It is ironic that I am living. I am thirsty and the blood in my veins has got thicker; it can hardly crawl to all of me. I am losing control over my body; it is playing dead here and there. Perhaps, my soul is angry at my physical being; my body, and it wishes to leave forthwith. Alas! I must have done pretty badly to gods that they had me sent here; in the family of consciously fear-breathing peasants. They breath little and brisk; for they have forgotten the very idea of abundance. They are afraid that the air might just deplete away. Oh, I reckon! Their souls have been enslaved; chained to self-inflicted humiliation and convinced of being a low cast reptile. Oh God, why have you sent me here; my soul is nobler. I surpass their peasantry, Oh God, you have sent me wrongly! Qasim was cursing everything that he had inherited; the list was not long though. He was a bright young boy, who was smarter than other children of his age. It was 12 years ago when Qasim was pinned down in this damp hut of the poor slum. He had always thought that he had descended into this mire from much nobler heavens. May he had done some wrong that displeased gods, at least it was what Qasim believed. The slum included hundreds of poorly built huts and tents erected with rags and sticks. The fireplaces and stoves put in open near their lowly abodes. It seemed as if the world was inhabited by the people of different times; all at once in manifestation. Each age preserved by eternity for the purpose of record and realization. Though, the slum was notorious in one way, for in it lived the nomads of mountainous terrains. The slum was a century old and it was a legend, that they had their souls were in charge; they would break their bodies but would never bear to be belittled. They were ill known for their arrogance and stubbornness But the time passed, the newer generations grew fond of the ideas of comfort, luxury, and leisure. Sooner, the body manipulated and distracted to the very artifacts that its souls had warned about. The bodily form grew stronger and the arrogance receded. They had become aware of the soft silk, a full stomach, and sweet fragrance. So, they sold in the bits of their soul for chunks of luxury. Their souls seem now rather enchained. The slum was now inflated by the half-blood opportunists; half-blood was from their ancestors. By evening, they will gather and celebrate the holy feast of awakening. They would be baptized by the holy wine, to sedate their moaning souls. This was the epidemic that had struck the entire slum; save one. The one hut that remained was of Mukhtar Khan's own; the father of Qasim. Mukhtar Khan was a hardworking man who would toil hard to get some bread with butter. He was a strong-headed man who would prefer to pet his soul rather than his body. But he had troubles at home; he could not bear to look at the hungry faces that he was responsible to feed. He carried it along while he went to work and more often had returned with the same burden; with added interest. Qasim, on the other hand, was still wondering why his father was such an arrogant man. He either does not find a job or loses it in a week or two; what a looser he had made of himself. Qasim could notice his neighborhood prospering and that the other children would buy clothes every summer, how lucky of them he would think. Qasim was upset and he would pity his fate and curse those who brought him into this mess. He always believed that his parents deserved it. One day, Mukhtar Khan returned home with the burden of unanswered responsibilities. He had not found any labor for wages, since past three days. The family had been waiting for some food since last night. He looked at the stove, which was desolated and seemed waiting to be lit for ages. Mukhtar Khan entered the hut and sat down in one corner and started weeping. Ghazala, Qasim's mother, knew what had happened. She went over to her husband and comforted him.
