I grew up in a small town, where houses are seen obtuse and spiritless outside. Inside, it is surrounded by grayish walls and most parquets are just sand and gravel which prompts us to nervously step on each fragmented roads all the way throughout the voyage.

At nightfall, so much obscurity covers our entire little town. No light would defeat the darkness.There are not much street lights, only the million glittering stars and the silver moon which gives us the courage to continue life. It looks like an abandoned place for countless decades. Silence is what you hear when you walk alone the narrow path yet, in every little house, there is always that sweet laughter, that only us, from the same line of poverty, would understand.

What could be worse than living in a place with no name? Our little place seems to be a pigment of someone’s imagination, a place that nobody knows. The provincial officials, all would wonder and would raise the same question, “Where is that?”“Does that belong here?”“Is that part of the province?” Yes, it’s rudeness! But what else can we do? We, as tenants of that cryptic town, had been prepared like soldiers to provide a long detail of our town. I guess, that is why our place looks so distant, far off from where the living exists.

Our people are striving to live, striving to get any amount of money that we could. Every cents has its own worth to our pocket. Children are not exempted. Everyone is working. Everyone is taking chances to survive. We