When the Waters Rose

The night was darker than usual, but the sound of the rain was deafening. At first, it felt like any other monsoon storm—a natural rhythm the villagers of Gulabad had known for generations. But as hours passed, the rain didn’t stop. It grew angrier, heavier, as though the sky itself was breaking apart.

Arif, a young man of twenty-five, stood at the doorway of his modest mud-brick house, watching the water creep slowly into the streets. His mother, who was kneading dough for bread, looked up at him with worried eyes. “It will pass,” she said softly, as though her words could comfort both of them. But deep inside, Arif knew something was different this time.

By midnight, the gentle stream that ran along the edge of the village had turned into a furious river. It swallowed fields of crops, tore away trees, and carried with it the belongings of families who were still scrambling to escape. Shouts and cries filled the air, mixed with the roaring flood that showed no mercy.

Arif rushed to his neighbors, banging on doors, warning them to move to higher ground. Children clung to their mothers, their faces pale with fear. An old man refused to leave his home, saying he had lived there for seventy years and would not abandon it now. Arif’s heart ached, but he couldn’t argue with him—he had to keep moving, helping as many as he could.

The floodwaters rose higher, entering homes, soaking beds, lifting pots and pans like toys in a bathtub. Soon, people had no choice but to climb onto rooftops, hoping to be seen, hoping to be saved. The once lively village now looked like a broken island, pieces of houses scattered, animals drowned, and the cries of people echoing under the stormy sky.

Arif’s own house was not spared. He tried to help his mother climb onto the roof as the water rushed in, but in the chaos, she slipped. He grasped her hand with all his strength, but the current was merciless. She was torn away from him, her face disappearing into the dark water. He screamed her name until his voice broke, but only the roaring of the flood answered.

When dawn arrived, the rain had slowed, but the destruction was clear. Half the village was gone. Families were broken apart, children orphaned, and the fertile land—the only livelihood of the people—lay buried under layers of mud and debris.

Arif sat on the rooftop, shivering, his eyes swollen from crying. He felt empty, powerless, and guilty for not being able to save his mother. Yet as he looked around, he saw neighbors comforting one another, sharing food that had somehow survived, carrying the injured to safety.

Something stirred inside him. He realized that though the flood had taken away their homes, their crops, and even their loved ones, it could not wash away their humanity.

In the days that followed, rescue teams arrived. Boats carried survivors to safer ground. Volunteers from nearby towns came with blankets, bread, and medicine. Strangers opened their doors for families who had lost everything. The village, though broken, was not abandoned.

Arif found himself helping tirelessly—distributing food, lifting debris, carrying children to dry land. People began to look to him for guidance, for strength. He had lost so much, but now he understood: his mother’s last glance at him was not of fear, but of trust. She had trusted him to live, to keep going, to help others.

Weeks later, when the waters finally receded, the land bore scars of destruction. Crops were gone, homes reduced to rubble. But in the heart of the survivors burned a resilience stronger than the flood. They rebuilt, brick by brick, seed by seed, and hand in hand.

Arif planted a small tree near what once was his home. As he pressed the sapling into the muddy soil, he whispered, “For you, Ammi.” It was a promise to keep living, to keep giving, to never let despair drown the spirit of his people.

The floods had taught them the cruelty of nature, but also the strength of unity. They learned that life could be rebuilt, even from ruins, if there was courage, hope, and love.

And so, Gulabad rose again—not untouched, not unscarred, but unbroken.