The tender warm sunrays came out tearing the night away and announced the starting of a new day, new life and somewhere in world, the beginning of a new agony, desire and addiction.

Allah Ditta, worked at a teashop at the Lahore Railway Station. He had no house, no parents, no siblings, no life. This city was his house, the earth his mother, the sky his father and sniffing glue was his life. He was laying down on the rock hard, dusty pavement, with a filthy rag to cover his nine year young body. He was fast asleep, lost deeply in his dreamland.

A drunk man kicked him hard and then stumbled right where Ditta was lying down. The man mumbled something inaudible in his slurred speech and then passed out. The painful thrust had woken up Ditta. He rubbed his eyes and looked up at the sky with a questioning look.

“Why always a kick, God?” he asked mutely.

He got up sluggishly, and walked towards the nearby public water faucet. He wore a shabby yellow oversized t-shirt, dirty shorts, which were two sizes too small, and no shoes. He had a dark complexion and black hair. He opened the tap with great effort, as he was still half asleep, and splashed cold water on his face running his wet hands through his tangled, unclean hair. He was wide-awake now and his lungs and body craved for a strong, fresh sniff of glue but he knew he had to earn in order to fulfill his addiction.

Ditta often thought about who gave him his unique name. He didn’t remember having any family or any close relatives who would have actually named him. He pondered over it almost every night, only to forget about it by sunrise. Today he was determined to ask the old man who owned the teashop about this query that had been pestering his heart. He rehearsed everything in his mind as he headed towards the teashop, kicking every pebble, which came his way, uninterestedly. He was looking forward to obtaining the history of his name but today too he reached half an hour late and Chachaa, the owner of the teashop, was irritated like always.

“Where’ve you been, don’t you wanna work? Be thankful that you have this job and if you want it then come on time, otherwise don’t bother coming tomorrow. Do you hear me, you lousy rascal?” he shouted in one go, breathlessly.

Ditta just nodded and started collecting the small glasses of tea and placing them in the wire tea-glass holder. He knew that Chachaa was in an unpleasant mood, but still, he went ahead and asked what he had desperately wanted to know.

“Chachaa, who gave me this name, Allah Ditta?” he inquired.

“Urghh…people used to call you by various names like Chotu, Bacha, Motu, and one day out of the blue, someone called you Allah Ditta, and since then, everybody started calling you by this name. Now stop asking these stupid questions and get back to your work. You are already behind your target remember? Come on, go now and come back soon for the second round. Don’t start playing with the other good-for-nothing creeps like you,” he said, in a harsh tone, and busied himself in brewing some more fresh tea.

Ditta shrugged away Chachaa’s brutal remarks as he had learned to shun the heartbreaking situations that existed in his life. However, somehow, this time Chachaa’s comments pricked his tiny little heart. A small tear meandered down his face and he wiped it away, dejectedly.

Ditta picked up the teacup holder and a cloth napkin, which he placed on his right shoulder, and started his day. He had a routine of delivering tea to different places but his favourites were a newspaper office and a cheap beauty parlor, which hardly had any customers.

He entered the dark, dilapidated staircase, which led towards a wooden door. He pushed the door and stepped into a totally different world, a world of chaos and noise. He delivered tea in cabin number three, seven and eleven, as per his daily ritual. He always stopped at the door before leaving to talk to the guard dressed in a navy blue uniform and a black hat. Ditta liked the way he told the latest news stories and current issues. If the people he served didn’t show up, he would always treat the guard with a warm glass of tea. Today, due to Chachaa’s remarks, he was in no mood of making any conversation with the guard or anybody for that matter. So, he left without greeting the guard and rushed out of the building, even though he could hear the guard calling his name again and again.

