The Rain and Regret

The Rain and Regret

BY:Khan

The weather was delightfully pleasant that day. I was sitting on the veranda, watching the rain pour down. At a distance, the trees lining the lawn swayed gently in the breeze, and the cool air seemed to caress everything it touched. The flowers, plants, and trees appeared fresher, more vibrant, and somehow more alive under the touch of the rain. It was one of those moments when nature seems to pause and breathe with you.

Suddenly, a rickshaw came to a stop near the porch. From it, an elderly woman stepped down and walked straight toward me. I rose to my feet as she approached. At first glance, her features seemed unfamiliar, almost foreign. But as I looked more closely, a sense of recognition began to stir. Slowly, memories returned to me. Many years ago, when I had lived in Islamabad, this woman had lived in the house opposite mine. She had always presented herself with the grandeur of a queen, dressed elegantly, and carried herself with pride and poise.

It took me a moment, but then I recognized her. What had initially thrown me off was the drastic change in her appearance—her demeanor, her attire, everything seemed completely different from the confident lady I remembered.

“Oh! Khala Jan, please come in,” I said, gesturing to the chair. I helped her sit down and studied her frail, tired face and worn-out clothes. Concerned, I asked gently, “Khala Jan, it’s been so long since I last saw you. Are you alright? You seem unwell.”

She looked at me with pleading eyes and began to speak, her voice heavy with sorrow. “My dear child,” she said, “I have found your house with great difficulty. You see, after my husband passed away, I punished my son for choosing his own wife by casting him out of the house. I acted rashly, influenced by my two daughters. The elder daughter’s marriage you have seen, but my younger daughter… she once told me, ‘Mother, register this bungalow in my name, so that brother cannot trouble you.’ My younger daughter’s marriage had not taken place yet, so I thought it best to have the mother and daughter live together. With the house in my daughter’s name, the son would have no claims.

“This plan, however, soon became known to our relatives. There was a boy in the family who wished to marry my daughter. Since there was no reasonable excuse to refuse, I consented. The marriage took place, and within a short time, the son-in-law began to demand, ‘Transfer this bungalow in my name.’ My daughter, without consulting me, gave the house to him to keep her husband happy. It was entirely his influence that persuaded her to act this way.

“Thus, I came to live at my sister’s house in Lahore. My son, who should have been my support in old age, turned away from me, and even my daughter followed his lead. Now, I am left alone here. I have fallen ill, I have no money for medicines, and although I have three children, I feel as if I am childless. I am convinced that my son never should have been expelled from our home. I regret it deeply. A small mistake on my part led to such a severe punishment for him, and today, in my old age, I am abandoned.

“I have come to you, my child, because I want my home back,” she said, joining her hands in plea. Her eyes brimmed with tears, which poured down like the heavy rain outside.

I instinctively leaned forward and embraced her. Her tears mingled with mine. It was impossible to stop them. As I held her, I reflected on life’s cruel ironies. How often do people not consider the consequences of their actions? How frequently do we act in haste, blinded by anger or pride, only to be left with regret that grows heavier with age?

She remained in my embrace, and I could feel the depth of her loneliness and sorrow. A life once full of pride, comfort, and dignity had been reduced to helplessness and longing. I understood that her greatest suffering was not just in losing her property, but in losing the love and support of her family—her own children. And yet, she had the courage to approach me, seeking help with humility and hope, despite her shame and the weight of her past mistakes.

The rain continued to pour outside, drumming gently on the roof of the veranda. But inside, a different storm had subsided—tears of grief, regret, and compassion mingled, washing away years of separation and misunderstanding. I held her a little longer, feeling the warmth of shared humanity.

Life, I realized, is full of such twists. The same hands that punish can also nurture, the same hearts that stray can return, and the same choices that bring sorrow can later teach lessons of forgiveness and empathy. In that moment, amidst the rain, I understood the true value of compassion and the quiet, healing power of human connection.

And as the storm outside eased, so did the storm in our hearts, leaving behind a fragile but genuine hope that perhaps, in time, lost homes and lost relationships could be mended.