"The Old Man and His Ringing Companion"

The afternoon sun filtered gently through the lace curtains of a small, quiet room. In the corner sat Abdul Kareem, an old man with silver hair and tired eyes, rocking slowly in his chair. The house was silent, except for the ticking of a wall clock and the faint rustle of leaves outside.

On the table beside him lay a small, outdated mobile phone. It wasn’t one of those sleek new touchscreens everyone seemed to carry. It was a simple device—black, with large buttons, a tiny screen, and scratches on the back. But to Abdul Kareem, it was far more than just a phone.

He reached out and picked it up, his rough, wrinkled fingers tracing the familiar edges. It had been a gift from his son, Imran, years ago. “So you can call me anytime, Abbu,” Imran had said, slipping it into his father’s hand before leaving for the city to work. Abdul Kareem had smiled then, not realizing how much this little machine would come to mean to him.

At first, he used it rarely. A quick call to ask if Imran had eaten, a short greeting on Eid, sometimes a reminder to bring medicine when visiting. But as the months passed, those calls became less frequent. Imran’s work kept him busy, and Abdul Kareem didn’t want to disturb him.

Still, he kept the phone charged. Every morning after Fajr prayer, he would check if there were any missed calls or messages. Most days, there weren’t. But on the days there was even a short “How are you, Abbu?” his heart felt light for hours.

One rainy evening, while sitting by the window, he remembered how Imran had shown him the phone’s functions. “This is the green button to answer, the red one to hang up,” Imran had explained patiently. Abdul Kareem had laughed, saying, “I’m too old for all this technology.” But secretly, he was proud to have learned something new.

The years passed, and the old man’s world grew smaller. Friends from the mosque moved away or passed on. His knees ached too much for long walks. The phone became his window to the outside world. It connected him not just to Imran, but to his younger sister in another city, to an old friend in the village, and even to the shopkeeper who would call to confirm grocery orders.

One winter night, Abdul Kareem sat in bed, staring at the phone. It had been two months since Imran had last called. The silence weighed heavy on him. He thought of calling, but then imagined his son’s busy voice saying, “Abbu, I’m in a meeting, can I call you later?” And so he decided to wait.

Then one day, something unexpected happened. While watering the small plants in his yard, the phone rang. Startled, Abdul Kareem rushed inside and answered.

“Abbu! How are you?” It was Imran’s voice, warm and full of energy.

“I’m fine, beta. How are you?” he replied, smiling without realizing.

“I’m good. Listen, my work is finally less hectic. I’ll be visiting next weekend.”

Those words were like rain on dry soil. For the next few days, Abdul Kareem prepared the house, dusting shelves, changing bedsheets, and even making a list of dishes Imran loved. The phone stayed in his pocket at all times, just in case.

The weekend came, and so did Imran. The visit was short but full of laughter, shared meals, and long talks late into the night. Before leaving, Imran handed him a small box.

Inside was a brand-new smartphone.

“Abbu, this one can make video calls. You’ll be able to see me when we talk,” Imran said.

Abdul Kareem hesitated. The old phone had been his silent companion for years, holding countless memories in its worn buttons. He didn’t want to replace it. But seeing the excitement in his son’s eyes, he nodded.

Learning the new phone wasn’t easy. The screen would sometimes freeze because he pressed too hard. The icons confused him, and he often forgot where the camera app was. But Imran patiently taught him before leaving again.

One evening, a week later, the new phone rang—not just with sound, but with Imran’s face smiling on the screen.

“Assalamu Alaikum, Abbu!”

“Wa Alaikum Assalam, beta. I can see you!” the old man laughed, his eyes shining.

From that day on, the calls became more frequent. Sometimes just to share a cup of tea “together” over video, sometimes to see his grandson showing him school drawings, and sometimes just to talk about the weather.

The old man still kept the old phone, though. It sat on his bedside table, turned off but never thrown away. It was a reminder of the years when a simple ring had the power to brighten his entire day.

One night, as he lay in bed, Abdul Kareem thought about how strange life was. A small device—no bigger than his palm—had been a bridge across miles, keeping him connected to the people he loved. He realized it wasn’t the phone itself that mattered. It was the voices, the laughter, the shared moments it carried.

He smiled to himself, whispered a prayer for his son, and drifted off to sleep with the new phone charging by his side and the old one resting quietly nearby—a silent witness to years of love, longing, and connection.