Old Mr. Sharma had opinions—strong ones. If you asked him the time, he’d tell you who ruined the country first. And if you asked him who, he’d lower his voice, glance around dramatically, and whisper a name—always from the same community.
But fate, as they say, has a wicked sense of humor.
One stormy evening, as Mr. Sharma reached for his walking stick, it slipped. He lunged forward, his old knees betrayed him, and down he went—right there in his living room. His hip screamed in pain. His phone? Just out of reach.
Now, in a movie, this is the part where dramatic music plays, and help miraculously arrives. But this wasn’t a movie. This was real life, where you lie helpless, staring at the ceiling, contemplating all your life choices—including why you insisted on keeping your phone on the farthest table like you were training for a marathon.
Then, a knock.
Not the soft, hesitant kind. A proper, no-nonsense, open-the-door-now-before-I-break-it knock.
"Mr. Sharma?" a voice called. "Are you okay?"
He groaned, which was the most dignified answer he could manage. The door creaked open, and in walked Rehana, the neighbor’s daughter. From that community. The very one he had spent decades criticizing.
Before he could protest, she was at his side, her hands firm and steady. "I heard you scream, you’re hurt!" she exclaimed, checking his leg. "We need to get you to a hospital."
Now, Mr. Sharma had been many things in life—schoolteacher, cricket enthusiast, self-appointed social analyst—but he had never been a man carried like a sack of onions by a woman from a community he despised. Yet, there he was, being lifted, supported, and rushed to the hospital in Rehana’s car.
As they drove, the irony hit him like a well-aimed coconut.
"You're going to be fine," she reassured him.
He scowled. "Hmph. Why are you helping me?"
She chuckled. "I know you don’t like me, Mr. Sharma, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let you suffer. Besides, if I left you there, who would argue with the shopkeeper about vegetable prices every morning and keep me entertained?"
Despite the pain, he almost smiled. Almost.
When they reached the hospital, she stayed. She filled out his forms, argued with the nurse who insisted on waiting for his next of kin, and even sat beside him while the doctor examined his leg.
"You should’ve let me be," he grumbled later, when the painkillers kicked in.
Rehana chuckled. "Maybe next time."
But they both knew there wouldn’t be a next time. Because sometimes, a single act of kindness changes everything. And as Mr. Sharma lay there, he realized something strange.
For the first time in years, his prejudices felt heavier than his broken hip.
And maybe—just maybe—it was time to let them go, “Rehana,” he cried, “You have been more daughter to me than any daughter of mine!”
Rehana just smiled…!
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