It was a cold winter, and the wind felt like sharp needles touching the skin. Trees were rustling, standing bare. The fog covered the streets. Schools were shut for winter break, and most kids spent their days sitting by the windows wrapped in quilts near the heater but not Zawar. Every morning, he was sent to the local Mosque to learn Quran recitation.
He never wanted to go early in the morning. His heart always resisted it. But his grandmother used to say, “My dear child, I pray that you complete the Qur’an. Once you finish, we will prepare a feast and share it with everyone”. Her voice carried love, and that love forced his small legs out of the blanket each morning.
The Mosque was only one kilometer away from his home, but his path had two enemies: freezing icy wind… and Moulana Ishaq, the priest. He could fight the cold by stuffing his hands in pockets, but Maulana Ishaq was a storm of his own.
Unlike others, he didn’t fear stray dogs or slippery roads —his fear was maulana.
One day when he reached the mosque, he saw children already sitting in two long rows on old mats spread across the floor. On one side boys; on the other, girls. Their sleepy eyes, red noses, and trembling hands showed winter wasn’t the only burden they carried — strict discipline was heavier.
He quietly sat at the far end, trying to become invisible. He opened his book and started revising his yesterdays’ lines. But his voice was weak. He feared raising it. The rule was simple: read loud, or face maulana Ishaq.
Just as he was gathering courage to read, a boy named Sadiq, a small lad with dusty hair and big frightened eyes, went ahead to recite. He always struggled with pronunciation, but he tried — that was his crime.
Barely two lines passed when Maulana Ishaq roared, “How many times have I told you? You have no intention of fixing your tongue, do you?!
Before anyone could breathe, a heavy slap echoed in the room — loud, cruel.
Everyone froze. Even the sunlight seemed scared to fall inside.
Sadiq staggered, tears rushing out without his consent.
He softly said, "Please forgive me, maulana. I will read it again."
But the apology only fueled him more. He grabbed Sadiq by the arm and shook him, his beard trembling with anger.
"Is this what you call reading? Fool! Has your brain gone out to graze like cattle?"
Every hit wasn’t just on Sadiq — it landed on all of them.
They did not cry for him; they cried for themselves, silently.
Then something worse happened — not physical this time, but heavier. Maulana Ishaq leaned close, cursed him again for “wasting time”, and humiliated him in front of everyone. Sadiq’s lips trembled, not from cold, but from shame.
When the maulana finally let him go, Sadiq sat in his place quietly. He didn’t touch his book again. His eyes stared at the floor like he was searching for a hole to hide inside.
After watching this, Zawar's lines vanished from his mind. His hands shook. He quietly pretended to revise again — not because he forgot the lesson, but because it was his turn next.