MY DIARY.

[ THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.]

I see them buying candies. I see them playing with toys. I ask God, "Who am I?". God does not reply. I see them wearing costly clothes, I see them enjoying. I, again, ask God "Who am I?". God still does not reply. A thousand questions. A thousand UNANSWERED questions left in my mind.
I am a child laborer. I sleep at 2 A.M. and wake up at 7 A.M. A minutes delay angers my master. Not because he is the burning types, but because he is my MASTER. He has all the rights to beat me, thrash me and exploit me. Who cares about child laborers? Who cares about "us"? No one but we walk in the paths of our misfortune. I want to buy candies. I want to play with toys. I want to wear costly clothes. But I won't. For I am disallowed. I was born poor. It runs in my blood. I celebrate no diwali, no dussehra and no holy.I only wash dishes and clothes. The tenderness of my hand has been washed away with it.My hand has lost it's delicacy and smoothness. It has become hard and rough like me. I do this to make my living. I do this to earn money.

TO BE CONTINUED....