The Last Coin

In the dusty lanes of a small village, there lived a man named Rahim. He was a simple man, working odd jobs — carrying bricks at a construction site, cleaning shops, and sometimes selling vegetables. Life had never been easy, but he never complained. He lived in a one-room house with his 10-year-old son, Ali.

Ali was full of life — always smiling, always dreaming. His biggest dream? A shiny red bicycle. He would stand every day outside the village shop, hands pressed against the glass, staring at it with wonder. He had seen other kids riding theirs to school, laughing and racing through the streets. But Rahim could never afford one, not even close.

One evening, Ali came running home, eyes glowing.

“Baba! There’s a school race next month! Only boys with bicycles can enter. If I win, I’ll get a scholarship. I won’t have to leave school!”

Rahim’s heart ached. He looked at his son, so full of hope. But he also looked at the worn-out wallet in his pocket — it barely held enough for that week’s food.

“We’ll see, beta,” Rahim said quietly.

That night, Rahim couldn’t sleep. He looked at the calendar — the race was 30 days away. He made a silent promise to himself: Ali will get that bike.

From the next morning, Rahim worked harder than ever before. He took on more work — lifting sacks at the mill in the morning, washing dishes at night, even skipping meals to save a few rupees. Every coin he earned went into an old rusted tin he hid under his bed.

Ali noticed the change.

“Why don’t you eat with me anymore, Baba?”

“I already ate, beta,” Rahim would lie with a smile.

Each day, the tin got heavier, and Rahim’s body got weaker. But he never stopped. He counted the coins every night, whispering a prayer.

Finally, a day before the race, Rahim stood outside the bicycle shop, his calloused hands clutching the tin. The shopkeeper opened it and counted.

“You’re still short,” he said, shaking his head. “By 200 rupees.”

Rahim’s face fell. “Please, it’s for my son. I’ll pay the rest later, I promise.”

The shopkeeper looked at the old man — tired, desperate, but honest. After a pause, he pushed the bicycle forward.

“Take it. For the boy.”

Tears welled in Rahim’s eyes. He whispered a thousand thanks and walked home, pushing the red bicycle.

When Ali saw it, he screamed with joy. “You did it, Baba! You did it!”

Rahim smiled, the deepest smile he had in years. “Go win that race, my son.”

The next day, Ali rode with pride, wind in his hair, heart full of dreams. He didn’t win first place — he came third — but it was enough for the scholarship. He ran home, waving the letter.

“We did it, Baba! I’m staying in school!”

Rahim took the paper in his trembling hands and held his son close.

Years passed. Ali grew up, finished school, and got a job in the city. Rahim never bought anything for himself — not even new shoes. But he never stopped smiling, because his son was living the dream.

One day, Ali returned home in a car. He walked into the same one-room house, saw the same rusted tin on the shelf. Rahim was older now, slower, but still proud.

Ali knelt before him and placed a new pair of shoes at his feet.

“You gave me everything, Baba. Now it’s my turn.”

Moral:

Sacrifice is the purest form of love. A parent may give up everything just to see their child smile. Sometimes, the smallest dreams carry the biggest stories — and the richest hearts aren’t measured in money, but in love.