A Father's Love A Son's strength

In a small village nestled between green hills, lived a humble carpenter named Rahim and his only son, Ayaan. Rahim had lost his wife when Ayaan was just a baby, and since then, the boy became his entire world.

From the moment Ayaan could walk, he would follow his father everywhere — to the workshop, the fields, even the mosque. Rahim, though quiet and stern, loved Ayaan more than words could express. He worked long hours carving wood, making tables and chairs, just to give Ayaan a better future.

Every night, after a simple dinner, Rahim would light a lantern, sit Ayaan on his lap, and tell him stories — of prophets, of kings, of bravery and kindness. Ayaan would listen with wide eyes, asking questions, dreaming big.

"One day," Rahim would say, "you'll study in the city. You’ll become something greater than I ever could."

Years passed, and Ayaan did grow. He became smart, respectful, and curious. His teachers praised him, saying he had the heart of a leader. Rahim sold half his land and his precious old tools to pay for Ayaan’s admission into a college in the city.

The day Ayaan left, Rahim stood by the dusty road holding back tears. He didn’t say much, just placed his hand on Ayaan’s shoulder and said, “Make me proud, my son.”

City life was fast and loud. Ayaan struggled at first — the studies were hard, and the people spoke differently. But he remembered his father’s tired hands and sleepless nights, and that gave him strength. He studied late into the night, worked small jobs, and slowly, he began to rise.

Years flew by. Ayaan graduated with honors and got a good job in a big company. He would send money home, write letters often, and call his father every Friday. But he was always busy. Work meetings, promotions, a new life. His visits back home became rare.

One winter, Ayaan finally returned. He had a car now, nice clothes, and a tired face. The village looked smaller, the house older. But when he saw his father, standing outside the same old door, holding the same warm smile, Ayaan felt like a child again.

Rahim had aged. His beard was whiter, his hands more bent. Yet his eyes sparkled the same.

They sat under the neem tree, where Rahim had once carved Ayaan’s name into the bark. They talked for hours. Rahim listened proudly, though he didn’t understand much about city life or business.

“I did what you wanted, Baba,” Ayaan said softly.

Rahim nodded. “I know. But remember, success is not just in titles. It’s in the heart. Stay kind. Stay grounded.”

Ayaan nodded. That night, they prayed together, ate together, and laughed like old times.

A year later, Rahim fell ill. Ayaan rushed home, leaving everything behind. He stayed by his father’s side, fed him, changed his clothes, read him the Qur’an. The strong man who once carried him on his shoulders now leaned on Ayaan for support.

Before passing away, Rahim held his son’s hand tightly and whispered, “You’ve always been my greatest work.”

Ayaan buried his father under the same neem tree, where the wind carried the smell of sawdust and old memories. He left the city job and returned to the village. Not because he failed, but because he understood now: life was not just about rising — it was about roots.

He reopened his father’s workshop, taught village kids how to work with wood, told them stories by lantern light, and every evening, he’d sit under the tree and talk to his father in silence.