Footsteps to Follow

The morning sun filtered through the gaps in the wooden window shutters, casting lines of golden light on the floor. Birds chirped softly in the distance, their song interrupted only by the creak of the old rocking chair on the porch.

Old Ram Prasad sat on that chair, wrapped in a woolen shawl, a faded turban resting gently on his head. His face was a map of time—etched with the lines of laughter, loss, and long days under the sun. He had seen seasons change, watched people come and go, and held onto memories as one clutches a warm blanket on a cold night.

Inside the house, his young son Aarav, barely ten years old, was struggling to tie his shoelaces. His schoolbag leaned against the door, already stuffed with books too heavy for his small frame.

“Baba,” Aarav called, “Can you help me?”

Ram Prasad slowly stood, each step a reminder of his years. He walked in, knelt beside his son, and tied the laces with a steady hand.

“You’ll learn this soon,” he said with a smile.

“I’d rather not. Why do we even need shoes? Can’t I just go barefoot like you used to, Baba?” Aarav asked innocently.

Ram Prasad chuckled, “Yes, I did. But the roads have changed, son. They’re harder now. Full of stones and noise.”

Aarav tilted his head. “But you always say the old days were better.”

“They were,” Ram replied, gazing out the door. “But not easier.”

That evening, Aarav came home from school upset. His eyes were red, fists clenched.

“They laughed at me,” he muttered.

“Who?” asked Ram Prasad gently.

“Some boys. They said I live in an old house, with an old father who doesn’t work. They said you’re useless.”

Ram Prasad's gaze didn’t falter. He sat on the floor next to Aarav.

“Come with me,” he said.

They walked together to the edge of the village, where the land opened into golden fields swaying in the wind. There, Ram Prasad pointed to the earth.

“This land,” he said, “was once dry and cracked. I tilled it with my hands when I was younger than you. I grew wheat, carried bundles twice my weight, and gave food to families who had none.”

He turned to Aarav. “Your school is built on land I helped clear. The well you drink from—my friends and I dug it with our own hands.”

Aarav’s eyes widened.

“But I don’t want you to follow in my footsteps,” Ram continued. “I want you to choose your own path. But never forget where the road began.”

“Then why don’t people respect you now?” Aarav asked, the confusion still thick in his voice.

Ram Prasad sighed. “People forget. That’s the way of the world. But respect, true respect—it doesn’t come from others. It comes from how you walk your path. Quietly. With strength. With kindness.”

The two sat in silence as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant hues.

In the days that followed, something changed in Aarav. He still went to school, still played with friends, but his questions grew deeper. He began asking about Ram Prasad’s life—how he met Aarav’s mother, how the village changed, why certain trees were planted in certain corners of the fields.

One evening, he asked to be taught how to sow seeds.

“I thought you didn’t want to be a farmer,” Ram said, amused.

“I don’t. But I want to know what it feels like to grow something.”

Years passed.

Aarav grew taller, sharper, wiser. He left for the city to study, carrying his father’s stories with him like sacred scriptures. Ram Prasad watched him leave, standing barefoot on the very porch where he once rocked his infant son to sleep.

Letters came. Then emails. Then phone calls. And finally, one day, Aarav returned—not a boy, but a man.

He came not with city pride or polished words, but with muddy hands and tearful eyes. Ram Prasad, now older and slower, embraced him silently.

“I want to start something here,” Aarav said. “A school. For the children of farmers. For those who’ve been forgotten.”

Ram Prasad smiled.

“I see,” he said. “You’ve found your path.”

Aarav nodded. “Yes. But I think I walked part of it in your footsteps.”

That evening, as the sun sank into the fields once again, two figures stood side by side—the old man and the young. Behind them, two sets of footprints in the dust. One deep, weathered, and fading. The other, newer, still forming, but strong.

And for a moment, time stood still—just long enough to see one life quietly hand the torch to the next.