When the Pen Wanted to Write, but the Heart Was Not Ready
Adhure Jazbaat
This morning felt different.
Not sad, not happy… just one of those mornings when the mind feels full of thoughts, yet nothing comes out in words. My pen was in my hand, the notebook was open in front of me, and I knew I wanted to write something for Adhure Jazbaat, but I could not find anything new.
Sometimes this happens.
People call it writer’s block, but for a writer it feels deeper than that. It feels as if your thoughts are standing right in front of you, yet refusing to speak. I did not want to write the same emotions again. I did not want to repeat the same pain, the same feelings, the same stories. I wanted something real… something different… something that comes from life itself.
So I closed the notebook and went outside into my garden.
A Cup of Tea, a Quiet Garden, and Waiting Thoughts
I sat in the garden with a cup of tea, doing nothing, just watching the plants and the sky.
It was the month of March. The heat had started to show its presence, but the weather was not fully hot yet. The sky was covered with light clouds, as if it wanted to rain but had not decided. The air felt heavy, slow, almost thoughtful.
Sometimes the best ideas come when you stop looking for them.
The wind started to blow gently, moving the leaves of the plants around me. After a few moments, a few drops of rain fell on the soil. Only a few… but enough to change the air.
That familiar smell of wet soil rose around me — fresh, honest, something that always touches the heart without asking permission. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.
And suddenly, my mind was not empty anymore.
That smell brought back a memory from a few years ago.
A memory I had not thought about for a long time, but once it came back, it did not leave.
A Small School on an Open Ground
A few years ago, I was driving towards Hoshiarpur. It was a normal day, just another journey on a road I had travelled many times. Nothing special was on my mind.
While driving, my eyes suddenly stopped at something unusual on the side of the road.
In the middle of a farmer’s open land, I saw a group of children sitting on the ground. There was no building, no classroom, no walls. Just an old blackboard standing on a wooden support, moving slightly with the wind.
Two or three people were there, teaching them.
No banner, no crowd, no cameras. Just a small effort, quietly happening.
I slowed the car… and then I stopped.
Something inside me said, go and see.
When I walked closer, the children looked at me with curiosity. Some smiled immediately, some felt shy, and some just kept looking, as if a stranger had suddenly entered their small world.
They were young… maybe five, maybe ten, maybe thirteen.
Their clothes were simple, some old, some faded, some torn from daily life.
But their faces… their faces were shining in a way that many comfortable lives never shine.
There was innocence in their eyes —
the kind of innocence that does not know how unfair the world can be.
I spoke to the people who were teaching them. They told me they come there regularly to give basic education to children who never had the chance to go to school. No big support, no big organization. Just a few people who believed that even teaching one child to read is worth the effort.
While they were talking, my eyes stayed on the children.
One boy was writing slowly on a broken slate, as if every letter mattered.
One girl was holding a pencil so carefully, as if it was something very precious.
Some were smiling without any reason, just happy to be there.
One small boy asked me,
“Sir, if I study, can I speak English one day?”
Another child said,
“Sir, will we also go to a real school like city children?”
A little girl, with dust on her hands and a soft smile, asked quietly,
“Sir, if I study more, can I become a teacher here?”
Their questions were simple.
But my heart had no answers.
They were not asking for toys.
They were not asking for phones.
They were asking for things that should never have been difficult —
a classroom, a book, a chance.
I stood there for a long time, looking at their smiling faces, feeling something very deep inside.
Sometimes the purest smiles come from the toughest lives.
Children Are the Same Everywhere
While standing there, one thought kept coming again and again in my mind.
This was not only that village.
Not only that road.
Not only this state or this country.
Scenes like this exist all over the world.
In different cities, different countries, different languages…
but the children are always the same.
Their laughter sounds the same.
Their eyes shine the same way.
Their hearts are equally pure everywhere.
When God creates a child, He does not decide which one will study in a big school and which one will sit on the ground to learn alphabets.
God gives every child the same innocent heart.
It is the world that changes their story.
Some children get classrooms with lights and fans.
Some get a blackboard in a field.
Some carry school bags.
Some carry responsibilities bigger than their age.
But when they smile, there is no difference.
And that day, watching those children, I felt that all they needed was a chance.
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This piece is dedicated to the innocent children who lost their lives in the Iran war. In every conflict, it is childhood that suffers first, and dreams that disappear before they even begin. |
Just a chance.
When the News Showed Another Reality
A few days ago, while watching the news, that memory came back again…
but this time it did not bring peace.
The report said that more than one hundred and sixty children, most of them between five and thirteen years old, lost their lives after a missile hit a school during an ongoing war. Later reports said the number was even higher.
I kept looking at the screen, unable to move.
Broken buildings, fallen walls, school bags in the dust, notebooks lying open…
and in between them, the bodies of children who had only gone there to learn.
In that moment, I did not see a country.
I did not see religion.
I did not see politics.
I only saw children…
the same kind of children I had seen years ago sitting on the ground, smiling, dreaming, asking for a chance.
And a question kept echoing inside me —
Why does the world make it so hard for children to simply grow up?
Some are fighting to get a classroom,
and some lose their lives inside one.
That day I understood something very painful…
Buildings can be rebuilt.
Roads can be repaired.
Cities can rise again.
But the dreams of a child, once broken,
never return the same way.
I came back inside, opened my notebook again,
and this time the pen did not stop.
Maybe the heart was not ready in the morning…
but it could not stay silent anymore.
Because some stories are not written by choice.
They are written because the soul cannot carry them alone.
And this is one of those stories…
***
"Beyond these written lines, there is a voice waiting to be heard. I’ve brought this story to life on YouTube for those who wish to listen as they read."
📽️ Watch on YouTube
This piece is dedicated to the innocent children who lost their lives in the Iran war.
They went to school with dreams,
but the world gave them war.
In every conflict, it is childhood that becomes the first victim.
If you felt something while reading this, write a few words in the comments.
Your thoughts may not change the world,
but they keep humanity alive.
— Adhure Jazbaat
