I was eleven years old, a fifth-grade student at Rabia Balkhi High School in Pakistan — an Afghans’ school known for its respected reputation. I loved my principal, my teachers, and all the school staff deeply as much as they loved me. I was among the well-known students, serving as the class representative and ranking first in my class.
Every morning, I would stand at the front of the school assembly, reciting verses from the Holy Qur’an and the beautiful names of God. My voice was familiar throughout the school. The students knew me, and so did all the teachers.
I don’t recall these things to boast, but because I carry these memories with deep pride — memories that have stayed with me like warm sunlight in the corridors of my heart.
It was Teacher’s Day, we were preparing for the celebration. As usual, I was to recite the names of God, along with my dear friends, Zuhal and Marjan. I wasn’t nervous at all. By that time, I had grown confident standing in front of crowds — reciting, singing, and performing. I always enjoyed being part of such events. I was always praised and encouraged, and that brought me joy.
The ceremony began.
Unlike others, I didn’t like dressing up too much on Teacher’s Day. There was a respectful modesty I felt toward my teachers — a quiet reverence that kept me simple. Still, that day, I wore a pistachio-green top, cowboy pants, and my school’s white scarf. I stood proudly in front of everyone and opened the ceremony with the recitation of Qur’anic verses.
This event had one difference. A dairy company was sponsoring the program and had brought cartons of milk as gifts. Each student was to receive one, using a small ticket they provided.
After my recitation, I was given a carton as special gift.
As the event ended and students began heading home, a representative from the company stood near the stairs, checking tickets and handing out the remaining milk cartons. Since I had a ticket from the sponsor, I received a second carton, as well.
Others received one, but I had two.
Just ahead of me walked a pregnant woman — I believe she was the mother of some student in my school. She didn’t have a ticket. Like many others at that time, she seemed to be from the families with limited means and struggling. Owning a carton of milk would have meant the world to her. She quietly reached for a carton, but the man stopped her and said, “You don’t have a ticket,” and took it back.
She murmured something harsh to the guy out of hopelessness and walked away.
I saw the whole thing. My heart ached. But I didn’t act. I was just a child, and a part of me wanted to go home proudly showing my family that I had received two gifts. So I kept walking.
She went north. I went south. But the entire way, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her image followed me all the way home. When I finally reached near my house — about twenty minutes later — the weight on my heart became too heavy. I couldn’t bear it.
So I turned back and ran. I ran as fast as I could, searching the nearby streets and alleys, hoping to find her — just to give her one of my milk cartons.
But it was too late. She was gone.
I returned home and told my parents what had happened. My father gently said, “My child, you should have given it to her right then and there.”
And he was right. I felt deep regret. My heart was truly broken for missing the moment that mattered.
Now, when I look back, I realize — maybe this was God’s way of teaching me something I needed to carry for life:
Don’t delay kindness. Help people when they need it — not after. Give while the moment still lives. Let your heart respond before it’s too late.
Because some chances don’t return. Some moments, once missed, become lifelong memories.
So be someone who notices the silent suffering of others. Be the soul who moves — not later, but now.
Noorin Khwaja Eshaan 