She began walking calmly toward the main road. Then she saw the mad man — the man who always slept under an abandoned vehicle, surrounded by scraps. He was curled up, shivering in the cold. Her heart tightened with pity.
If she had the means, she would have helped him find shelter — for months he had lived like that.
Before she could look away, children ran toward him shouting insults:
“Dirty madman!”
“Madman with poop in his clothes!”
He just sat, looking at them with an open, innocent face, even smiling, though some threw stones. He never defended himself.
Anger rose inside Shahida. Adults were passing, seeing this, yet nobody corrected the children.
Without thinking, she ran across the road and began driving the children away, scolding them angrily in the way she could speak.
They burst into laughter and mocked her back:
“You yourself are deaf! You’re a mad girl just like him!”
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