Despite the fact that he was frustrated, his feet mechanically chose to walk in the direction of a narrow street where the beauty salon was situated. The door was of a dirty green colour, and a poster of a Bollywood actress posing in skimpy clothes was pinned on it. He walked through the white sheet hanging from the door, a so-called curtain. Three young girls sat on the wooden bench sharing dirty jokes and foolishly giggling. There were a few broken chairs scattered around the tiny place while a stained mirror hung on the left side of the room. A number of empty bottles of creams, shampoos and hair sprays were displayed on a table, and an old fashioned tape recorder was playing the new retro music. They all glanced at Ditta, passed each other a knowing look and started sniggering. Like always, Ditta smiled sheepishly, served them tea and sat near the door, waiting for them to finish drinking.

As the girls drank their tea, Ditta’s vision blurred and his body ached with desire. At this point in time, he could do anything for a sniff. He grabbed the empty glasses and, as he was turning around, the girls beckoned him so he retraced his steps. One of them smiled at him, fumbled into her purse and took out a twenty-rupee bill.

“Here, get a bigger pair of shorts,” she smirked.

Ditta pocketed the money and exited the parlor as the girly tittering trailed behind him. It was noon and Ditta’s hunger increased with every step he took.He entrenet He wanted glue with a frantic urgency. He started racing towards the corner utility store, and was pale and breathless when he reached it. He purchased two small tubes of glue and held the cool metallic casing in his hand. Immediately, the sensation of holding his daily fix, and the anticipation of relief that accompanied it, filled him with an almost manic urge to sniff the glue.

He tried to swiftly twist the cap of one tube, but in his wheezing state of anxiety, he dropped it. He scrambled on the floor and tried to hold it, but his vision swam, and he had to steady himself on the floor before he could focus on the activity around him again. Out of the bustling store, a man stepped towards him. He was well dressed, with a distinguished mustache and deeply concerned eyes.

“Beta, are you alright? You look sickly,” he said, sitting beside him.

“No, no, I am fine. I must go back to work,” Ditta replied, hurriedly.

“You are cold as ice. When was the last time you ate?” The stranger asked, touching Ditta’s forehead.

Ditta tried to get up but could not muster the strength to do so. As he was trying to master his weakness, the tube of glue slipped out of his hand. The stranger’s sharp eyes noticed the glue and realization dawned on his face.

“Young man,” he said sternly, “I know what a pickle you have gotten yourself into. I am a social worker, and I can help you. Where are your parents?”

“I’m alone in the world, Saab jee. Just me and this fate of a sinner,” he replied, hoarsely.

“In that case,” said the stranger, “I am taking you to an orphanage this instant. You will find food, clean clothes, and good company, but most importantly, you will find help, courage and strength to overcome this addiction.”

The man pulled Ditta off the ground, and by this time, Ditta didn’t have the strength to argue with him. The next thing he knew, the stranger had snatched the glue out of his hands, and he was being ushered into a car.

He gained consciousness in a crammed room, with no lights. He felt the heavy breathing of people lost in their sleep around him. His first sensory perception was the absence of light in that place. Almost immediately after this realization, he felt a sharp pain of withdrawal in his chest and his whole body started involuntarily jerking. He had a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and felt like he wanted to throw up. He tried to take control of his body, and his muscles quieted down a little bit. He had a tingling pain in his wrist, and looking at it, he observed that he must have had an IV of glucose while he was passed out. That explained the strength that he had in his body.

He had an instant to observe that he was in an orphanage, and a moment to reflect that no matter how hard his life would be here, it could not be harder than out on the streets. For a second, he thought about finding friends, companions, people to belong to, and searching for the resolution to overcome his addiction. However, that feeling was short-lived. He realized, yet again, that his life was over. He never had been a child. He had just learned to grow up on the streets among strangers. He had no desire for a happy life. He did not have any pleasant memories to assess the value of happiness, as he had no idea what it felt like.

With no particular thought in his mind, he got up and crawled towards the door. By now, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he could see the breathing forms of many children around him.

He found his way out of the building and reached into his pocket. He still had some change there. He would try to find a utility store that was still open. If he couldn’t find one, he would sleep on the rock-hard pavement under the wide expanse of the night sky, and tomorrow, he would get his fix. There was nothing in life to hope for, so he would not abandon the only things he was familiar with. This city was his house, the earth his mother, the sky his father and sniffing glue was his life, and that was the choice he had made.