‘THAT BOY, NOT  NEWPAPER, THREW COURAGE ON MY FACE’

‘THAT BOY, NOT  NEWPAPER, THREW COURAGE ON MY FACE’

15-OCT-ENG 27

RAJIV NAYAN AGRAWAL

ARA-------------------------When I woke up in the morning, it was as if a strange silence bounced off the walls of the room and fell back onto my chest. The fan was slowly turning, but the air from it held no freshness, as if the room itself was caught in some irony with me. My body was stuck to the bed, as if someone had tied it with invisible ropes, and my mind… my mind, like an old monk, whispered softly, "Get up, it's been a long time."

Sometimes you should listen to your mind more than your body, and sometimes your heart more than your compulsion. Who did you listen to, Mr. Kalam? Your heart or your responsibility?

Forget all that, because today is a different day. Not every day, but I think of you ten or twelve times a month. Sometimes after a defeat, sometimes on a stagnant afternoon, and sometimes amid some unknown fear. But today is something else; today the calendar has announced your birth anniversary. Just as a temple bell suddenly rings, memories have begun to ring within me.

When I often feel broken, shattered, as if someone has taken away all my courage, a strange image comes to me. A boy, thin and lanky, runs through the streets, carrying a bundle of newspapers. He breaks through the cold air, bursting into my room, and without a word, throws one of the newspapers in my face. The blow breaks not sleep, but lethargy.

As the boy moves forward, his gait becomes firmer, his stature grows taller, and his ordinary clothes transform into a mission uniform. Behind him flutters an old jacket, on which is written in bold letters – “MISSILE MAN.”

That boy is you, Mr. Kalam. A newspaper boy who never gave up. Who satisfied his hunger with the pages of books. Who transformed his sleep into dreams and dreams into reality. You taught me that poverty isn't a weakness; it's a kind of fuel that, if ignited, can illuminate the entire sky.

You showed me that dreams don't come in sleep; they take sleep away. Sometimes, I too want to hold that boy of yours... I want to hold his fingers and ask, "Teach me how to put myself back together."

Kalam Sahib, more than your photographs, your journey inspires me. A journey devoid of luxury, no noise, just a quiet determination to achieve something. Today, as the entire nation celebrates your birth anniversary, I sit alone in my room, looking at that "Missile Man" boy who still comes to break my sleep whenever I'm close to giving up.

You're probably smiling from up there, with that simple, unpretentious smile of yours. Thank you, Kalam Sahib. Because you didn't just make our country beautiful, you ignited the fire of rising again in countless defeated youth like us.