The Chalk and Her Dreams

In a dusty village nestled between golden wheat fields and whispering mango trees, lived a young girl named **Mehreen**. She was twelve, sharp-eyed, and full of curiosity. Her world was small—a two-room mud house, a hand pump, and a sky wide enough to hold her dreams. But in her village, dreams for girls had rules, and learning to read was not one of them.

Mehreen would sit quietly beside her brother Raheel every evening, pretending to clean the floor, her ears sharply tuned to his loud reading from schoolbooks. She memorized the alphabet by watching the chalk move on his black slate. When he wasn’t looking, she would pick it up and try copying the shapes in the dirt outside.

Her mother, worn from years of labor, noticed the strange patterns Mehreen drew on the floor. “What is this?” she asked one evening.

Mehreen looked down, afraid. “Just drawings, Amma.”

But Amma wasn’t fooled. Her own dreams had once looked like chalk and books too, before she was married at fourteen.

The village school was only for boys. Girls were expected to help with cooking, carry water, and prepare for marriage. No girl in their family had ever gone to school. It wasn’t tradition. It wasn’t allowed.

One afternoon, when the sun was too strong and the world too quiet, Mehreen dared to ask her father, “Baba, can I go to school too?”

Her father paused, the tobacco between his fingers forgotten. “What will a girl do with school?” he asked. “Your place is at home. Raheel will become something. You will get married.”

Mehreen’s heart sank, but she didn’t cry. That night, she lit the old oil lamp and opened her brother’s torn notebook. In secret, she began teaching herself how to read.

Months passed. Her handwriting improved. She could read entire sentences. She taught herself math by counting lentils and copying sums from her brother’s books.

One day, a young woman named **Miss Fariha** came to the village. She was a government teacher assigned to the village boys’ school, but she was determined to change more than test scores. She spoke kindly, wore glasses, and talked about education like it was a right—not a privilege.

During a visit to Mehreen’s house to speak with Raheel’s parents, she noticed the girl's interest. “You like books?” she asked Mehreen.

“I love them,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

Miss Fariha smiled. “Come visit the school tomorrow.”

“But it’s only for boys,” Mehreen said.

“Not anymore,” she said with a wink.

The next day, Mehreen stood by the school gate, nervous and excited. Whispers rose among the villagers. “A girl in school?” “She should be home.” But Miss Fariha welcomed her warmly and gave her a notebook of her own.

The first day was difficult. Boys mocked her. Some teachers ignored her. But Mehreen stayed. Day by day, she proved she belonged—not just with her silence but with her answers, her questions, and her perfect scores.

Slowly, other girls came too. One by one. Like small candles lighting each other. The school began to change.

But not everyone was pleased. One evening, Mehreen returned home to find her father furious. “People talk about us,” he shouted. “You will stop this nonsense tomorrow!”

This time, Mehreen stood firm. “No, Baba. I want to learn. I will not stop.”

Her mother stepped in. “Let her study,” she said quietly. “She wants a better life than mine.”

That night was long. The house silent, but the air heavy with tension. In the morning, her father didn’t say a word. But he didn’t stop her either.

Years passed. Mehreen went from top student to the first girl in the village to pass the matric exams. She earned a scholarship. Miss Fariha helped her apply to a college in the nearby city.

Saying goodbye to the village was hard. The mango trees, her home, her mother’s eyes, and even the worn-out chalk lines on the dirt floor—all called to her. But she had bigger dreams now.

In college, Mehreen studied **education and social reform**. She learned about Malala Yousafzai, about girl leaders across the world, and about rights she never knew she had. She sent letters back home, encouraging other girls to keep going.

Ten years later, a car pulled up in the same village. A woman stepped out, wearing a teacher’s badge and carrying books. She walked into the old school—the same one where she once sat alone. But now, it was full of **boys and girls**, sitting side by side, learning together.

She took her place in front of the blackboard. A piece of chalk in hand.

“I am Mehreen,” she said with a smile. “And I’m here to teach you how to dream.”

✨ Moral of the Story

*Educating one girl can light up an entire generation. Never underestimate the power of knowledge and courage—especially when it starts with a single chalk line.*