The Newspaper Boy

A retired air Force officer remembers a kind-hearted gesture with gratitude.

- Muniruddin syed

BEFORE I COULD TURN 10, I had lost my parents. My (four) brothers and (two) sisters left Hyderabad after being adopted by relatives, but I insisted on staying back as I wanted to continue with my education there. I lived alone in a room that a family member had allowed me to use rent-free: I got this privilege as I was a good student. And to support myself and my education, I had taken to delivering newspapers.

I would be up every morning by 5 a.m. and walk five kilometres from Kachiguda, where I lived, to the newspaper office in Troop’s Bazaar. By 6 a.m., I would collect 50 copies of Manzil (Urdu Daily)—the bundle must have weighed over five kilos. My beat spanned three kilometres, from Moazzam Jahi Market to Basheer Bagh. After distributing the copies, I would rush home—another three kilometres away—cook my measly breakfast, eat quickly and be off to the Kachiguda High School. I was in Class VII and even though I had weekly holidays, there was no break from this work.

One wintry Friday morning in 1945, I got home after my deliveries to find a boy of my age at my doorstep. He introduced himself as Afzal and said his father wanted to see me. When I asked him why, Afzal said, “He will tell you.”

I did not like his evasive answer. Exhausted after walking around for over 11 kilometres, I was looking forward to breakfast and some rest. This was a treat as it was a Friday. (Before Independence, Fridays were a weekly off in the Nizam’s state). I assumed his father wished to subscribe to the newspaper, so I followed him to his place nearby.