The Seeds of Tomorrow

In the small village of Mehranpur, wheat fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Their gentle sway in the wind made the entire land look like a golden sea. And standing right at the edge of this sea was Rehman Chacha, the oldest farmer in the area.

He lived alone now. His children had moved to the city, and his wife had passed away years earlier. But loneliness never hardened him — instead, it softened him. He greeted everyone with a smile, shared vegetables from his garden for free, and never spoke harshly, not even when life was unkind.

Next door lived Sameer, a twelve-year-old boy with a fiery temper and a restless heart. His teachers often complained, his classmates feared him, and even his parents struggled to control his anger.

Sameer didn’t wake up angry—he simply didn’t know where to put the feelings that overwhelmed him.

One hot afternoon, after another fight at school, Sameer stormed out of his house, fists clenched, eyes burning with frustration. He walked aimlessly, kicking dust and stones until he reached the boundary of Rehman Chacha’s field.

The old man was bent over, planting seeds carefully, talking to the soil as if it could hear him.

Sameer tried to walk past, but Rehman Chacha called out gently,

“Beta, bring me that sack of seeds, will you?”

Sameer frowned. “I don’t want to.”

Rehman smiled without looking up. “That’s alright. Help me anyway.”

Something about the softness of his voice pulled Sameer in. Grumbling, he picked up the sack and followed him into the field

The two worked side by side for several minutes in silence. Then, Sameer burst out:

“Everyone makes me angry! They tease me… they don’t listen. I hate them.”

Rehman placed a seed in the soil, covered it gently, then asked,

“Tell me, Sameer… what grows when you plant a seed of hatred?”

Sameer shrugged. “Nothing. Seeds aren’t hate.”

Rehman wiped sweat from his forehead.

“Inside us, they are.”

Sameer blinked.

“You see,” Rehman continued, “anger is a seed. If you plant it every day—through shouting, pushing, hurting—what do you think grows inside you?”

Sameer looked down, suddenly unsure.

“More anger?” he said quietly.

Rehman nodded.

“Exactly. It becomes a forest of weeds. Difficult to cut, difficult to control.”

He picked up another seed and placed it in Sameer’s hand.

“And what if you plant patience instead?”

Sameer hesitated. “Maybe… something better?”

The old man smiled. “Peace, beta. It grows peace.”

Those words stayed in Sameer’s mind all evening.

The next morning, he returned to Rehman’s field before school.

“Can I help again?”

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Of course.”

Day by day, the field became their shared place.

They planted carefully, watered the soil, removed stones, and pulled out weeds. With every silent hour spent together, Sameer felt a strange stillness spreading inside him — like the earth was teaching him how to breathe.

One day, while plucking weeds, Sameer asked,

“Chacha… why do you always talk so kindly? Even when people speak harshly?”

Rehman took his time answering.

“My father was a very angry man. I grew up afraid of him. For years, I repeated his anger. Hurt people the way he hurt me. Then one day, I realized I didn’t want to grow the same darkness he had grown.”

He looked out over the field.

“So I chose different seeds.”

Sameer listened carefully. For the first time, he understood that anger didn’t make someone strong — it made them alone.

At school, things slowly began changing too.

One afternoon, a boy bumped into Sameer in the hallway, scattering his books. Before, Sameer would have shoved him hard. But this time, he took a breath, bent down, picked up the books, and said,

“It’s okay.”

The boy stared at him, shocked.

Word spread. Sameer wasn’t exploding anymore. He was… calmer.

His teachers noticed. His parents noticed. Even the children who once feared him now approached him more confidently.

Weeks passed, and the field began to sprout. Small green shoots broke through the soil like tiny promises.

Sameer ran excitedly to Rehman Chacha.

“They grew! They really grew!”

Rehman touched the young wheat gently.

“Just like you, beta.”

Sameer blushed.

Day after day, the field grew taller, greener, stronger. The more the wheat rose, the more peace took root inside Sameer.

Then, one evening, a storm rolled in.

Thunder cracked across the sky, and the wind howled fiercely. Sameer rushed to the field, worried.

Rehman was there already, shielding the tender plants with sheets of cloth.

Sameer shouted through the wind, “Why are you saving them? You’ll get hurt!”

Rehman smiled softly. “When you plant something with love, you protect it too.”

Side by side, soaked in rain, they secured the plants until the storm passed.

The next morning, rays of sunlight broke through the clouds. The field had survived — battered, but standing.

Rehman looked at Sameer with pride in his eyes.

“This is what peace looks like. It bends… but it doesn’t break.”

Sameer felt something warm fill his chest.

Weeks later, harvest season arrived. The tall, golden wheat danced proudly in the breeze. Sameer ran up and hugged Rehman tightly.

“We did it, Chacha! Look at it!”

Rehman placed a hand on his head.

“Yes, beta. And your heart… look at how beautifully it has grown too.”

Sameer didn’t say anything, but his eyes shone with quiet gratitude.

From that day on, whenever anger stirred inside him, he closed his eyes and remembered:

The soil.

The seeds.

The storm.

The golden field that grew from patience.

And the gentle voice of an old farmer who taught him that peace isn’t found — it is planted.