Bag Made of Dreams

Twelve-year-old Aman walked the same dusty path every morning—four kilometers from his home to the government school at the edge of town. His slippers were cracked, his feet calloused, but his stride was steady. Strapped across his back was a worn-out rice sack, stitched with red thread at the edges. It wasn't a schoolbag, but to Aman, it carried more than just books—it carried belief.

Inside the sack were his prized possessions: a second-hand math textbook with dog-eared pages, two blunt pencils, one pen with half its ink left, and a stack of crumpled notebooks. Tucked between the papers was a small photo of his father, yellowed with time but still clear enough to remind Aman why he walked this road every single day.

Aman’s family lived in a settlement just outside the city—a cluster of tin-roofed homes where water came once a week, and electricity was more a rumor than a service. His father had died five years earlier in a factory accident. Since then, his mother, Shabana, had worked as a maid, washing dishes and sweeping floors in homes she’d never be allowed to sit comfortably in.

Shabana never went to school. But every night, no matter how tired she was, she asked Aman the same thing:

“Aaj kya naya seekha?” (“What did you learn today?”)

Aman loved answering her. He would talk about long division, about the planets, about the words he’d learned in English: determination, promise, success. Words he repeated in front of the mirror as if casting a spell.

At school, Aman sat at the back. He spoke only when asked. He listened like his life depended on it. When the teacher wrote on the board, Aman copied each word carefully, his handwriting small but precise. His notebooks were precious to him, not to be wasted on doodles or jokes.

The other kids noticed his bag, of course.

“Rice sack boy!” one of them laughed once.

Aman smiled quietly. “It’s not the bag that matters. It’s what’s inside.”

One day, a woman visited their classroom. She wore a neat cotton kurta and carried a clipboard. She was from an NGO, conducting interviews and handing out school supplies to children from low-income families.

When the bell rang, and the children began to scatter, she noticed Aman carefully packing his rice sack.

She stepped closer. “May I ask your name?”

“Aman.”

“That’s your schoolbag?”

He nodded, eyes lowered.

“Why do you come to school every day, even from so far?”

Aman looked up slowly, as if measuring the weight of his answer.

“My father couldn’t go to school. He always said, ‘Mera beta padhega.’ (‘My son will study.’) He used to tell me that one day I’d wear a uniform, carry books, and go places he never could.” He patted his rice sack. “I don’t have a uniform yet. But I have books. That’s a start.”

The woman didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she smiled—one of those rare smiles that don’t fade quickly—and scribbled something on her clipboard.

Two weeks later, something happened.

A truck arrived at the school. Inside were dozens of colorful schoolbags, each one filled with new notebooks, sharpened pencils, erasers, and even geometry sets in plastic cases. The children squealed with joy. Some hugged their bags like toys. Aman stood at the end of the line, quiet as always.

When his turn came, the teacher handed him a sky-blue backpack. Aman took it in both hands. The zippers gleamed. The straps were padded. It even had a small compartment for lunch.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

But he didn’t smile.

The teacher noticed. “Is something wrong, Aman?”

He looked down at the rice sack resting by his feet.

“This bag is very nice. But… that one was mine. I made it. It reminded me why I came.”

The teacher was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Keep both. One for your books. One for your journey.”

That night, Aman placed the rice sack into a cardboard box and slid it under his bed. He tucked his father’s photo into the front pocket of his new backpack. Then, he packed it carefully for the next day.

The following morning, he walked the same road.

New bag on his back. Head held high. Same four kilometers. Same dreams.

A journalist driving by saw him and asked her driver to slow down.

“Who's that boy?” she asked.

The driver smiled. “That’s Aman. The boy with the bag made of dreams.”