This is a true story of the children of our times
When I was 5 years old I knew a 9 year old.
He was my only friend back then. Because there was no one else.
We played with sticks, stones and whatever we found on the cold desolate streets of Kashmir. Maybe because there were no toys.
When I came back from school and wanted a mate to play with, he was always there. Maybe because his family could not afford school. I do not remember his name. Maybe because it did not matter to me.
Like many other children of our time he must've had dreams of becoming a superhero whenever he'd grow up. Like many other children of our time his main talent was finding interesting things to play with among the trash on the streets.
Life happened and we lost touch, as is the case with the children of our time.
I heard of him recently and also heard how he was blown to bits before he could make it to the age of 10, like many other 9 year olds of our time.
I always thought I'd meet him someday. But in a happy place.
Yesterday, after my mother told me about the reality of the lost friend, I dreamed of him.
Dreams are a place too. A happier place.