In this short story, we hear about a displaced mother and her little son, scraping together a living at a refugee camp in Pakistan. This selection comes from a collaboration with Words Without Borders.

***

That makes exactly four kilos. When she heard these words a smile spread across her lips and she looked at her little son…

The shopkeeper kept talking:

—Sister, take this money…it’s eight rupees.

Once again she reached out her hand from her chador and took the money handed over by the shopkeeper. In the afternoon sun, she set off in a hurry toward her home. She walked in haste and held her little son’s hand tightly. Her grip was so firm that he suddenly said:

—Dear Mother, you’re hurting my hand.

—Your mother does everything for your own good. I’ll loosen my grip, now it will be better.

She said this in a most gentle voice, with sincere compassion.

***

Read more in Issue 7, out now.