The Forgotten Children

By Ahamad Rayees

The cold grip of winter had settled over the orphanage, where the silence of early morning was usually unbroken. Yet today, there was a palpable stir. Azaan, whose life had long been a steady rhythm of routine and absence, woke up with an energy he hadn’t felt in years. Today was different. Today, his father was coming.

He had learned the news the night before. His father, Usman, who had disappeared when Azaan was just a child—remarried and drifted from memory—had promised to visit. It wasn’t just a visit; it was a thread of hope, a promise of belonging. In the brief moment of connection, Azaan borrowed a phone from the staff and heard his father’s reassuring voice: “Once I’m near, I’ll come to your hostel and meet you.”

That voice, steady and calm, had been enough to reignite a spark of joy in Azaan’s heart. He dashed through the orphanage with the news, eager to share it with anyone who would listen. “My father is coming! He promised to meet me. He’ll bring gifts, so many gifts!” His voice was full of hope, fragile yet unwavering. Even the other children—those familiar with abandonment’s bitter taste—did not have the heart to burst his bubble.

The night passed in a haze of anticipation. Azaan dreamed of a time when his father wasn’t a distant figure but the man who had once walked beside him in the forest, laughing as they picked berries, chasing mushrooms after a storm. Those fleeting memories clung to him, serving as a quiet beacon of hope.

When morning broke, Azaan leapt out of bed, more alive than he had been in months. He hurried down the narrow hallway, bumping into Amir, who looked up groggily.

“Watch it!” Amir grumbled, half-awake.

“Today’s special! My Abba[1] is coming!” Azaan shouted, his face glowing.

In the washroom, he eagerly poured water from the orphanage’s boiler into a basin, enjoying the warmth it provided on this bitter morning. Carefully, he scrubbed his face, his hands, and then, with a small pouch of shampoo borrowed from Salim, he lathered his hair into a frothy mess. The others watched, amused by his energy and enthusiasm, but Azaan didn’t care. Today, he would look perfect.

His freshly trimmed hair—thanks to Salim Bhai, the local barber—looked sharp. “Abba will be proud,” he thought, smiling at his reflection in the dim hallway mirror.

Azaan moved to his iron trunk, his most prized possession waiting inside. A kurta his father had given him two years ago on Eid. He pressed it to his face, inhaling the faint scent of attar[2]still lingering in the fabric. It wasn’t just a piece of clothing; it was a symbol of love, of his father’s warmth, and it made him feel closer to the man he so longed to see again.

Dressed in the kurta, Azaan stood a little taller, feeling ready for the day. His heart raced with excitement. The hours passed slowly, but Azaan kept himself busy—washing and folding his clothes, tidying his room, and preparing for his father’s arrival. Everything had to be perfect.

As the day turned into afternoon, Azaan stationed himself by the window, his eyes fixed on the road. Every distant sound, every approaching car, made his heart leap. But the day dragged on, and the road remained empty. The gate didn’t open. No familiar face appeared.

The other children, sensing his growing unease, tried to comfort him. “Maybe he’s stuck in traffic,” one suggested. “He’ll come tomorrow,” another offered, though their words rang hollow in the air. Azaan simply nodded, his gaze still fixed on the road, the hope in his chest beginning to fray at the edges.

As evening drew near, Azaan could bear the waiting no longer. He borrowed the phone again and dialled his father’s number, his hands trembling.

“Your stepmother… she didn’t want me to come,” Usman’s voice was hesitant, full of an apology Azaan couldn’t quite understand.

The words struck him with the force of a blow. “Okay,” he whispered, unable to say anything else. The phone call ended, and for a long moment, Azaan sat still, his mind spinning with confusion and hurt.

That night, the other children gathered around him. They didn’t speak much. What was there to say? But their quiet presence, their comforting touches, spoke volumes. They led him back to his bed, where he lay staring at the ceiling, his heart heavy with shattered hopes.

Tears slid down Azaan face, silent and unbidden. He thought of the other children—his brothers and sisters in pain—who shared his grief. They were the Forgotten Children, the ones left behind in the shadows of society’s indifference. The world saw them as nameless faces, often forgotten even as donations flowed in for their care. People gave money, food, clothes—but few ever paused to ask how they truly felt, what they needed beyond material comforts.

In that moment, Azaan understood. These children were not just orphans; they were symbols of a broken world, a world that had failed to give them the love and connection they deserved.

As the darkness deepened, Azaan was surrounded by the other children. They didn’t have answers, and there was no fix for the pain he carried. But in their shared silence, in their collective resilience, there was strength. They had found a thread of connection, fragile but real, that reminded them they were not alone.

For Azaan, the pain of his father’s absence was sharp, but the quiet comfort of his orphanage family was there to soften the blow. And in that comfort, there was hope—not for the perfect reunion he had dreamed of, but for something more profound: the knowledge that no child, no matter how forgotten, was never truly alone.

One day, perhaps, the Forgotten Children would no longer be forgotten. But for now, in the presence of those who cared, Azaan found a glimmer of the belonging he had yearned.

[1] father

[2] Perfume (normally rose)

Ahmad Rayees is a freelance poet and writer from Kashmir valley.

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