The Divine Eye for Appreciating Treasures: Starting from Escape from Northern Myanmar

In that corner forgotten by time, in the lower reaches of the Bharat River, there is a turbid stream that has witnessed countless joys and sorrows of the world.

It is no longer a source of nourishment for life, but has turned into a symbol of poverty and despair. The river water is turbid, with all kinds of garbage floating on it, including plastic bags, worn-out clothes, rotten fruits and vegetables, and even animal carcasses. As the water flows slowly, it emits a suffocating stench, as if it is nature's accusation against human beings' excessive demands and abandonment.

On this land stands a world-famous slum, which is like a scar on the edge of the city. No one cares about it, but it cannot be ignored.

The narrow alleys are intricately arranged, with dwellings on both sides barely built with scrap wooden boards, iron sheets and even plastic sheets. When the wind blows, they become shaky and seem like they will collapse at any time.

The air was filled with the smell of burning coal, raw sewage, and the ubiquitous, sickening stench of the river, interweaving into a silent song of sorrow.

In this chaos, the old man, like a lone grain of sand in the desert, stood out.

His back was hunched and his skin was full of wrinkles from the scorching sun and wind and sand. His eyes were sunken, but they sparkled with an unyielding light.

The bucket in his hand seemed to weigh a thousand pounds to him, and every step he took was extremely difficult.

His steps staggered, and he stopped to catch his breath from time to time. Sweat and tears mixed together, slid down his wrinkled cheeks, dripped into the dust, and were instantly absorbed without a trace.

Finally, after collapsing, he fell heavily to the ground, his knees and elbows hitting the hard ground, leaving mottled bloodstains.

But he did not give up, instead he used all his strength to crawl forward like a wounded beast. The water in the bucket became his only hope for survival, even though it was only sewage that was slightly better than river water.

When I returned to the so-called "home", it was actually just a shed that could barely shelter me from the wind and rain. There was nothing inside except a few pieces of rags that could barely serve as a bed.

The old man sat weakly on the ground, gasping for breath, looking around with empty eyes.

This environment is both familiar and unfamiliar to him, and every return is like facing the cruel reality again.

With trembling hands, he took out a handful of dried curry from his pocket. It was his only seasoning and the only warmth he could feel on his taste buds.

He mechanically put the curry into his mouth. The spicy taste stimulated his taste buds and seemed to awaken his dormant will.

After a moment, he struggled to sit up, his breathing still difficult, and every breath felt like a sharp knife cutting through his lungs.

He looked around, a trace of determination flashed in his eyes. He realized that he could not be defeated by life like this, even in this hellish environment, he had to find a glimmer of hope.

So he reached out to the side, where there was a worn-out cell phone, which was his only connection with the outside world.

The computer was turned on and the screen lit up. The faint light was particularly dazzling in this dim space.

He stared at the phone number on the screen. It was the only ray of hope in his memory—the phone number of the Xia State Police Department.

Although he knew that this call might not bring any substantial help, he still decided to make it.

At that moment, his heart was filled with complex emotions: anticipation, fear, and a hint of imperceptible hope.

The call was connected, and a strange and calm voice came from the other end.

In a trembling voice, the old man narrated his plight and the endless suffering that this Bharat river had brought to the people here.

Although his voice was weak, every word was full of power. It was an accusation against life and a desire for the future.

There was silence for a long time on the other end of the phone, as if the person was digesting this tragic story from a distant country.

"I am the old man on your police department's wanted list. I want to turn myself in."

Turn yourself in? Old man?

The police department thought it was a prank.

The old man's hand holding the phone was trembling slightly. After the call ended, the brief warmth seemed to dissipate, leaving only deeper loneliness and despair.

He slowly put down his phone and glanced over this drafty "home" again. Every dilapidated corner seemed to be silently mocking his incompetence and powerlessness.

His breathing became heavier, and every breath he took felt like a storm in his lungs. The pain and stuffiness intertwined together, almost suffocating him.

He tried to stand up, but his legs felt as heavy as if they were filled with lead, and he could only sit on the ground helplessly. Sweat and tears mixed together, soaking his clothes and blurring his vision.

An unprecedented despair surged in the old man's heart.

He thought back on his life, his lofty ambitions in his youth, his hard work in his middle age, and now he had ended up like this.

He wanted to create a better life for his family, but the reality was like a mountain that made him breathless.

The dirtiness and mess of the Bharat River is not only a reflection of the harsh environment, but also a reflection of his inner world, which is full of helplessness and despair.

He looked around and saw that his neighbors, who also lived in the slums, also had numb and tired faces.

They either sit or lie down, silently bearing the burden of life in their respective corners, as if they have become accustomed to such hopeless days.

The old man knew that he was not alone, but this resonance did not bring him any comfort. Instead, it made him feel the abyss of despair more deeply.

He began to question the meaning of his existence.

Why did he have to endure such suffering? Why did fate treat him so unfairly? He tried to find the answer from his memory, but the beauty and hope he had seemed so pale and powerless in the face of the cruel reality.

Just then, a gust of wind blew, bringing more stench and dust.

The old man felt nauseous, but he no longer had the strength to avoid it.

He closed his eyes and let the wind blow across his face, taking away the tears and sweat on his face.

He felt as if he had been abandoned by the world and had become a lonely ghost that no one cared about.

However, in this abyss of despair, a faint light suddenly lit up in his heart.

It is the longing for family, the desire for life, and a slightly uncertain longing for the future.

He knew that he couldn't just give up.

Although life has brought him endless suffering, he still has to keep going for the sake of those who love him and for the things that are still worth protecting.

So the old man took a deep breath and stood up with all his strength.

He staggered over to the battered bucket and lifted it again, even though he knew it would be a difficult journey.

Under the witness of the Bharat River, the old man's embarrassment and despair were infinitely magnified.

Surrender?

That’s not easy either. Now I don’t even have the strength to surrender myself.