True wealth
The evening sun had just slipped below the horizon, painting the sky in molten shades of red and gold. It wasn’t dark yet, but the day had softened into a quiet, lingering warmth that seemed to breathe life into everything except Sultan Ahmed. He sat alone on a worn park bench, hands resting loosely on his knees, shoulders heavy with an invisible weight. Around him, children ran and played, their laughter sharp and bright, chasing the cricket ball with careless joy. The sound should have been cheerful, but to him, it pierced the silence of his heart, a reminder of everything he had never held.
A soft voice lingered in his mind, as if carried by the wind itself, not spoken aloud but felt: By this age, most men have lived much of their lives. They have crossed the stormy seas of youth and taken their first steps toward a gentler life. They leave behind endless toil, endless striving, and step into a chapter where they can taste the moments they missed the laughter of children, the warmth of a loving companion, the joy of living for themselves. Most men of this age find it… a quiet, golden happiness that youth had denied them.
But the Sultan had never built such a life. He had chased wealth, the glitter of fame, the fleeting pleasures of life, blind to the fragile bonds that truly mattered. Choices made in haste, moments ignored, and pride that could not bend had hollowed him out. Now, as he watched the children’s carefree laughter, each cheer, each shout, each tumble and giggle struck him like a silent blow. While other men of his age savored stolen afternoons with their loved ones, he sat in the shadow of his own mistakes, surrounded by the cold echoes of a life that had gone astray.
And yet, in that crimson twilight, he could feel an ache so deep it almost whispered in his chest. A yearning for warmth he had never earned, a longing for love that he had pushed away, a desperate wish to turn back the hands of time. But time… time had already moved on, leaving him with nothing but memories and regrets that clung to him like shadows at sunset.
The chill of the evening had deepened into darkness, the park now wrapped in quiet shadows. Sultan Ahmed remained seated on the bench, lost in the echoes of children’s laughter that had long faded into memory. A gentle voice broke through his thoughts.
“Sir… it’s completely dark now. Time to go home,” said Karim, his loyal servant, approaching cautiously.
Sultan remained still for a moment, staring ahead at the empty path, the word ‘home’ tasting strange on his tongue. After a brief silence, he finally whispered, “How can we call that … home?”
The car rolled through the quiet lanes until it reached a mansion.
The mansion rose in quiet grandeur arches, marble, and golden lights that shimmered like jewels yet within its beauty lingered a silence so heavy, it felt less like a home and more like an empty shrine.
Sultan lowered himself into a chair in the drawing room, his shoulders heavy, his face tired but not from age rather from memories that pressed harder than time.
Karim approached softly, breaking the stillness. “Sahab… what should I cook for tonight?”
Sultan looked at him, a faint smile on his lips, one that carried no joy only the ache of a man pretending to feel. His voice fell like a whisper:
“Karim… don’t cook for me tonight. I am not hungry… cook only for yourself.”
Karim hesitated, concern etched on his face. “Sir… you have to take your medicine as well.”
Sultan smiled faintly, a smile that carried the weight of a thousand regrets. “The pain I feel today… no medicine in the world can ease it,” he murmured, his voice heavy with heartfelt sorrow.
He turned and walked to his room. On the wall, framed in gentle light from the bedside lamp, hung the photographs of his parents. Sultan paused, his eyes lingering on their faces. He whispered, almost to himself, almost to the universe:
“Forgive me, Amma, Abba… I could never be the son you deserved. And… please, somehow, carry my apology to God as well… for I have failed to be a good man too.”
Sultan stood before the framed photograph of his parents, his eyes heavy, his voice trembling as he spoke.
“Ammi… Abba… aaj aapka beta 45 saal ka ho gaya. Aaj mere paas woh sab kuch hai… jiska kabhi khwaab dekhta tha. Daulat, shoharat, aaraam… sab kuch. Lekin in sab ko haasil karne ki daud mein… main sab bhool gaya.”
He paused, his gaze softening, his chest tightening with guilt.
“Par aaj… itna kuch hote hue bhi main khush nahi hoon. Kyunki asli daulat… yeh Paisa ye materialistic chizein nahi . Asli daulat toh rishton mein hoti hai… apnon ke saath, unke pyaar mein hoti hai. Aur meri sabse badi daulat toh… mere maa-baap aaplog the .” jinko mene kabhi kamaya hi nahi jinki kabhi main ehmiyat samjha hi nahi
His voice cracked, and he pressed his palm gently against the glass of the frame, as though trying to bridge the years of absence.
And then… slowly… the silence of the present dissolved. His gaze clouded, his heartbeat softened, and the world around him blurred—pulling him back into a memory he thought he had buried.
He was young again, barely in his twenties. The house was alive with the faint aroma of chai and the rustle of a Sunday morning. His mother’s voice came from the doorway, warm, hopeful, almost pleading.
“Beta… aaj to Sunday hai. Humne socha tha hum saath baith kar waqt guzarenge. Kaam to hota rehta hai.”
Sultan, adjusting his shirt and grabbing his files, barely looked up.
“Ammi, in sab cheezon ke liye mere paas waqt nahi hai. Mujhe kaam hai… bahut zaroori kaam, aur kaamiyab hone Sunday ya Monday nahi dekha jaata hai .”
Her smile faltered, the light in her eyes dimming. “Beta… zindagi mein kaamiyab hone ke chakkar mein itna aage mat nikal jana… ke tum apne hi logon ko na dekh pao. Paisa aur kaam hamesha rehte hain. Par apne log…” Her voice broke. “…apne log baar-baar nahi milte.”
He gave a short, impatient laugh. “Ammi, please. Don’t be so filmy and dramatic. Mujhe der ho rahi hai.”
And with that, he walked out of the door, leaving her standing there.
His mother’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. She turned slowly toward her husband. “Dekha? Aaj to iska janamdin tha Ab toh humse baat karne ka bhi waqt nahi hai.”
The old man let out a long sigh, his gaze fixed on the door through which their son had just vanished.
“Hamare bete ko lagta hai ke duniya ki yeh fani hone waali cheezen sabse badi daulat hain. Usse lagta hai ke inhe haasil karke woh kaamiyab ho jayega.” His voice grew heavy, carrying both wisdom and helplessness. “Magar asal daulat yeh nahi hai. Aur jab usse asal haqeeqat samajh aayegi…”
He lowered his eyes, a shadow falling over his face.
“…woh bahut pachtayega. Dar bas yeh hai… ke kahin tab tak bohot der na ho jaye.”
The memory faded. And once again, Sultan stood in his lonely mansion 45 years old, with everything he once desired, and nothing he truly needed.
