By Roshan Tara Every morning, I sweep dust outside the tea stall. The school gate is right across. Kids laugh and run in, holding their mums’ and dads’ hands. They wear shiny shoes and smell like soap
By Roshan Tara I sat in my car, wanting to run. Or die. Work, family, my own skin crushed me. Then I looked up. An old man stood by the vegetable stall with a child. The vendor dumped scraps—spoiled,
By Roshan Tara By day, he plays the part—footsteps firm, voice lowered, eyes dry. Everyone calls him brave. But the door stays shut. At night, silence softens the world, and he breathes out the truth.
Comments