A story of the only true wealth

Written by: Rahat
In the final hours of the night, when the world was asleep behind the tall, silent walls of a luxurious Lahore bungalow, one room remained lit. Inside, a man sat not with his expensive watch, laptop, or busy schedule—but in front of an old wooden chest. From that chest, he had taken out a scarf a soft, sky-blue scarf with delicate embroidery around the edges. Now, it was wet with his tears.

That scarf belonged to his mother.


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Chapter One: The Music of a Sewing Machine

“Ammi... can the same scarf last so many years?”
“My son, this isn’t just cloth it’s a prayer. A mother’s prayer never wears out.”

Arsalan’s childhood echoed with the rhythm of his mother’s sewing machine. That click-clack wasn’t just stitching clothes it was stitching his dreams, his future. In the dusty lanes of poverty, his mother’s scarf would often become a broom, yet her forehead was never dusty. Her hands were calloused, but her face forever calm.

To send Arsalan to school, she stitched for hours curtains, bridal dresses, clothes for others. Yet she never stitched a new outfit for herself. She never complained. Her son’s future was the only thing that mattered.


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Chapter Two: Life’s First Lie

One day at school, the teacher asked:
“Arsalan, why aren’t you wearing your new uniform?”

Ashamed, Arsalan replied, “Miss... my mother was ill, couldn’t manage to get one.”

The truth? His mother had spent the night turning old clothes into a new uniform—she even cut up her own dupatta for it. But Arsalan didn’t want to expose her sacrifice. Somehow, it felt like a secret treasure—too sacred to share.

That day, he told his first lie and buried the first piece of his mother’s greatness in his heart.


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Chapter Three: The Call of the City, A Mother’s Silent Cry

Time passed. Arsalan won a scholarship to a prestigious city university. His mother stayed back in their small village. Mobile signals were unreliable. Calls came rarely, but when they did, she’d always say:

“My son, stay happy. I’m always busy... with prayers.”

One night, his mother fell severely ill. A neighbor called.

“Son, your mother isn’t well.”

Arsalan was busy with a university project. He paused, then said,
“I’ll come tomorrow.”

But tomorrow was too late.


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Chapter Four: Final Meeting, or Final Regret?

When Arsalan reached home, her breathing was shallow. Her face was frail, but her eyes still sparkled with love. He held her hand and sobbed:

“Ammi... forgive me. I came late...”

She gently touched his head and whispered:

“You’ve succeeded, my son... My work here is done. Now I can rest.”

And with that final breath, her eyes closed forever.


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Chapter Five: The Wealth That Remained Behind

Five years later—Arsalan had everything. A booming business, media fame, and fortune beyond imagination. But something was missing—his mother.

Inside his mansion, one room had no air-conditioning. Just an old bed, her sewing machine, and that wooden chest.
Every night, Arsalan would sit silently in that room.

This room was his mother’s legacy—the symbol of the wealth no one could ever earn, or buy.


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Chapter Six: The Journalist’s Question

One day, a young journalist came for an interview. With emotion in her voice, she asked:

“Mr. Arsalan, what’s the secret behind your success?”

Arsalan paused, then softly said:

“There was a wealth that shaped me my mother.
No one ever earned anything like her. No one could ever buy her.”

He stood up and led the journalist into that plain, sacred room. He opened the chest, pulled out the scarf, and said:

“This scarf was on my shoulders when I had nothing. And it still is, even when I have everything. The only difference? Back then, she was alive. Now… only her prayers remain.”




Chapter Seven: The Ruthless Lesson of Time

As the story ended, the journalist’s eyes filled with tears.

“If you could spend one more day with your mother,” she asked, “what would you do?”

Arsalan smiled gently:

“I would become a child again, and sleep in her lap. I would say
‘Ammi, please… don’t ever leave again. Even with all the wealth in the world, I never found the peace I had in your arms.’”

A mother is not just a relation—she’s a living prayer.
She’s not merely a person she’s paradise, not beneath the feet, but deep inside the heart.

A mother’s affection is not found in gold, currency, or fame.
She comes once. And those who fail to value her… remain empty, even while holding the whole world in their hands.

“A treasure like a mother never earned, never bought.