It was 1945. Yanam, my hometown, was a small and quiet town in the mid-south of India. Just before the war ended, a heavy bombing changed my life. Although my younger brothers and I had a narrow escape from the disaster and was miraculously unhurt, we lost our parents and our house was in ruins. It was 2 months before I turned 10.
My younger brothers left soon after remote relatives in nearby town adopted them, but I insisted on staying back to continue my school education. I lived alone in a tiny room that a family member allowed me to use rent-free. To support myself, I began to deliver newspapers for the communities. I would be up every morning by 5 am and walk five kilometers to the newspaper office. By 6 am, I would collect 50 copies, which must have weighed over 5 kilograms. Carrying them in my large backpack, I would start my daily morning jogging(慢跑). My working area spanned(跨越)3 kilometers. In order to finish the job in half an hour, I designed an ideal route to put the copies in each family's mailbox. After delivering the copies, I would rush home another 3 kilometers quickly, eat and set off to my school, right on time.
One freezing wintry morning, I got home after my deliveries to find a boy of my age at the doorstep waiting for me. As he came up, I recognized it was Afzal whose father was a successful doctor in our town. Boys around the neighborhood used to play soccer together at the town square and we were on the same team for several times. But after the bombing I was so busy making my living that we hadn’t seen each other ever since. Afzal said his father, Mr Kader, wanted to see me. I guessed they wished to subscribe to (订阅) the newspaper.
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I went with him and was greeted at the door by Afzal's mother, Mrs. Kader.
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It took a few seconds for me to fully understand the love behind this special gift.
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