School was a battlefield Raza never learned to survive.
While other children laughed, shared secrets, and ran in groups, Raza sat alone under a tree with his old lunchbox.
He wasn't good at studies. Words danced on the pages when he tried to read. Teachers sighed at him. Students mocked him. No one sat with him.
But every day when he returned home, his father smiled and said,"Beta, you are enough."
And his mother hugged him tightly, brushing away the tears he tried to hide.
One day, his mother decided to follow him. She wanted to see why her son came home with swollen eyes every afternoon.
She stood behind a pillar near the schoolyard, her heart pounding.
Raza was standing alone, holding his lunchbox like a shield. A group of boys surrounded him. They didn't speak—they simply snatched the lunchbox and opened it.
His food. The only meal he looked forward to.
They ate it in front of him, laughing.
Raza stayed silent, his hands trembling.
His mother felt something inside her break. She pressed her hand over her mouth, shaking with grief.
She wanted to run to him, to scream, to protect him—but poverty had taught her something cruel:
Sometimes pain is the only teacher the poor can afford.
She walked home, tears falling into the mud.