The Candle and the Dawn

By Habib

In the small village of Shahbazpur, where the evenings fell quiet except for the hum of crickets and the soft murmur of the wind through the wheat fields, lived a boy named Amir. Amir was fifteen years old and the eldest of four siblings. His father tilled a small piece of land on the outskirts of the village, and his mother stitched clothes for the villagers to earn extra money.

Amir’s life was simple chores in the morning, school in the afternoon, and more chores in the evening. When the sun set, most children played in the narrow streets until their mothers called them in for dinner. But Amir had a different routine. After dinner, when his brothers and sister lay snuggled under a single quilt, Amir would light an old, half-melted candle and open his books.

He had a dream: to be the first in his family to go to college. But the road to that dream was not smooth. His school was six kilometers away, and he walked every day, rain or shine. There were days he reached class with muddy feet and shivering hands. His textbooks were borrowed, the pages worn thin by the hands of students before him. He had only one notebook, and he wrote so neatly that he could squeeze three lessons on one page.

One night, as the winter winds rattled the tin roof of his small house, Amir sat hunched over his English book. His candle flickered weakly, its light dancing on the rough mud walls. He whispered the lines to himself: “The sun rises in the east…” but his eyelids grew heavy. He shook his head, splashed water on his face from a clay pot, and forced himself to focus again.

His mother, watching from the doorway, felt a mix of pride and worry. She came and sat beside him.

“Amir, sleep a little, beta. You wake up before dawn to help your father in the fields too.”

But Amir shook his head. “Just a little more, Amma. Tomorrow is the test. I want to get full marks this time.”

She touched his hair gently. She wanted to tell him that marks didn’t define him, but she knew these marks were his bridge to a bigger world.

The next morning, Amir’s candle had burned to a stub. He dozed for only an hour before heading to the fields to help his father. Then, with a bag slung over his thin shoulders, he set out for school, repeating equations and English words under his breath.

At school, his teacher, Mr. Rauf, was a strict but kind man who noticed Amir’s tired eyes and ink-stained fingers. When Amir handed in his paper, Mr. Rauf placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “I see you working hard, Amir. Keep going. Education is your lantern.”

Days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. Amir’s name slowly climbed from the bottom of the class list to the top three. His friends sometimes teased him for studying too much, saying, “Come play cricket, Amir! Books won’t run away!” But Amir only smiled. “Neither will cricket. But this chance might.”

One evening, a storm knocked out the village’s electricity. The whole village plunged into darkness, and Amir’s candle was gone. Determined not to miss a single night of study, Amir went to the mosque, where the imam allowed him to sit under the small solar bulb near the entrance. There, surrounded by the soft recitation of prayers and the steady patter of rain, Amir solved math problems and memorized grammar rules.

Years later, the same boy who once studied under a candle and mosque light stood at the gates of the city university. He wore a shirt that was a little too big and shoes polished so thoroughly they reflected his anxious face. His parents watched him board the bus, eyes brimming with tears and hope.

Today, when Amir returns to Shahbazpur during vacations, he visits his old school. He talks to students sitting in the same cracked desks he once occupied. He tells them about the candle that burned until dawn and about the dreams that never faded.

“Your books are your light,” he says. “Hold them tight. They can take you farther than your feet ever can.”

And as night falls over Shahbazpur, another boy lights his candle, hoping to chase the dawn just like Amir did.

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