This story is very good.
I was not looking to become a teacher just yet, but at the age of twelve, that is what, for a few weeks, I became. It began one day when I sat dozing in the sun outside our flat in Rawalpindi. Suddenly, I started when the book I was reading slipped from my hands and I noticed that there he was a raggedy boy of about my age staring at me. His clothes were dirty and spotted, and his face had a puzzled scowl on it: he wanted to know what I was reading.
His name was Afzal and he said that he did not know how to read.
That year I was in the 7th grade and was busy preparing for the entrance exams for a tough-to-get-into boarding school. Everyone was hoping that I would succeed so that the upward trajectory to my life could continue. But here was…
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