There was a boy who used to work in a small hotel, in a town. His boss often abused him even in a little mistake. He had no fate to have a square meal a day. Whenever cruelly beaten up, he used to go up to an old tree of nearby the hotel. There he cried quietly expressing his hidden sorrows to the tree. He showed his burnt skin of hands, marks of sticks on his legs and marks of fingers on his cheeks. There, he screamed many times, asking where about of his mother.

While washing the hotel’s big cooking pots and utensils, he expressed his feelings to himself, “The story of these poor pots and my story is similar—every day even being burnt on the fire cannot cry. If my mother were here, I would cry on her lap telling their story!”

One day, his boss, again, beat him without any fault of him. After completing his assigned works, he quietly ran up to the old tree, but when he reached there, he could not find the tree. The tree was already taken by the municipality department, to a mill. So not finding the tree, he cried long kneeling before the remaining of the tree.

After sometimes, he wiped off the falling tears of his eyes then walked straight away from there. That a whole day, the cooking pots and utensils of the hotel waited for him, but he never returned.