An 80-year-old man was sitting on the sofa in his house along with his 45-year-old highly educated son. Suddenly a crow (乌鸦) perched on the tree near heir window.

The father asked his son,“What is this?" The son replied,“It is a crow.”

After a few minutes, the father asked his son the second time“What is this?” The son said,

“Father, I have just now told you. It's a crow.”

After a little while, the old father again asked his son the third time,“What is this?”

“It’s a crow, a crow, a crow”said the son loudly and impatiently.

A few minutes later, the father again asked his son the fourth time.“What is it?”

This time the son shouted at his father, “Why do you keep asking me the same question again and again?IT IS A CROW. Are you not able to understand this?”

A little later the father went to his room and came back with an old diary, which he had kept since his son was born. On pernicious a page,he asked his son to read that pages. When the son read it, the following words were written in the diary:

“Today my little son aged three was siting with me on the sofa when a crow was siting on the window. My son asked me 23 times what it was, and I replied to him all 23 times that it was a crow. I hugged him lovingly each time he asked me the same question again and again for 23 times. I did not at all feel annoyed; I rather felt love for my innocent child.”

After reading the diary,

Feeling ashamed,the son got down on his knees before his father.

One click of my wooden stick, and the buffaloes (水牛) moved forward. I guided them along the road’s edge, through the heart of the village. We walked past mud homes and villagers bent over tending to their crops. We eyed the green fields, where the buffaloes could eat growing grass. This was my life in a small village in Sindh, Pakistan. We had little, but I had a big dream.

Up ahead laughter attracted my attention. A group of students came into view, their uniforms a contrast to my faded trousers and worn-out shoes. Fingers wrapped tight around my stick, I stepped forward and said sincerely, “Dear students, could you please show me your books?” The students looked from my face to my stick, to their books. They quickly opened their bags and showed me their books. Illustrations of people and places caught my imagination.

“Someday, I’ll go to school too,” I declared, returning their books. Actually, I was desperate to go to school so that I could broaden my horizons.

Months passed. Every day I rose to my chores and buffaloes. Until, one day I got my chance. My uncle came to visit. He and Father sat, drinking tea outside. “Brother, you must send Rasool Bux to school. Herding the buffaloes is not in his future,” Uncle convinced my father. that all children should go to school. The following week, I was studying in primary school. Now, armed with my own books, I set out to learn everything. I read textbooks, asked questions, and even read newspapers for my father and his companions.

By the end of the year, I proved to be one of the best students in the school. I resolved to study at college or university in Karachi, a big city over 150 kilometers away. Unfortunately, I suffered from a skin condition that left white spots on my skin. The constant loss of skin color was stressful, making me feel bad about myself and even drawing attention away from my studies.

The thought of not being able to finish school made me feel extremely depressed.

I visited my uncle after I did make it to university in Karachi.

I have an older brother who suffers from cerebral palsy (脑瘫). For as long as I can remember, his struggles with basic movements and speech caused me a deep sense of embarrassment, I was afraid of the stares and the whispered questions from others, so I kept my distance, thinking it would protect me from their judgment. This avoidance became a habit, a way to protect myself from the discomfort I felt over something I didn’t fully understand. Eventually, it became a barrier I built not around my heart, but around my life.

Even when I kept my distance, my brother would often offer me warm smiles, providing comfort and help during my difficult moments. There were times when I directed my frustrations towards him, perhaps because he was an easy target or because I hated his existence. His reactions, however, often took the form of silent understanding. He wouldn’t demand explanations for my behavior. Instead, he might reach out with a gentle gesture -- a touch, a smile, or simply his presence-reminding me that, despite my unnecessary outbursts, I was not alone.

The more he cared about me, the more I hated him. I believed he brought me shame, disgrace, and embarrassment. How I wished to stay away from him! But I had to choose a university in our city in order to see my ill mother when convenient. My brother, however, would prepare meals and have them delivered to my school, each time attaching a note filled with concern, asking why I hadn't come home, if I was unwell, or if something was wrong. After my graduation and the loss of my mother, I decided to distance myself from my city and, more significantly, from my brother, to seek a fresh start in a different city.