December

It was December, and the cold was strong. Wahid often complained to me that I didn’t come to visit my friends. But today was Sunday, and I had decided to spend the whole day with Wahid. I had been in touch with him since the evening before. I planned to leave the house at ten in the morning and meet him at his shop.

When I arrived, someone was sitting in front of his shop. The night sky seemed to have fallen very low, and the cold was biting. It was so cold that even the sun looked like a pale moon. Instead of gossiping, Wahid got up and said something, then went to have a cup or two of tea at the nearby hotel.

I followed him and picked up a newspaper from the table in front of me. I had barely read two or three lines when a ten- or twelve-year-old child appeared before me.

“Mama, polish?” he asked softly.

I looked up at him. He had a wooden box hanging from his neck, a bottle of cherry polish in one hand, and a brush in the other. He wore a loose shirt with only one button, which barely covered his tender chest from the cold. His sandals were old and mended with colorful thread in three or four places. He had no socks, and he was shivering.

He repeated, “Oh Mama, please, I’ll do it quickly. Shoes.”

Tears welled in my eyes, but I quickly smiled and said, “All right, child. Go ahead.” I took off my shoes and gave them to him.

I told him I had polished them just a few days ago, but I wanted to keep him busy for a while — to talk to him, to know his story. He placed his box on the ground, sat down on it, and began brushing one shoe, smiling faintly.

I asked, “Son, is your father alive?”

He smiled at first, but then his smile slowly faded. His eyes filled with tears, and he bowed his head into his hands. I quickly placed my hand on his head and said, “Don’t cry, son. It’s fate. We must be patient.”

He wiped his eyes and whispered, “Thank God your father is alive and good to you.”

I put down the newspaper and asked him gently, “Why are you in such a condition?”

By that time, Wahid had returned and sat down beside me.

The child replied, “My father works hard, but my mother has kidney disease. The treatment and house expenses are too much for him.”

From this short sentence, I understood that he was the eldest among his siblings — a sensitive boy who had traded his school bag for this wooden box to ease his father’s burden.

I looked at Wahid, who smiled, winked, and said, “So much for that, Master Sahib. This is our everyday life — meeting people like this.”

I asked the child, “Where do you live, son?”

He mentioned the neighborhood near the Nazim’s house — the administrator of our entire area. I was surprised. How could such a poor child live near someone so powerful?

The child finished polishing my shoes, handed them back carefully, and gave me change according to his ability. Then he walked away. But his face and his trembling little hands stayed with me.

After the afternoon prayer, I went to see Nazim Sahib. He wasn’t home, so I waited, tired, until he returned. When he did, I told him about the child and his family.

He smiled faintly. “Master Sahib,” he said, “I’ve heard many stories like that. You’re too emotional. Go home and rest.”

I tried again, “Sir, please, these are your people. It’s your duty to look after them. Did you forget the justice of Caliph Umar (RA)? He used to check on his people personally at night.”

He laughed. “Master Sahib, this is the twenty-first century. Times have changed. Religion and traditions have changed too.”

I could feel the pride and coldness in his tone. After a pause, he said, “If you really care, bring that boy to me. I’ll see what can be done.”

His arrogance stung me, but I swallowed my anger. It wasn’t about me — it was about that poor boy.

Later that evening, I decided to visit the child’s home. On the way, some friends stopped me and insisted I stay with them. They were well-off, graduates with cars and laughter. I prayed and then went home.

After some rest, I put on a warm hat, wrapped myself in a blanket, and went again toward the child’s house. As I walked, I saw Nazim Sahib’s car stop nearby. His servants and the same little boy were with him. Each child carried a bag of groceries, perhaps oil or food. I thought for a moment that Nazim had helped them after all.

But then, as I reached closer, Nazim suddenly stopped his car and shouted. The boy stood frozen. Within moments, Nazim grabbed him by the arm and began to slap him.

People gathered, but no one moved to help.

I rushed forward. The child hid behind me, trembling.

Nazim yelled, “Move aside, Master Sahib! I’ll kill him! He’s a thief — he stole a curtain from my car!”

The boy cried, “No, I didn’t, sir!”

I held Nazim’s arm and said, “Please, calm down. What has this poor child done?”

Nazim pushed me away. “Don’t interfere! Thieves like this must be punished. I don’t want to see him in my neighborhood again.”

He turned and stormed back into his house.

I lifted the crying boy from the ground. He was weak, his face bruised. I took him aside and said softly, “Tell me, my son, why did you steal?”

He whispered through tears, “Mama, it’s so cold. My younger brothers were crying. I just wanted to buy them socks.”

My heart broke. I hugged him tightly. Around us, people were watching — some with pity, some with mockery.

The boy continued, “I came here three or four times before, but every time, they beat me and told me to get lost. They called me names — said I was the son of a traitor.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks again. I looked around; people shook their heads but said nothing.

I stood there for a long time, silent, my mind heavy with thoughts about this cruel system. And these words echoed in my heart again and again:

Lord of great powers, I have a wish can You hear me?