The Forgiveness I Never Deserved

I was sixteen when I last saw Zain.

We had grown up on the same street — chasing kites, stealing mangoes, and pretending the dusty lanes of our village were kingdoms of our own. He was the quiet one, always observing, always forgiving. And I? I was the loud storm. The one who laughed too much, joked too far, and often forgot where the line was drawn.

That day in summer, I crossed a line I could never erase.

We were in the madressa, memorizing the final lines of Surah Yusuf. Zain was ahead, reciting softly, perfectly — as he always did. Our teacher, Hafiz Saab, nodded in approval, which stirred a bitterness in me I didn’t know I carried. Jealousy is silent until it finds a moment to roar.

So when the break came, and the courtyard buzzed with laughter, I whispered a lie.

“Did you hear?” I told the others. “Zain cheats. He listens to recordings at night and pretends he memorized it.”

I didn’t realize how quickly poison spreads.

By the next day, whispers grew. Zain was pulled aside. Questioned. Humiliated. His eyes searched the room for an explanation, and for a moment, our gazes met.

I looked away.

He left the madressa a week later. Quietly. No arguments. No defense.

And I?

I went on. School. College. Life.

I carried on, while the guilt buried itself deep, like a rock under soft soil — always there, but never spoken of.



Years Later

I returned to the village only once after that — for Eid.

The streets had changed. Tar replaced dust. The mango trees were fewer. And someone had painted our old madressa white and blue.

That’s when I saw him.

Zain.

He was thinner now, with glasses that didn’t quite sit straight and a calmness that didn’t match the chaos I felt inside.

He smiled when he saw me. “Salaam, Hamid.”

My throat tightened. “Zain… I—how are you?”

“Alhamdulillah. I teach now. Quran, mostly. Some kids need a quieter approach.”

The irony stung.

We spoke about surface things — weather, families, jobs. He never brought up the past. And I, coward that I was, never confessed.

When we parted, he said something that haunted me long after:

> “Sometimes Allah hides truth to protect both the speaker and the listener. But He never hides justice.”




The Letter

Three months later, I got a letter. No name, just handwriting I recognized instantly.

> “Hamid,
I always knew it was you. I forgave you even before I left. But forgiveness is not always about making others feel better — sometimes it’s about freeing your own heart from hate.
You were my friend. That mattered more to me than what you did.
May Allah forgive us both.
Zain.”



I read that letter under a flickering streetlight in Lahore, tears smudging the ink.

Forgiveness. Given without being asked. A mercy that came not from me — but from someone I had wronged.



The Lesson

What do you do with forgiveness you never earned?

You carry it like a mirror.

You look into it daily and remind yourself: words are seeds. Once planted, they grow — into shade or into poison.

I started teaching too, later in life. Not just subjects — but adab, character. I told my students stories — not just of kings and prophets, but of boys who forgot that words wound, and of friends who forgave even when they shouldn’t have had to.



Final Thoughts

We often think regret is the end of a story. But sometimes, it's the beginning of responsibility.

Zain never raised his voice. Never exposed me. Never humiliated me in return. He was silent — but it was not weakness. It was strength soaked in sabr.

I wronged him.

He forgave me.

But the burden of that grace is mine to carry — and now to pass on.

If you have wronged someone, seek forgiveness before it’s too late. And if you’ve been wronged — know that forgiving does not make you small. It makes you free.