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To The One Who Lives Beyond The Sky
My Amma called you Bhagwan ji. Azaad calls you Allah. An aunty on our street says Jesus. I don’t know which one of you is reading this—but I’m writing to the one who lives beyond the sky.
My Amma fell sick. Azaad’s Ammi said she went to you. If she’s sitting beside you now—“अम्मा, पता है, आज हमें पहचान द स्ट्रीट स्कूल में पंखे मिले।” They spin above our heads like angels. The breeze they send feels like the sky kissing us softly. Maybe you were behind this?
And you, yes Aap, who lives beyond the sky, once, I tried to reach you. Climbed the highest garbage heap near the nala. It cut my foot and smelled bad. Still, I closed my eyes and shouted your name. But nothing happened. Maybe I wasn’t loud enough. Maybe you were busy.
So I’m writing from here—from Pehchaan The Street School. From under a working fan. From under a bulb that doesn’t flicker like hope used to. Thank you, Colorbot, for giving us those.
There are many like me here—barefoot, shirt torn, but eyes full of fire. Ma’am calls us dreamers.
Kamla Dadi once told Rani, “हमारे नसीब में कहाँ लिखा है पढ़ना?” Maybe someone is changing our naseeb now.
There’s a Didi here who smiles like Amma. She says, “You’re special. Your story matters.” Msybe she is lying but I still believe her. No one said that to me. Ever.
At Pehchaan, we sit on the floor, knees brushing elbows. We share pencils. No one laughs when I stammer. Ma’am just says, “Beta, ache se padho, main sun rahi hoon.” And I try again. Because someone is listening.
Today, A magic happened. You remember how we used to take your duppatas and wave it to cool ourselves? Amma, those pankhe are better than that. Some people from a place called colorbot gave them. What a pretty name! You know ma’am once told me about angels; I think the people from colorbot are angels or maybe magicians.
When Ma’am played a movie once, a line stuck: “Zindagi badi honi chahiye, lambi nahi.” Maybe our lives won’t be long or fancy. But here, they are badi—big in love, in learning, in dreams.
Sometimes I wish Amma coming down just once. Sitting beside me and brushing my hair like she used to. Telling me I did well. I’d show her everything. The fans. The lights. My neat handwriting. And that I won the rhyme competition. Amma, I didn’t stammer. So please, if you can, just once- come down Amma, I’m forgetting your face.
You may never visit again but your gift spins above us saying “ Hawa chalu hai… Sapna Zinda hai”
In my notebook, next to math problems, I drew myself as a doctor. Rani wants to dance. Azaad wants to fight for truth. We whisper our dreams, scared they’ll vanish. But here, no one laughs when we dream.
Ma’am once told us, “Tum toh pehle se hi zaroori ho.” That moment is bigger than any lesson.
And when people ask, “What will you even become?” I want to say—we’ll become humans. With warm hearts. With bright minds. With soft hands that never mock anyone’s struggle.
We may not be rich. But we will be kind. And that is enough.
So to you—Bhagwan ji, Allah, Jesus, Amma, or anyone who cares—please keep watching.
Because I’m still writing.
Still dreaming.
Still trying.
And I think—I’m ready to fly.