BY: Ziaul Moid Khan
“Is it my right to snatch food from their hands?” I asked myself. The answer was a lone, long silence. This family had done a lot to get me here, at this position. Not that I was super rich and all that, but at least I was just above a hand-to-mouth condition. They were still there, squaring their shoulders with the same grinding poverty.
Yes, that was my family. The family I was born in. The family that had fed me and brought me up; the family that had educated me. And now I was in a position to say that yes, I was earning. At least more than just to survive; yes, not yet enough to, say, thrive.
I remembered my brothers, Shuja and Raza, sweating in the fields and coming home after the day’s labor every evening in a pathetic state. Yes, it was true that Shuja occasionally had a couple of drinks and bouts with his friends and Raza had a craving for the pigeon flights and other little problems.