A 35-year-old unmarried woman once let an old beggar into her hut to shelter from the rain, only to receive shocking news.

My name is Nandini, 35 years old, a primary school teacher in a village nestled in the lap of the Himalayas in Uttarakhand. Life is going along smoothly like any other woman’s, except… I’m still unmarried. It’s not that I’m too picky or don’t believe in love, it’s just that my luck hasn’t come yet. My mother often sighs when she sees me; my friends are either busy with their children or have gone to Delhi to earn a living. I feel like a slow-growing tree in the middle of a forest, just entering its budding phase.

That afternoon, the weather turned stormy. I was cycling home from school when it started raining heavily. Luckily, I was only two kilometers from home; There was a makeshift hut on the side of the road that people had built to shelter from the sun and rain while working in the fields, so I quickly stopped the car.

The wooden hut was old and leaking in some places, but it was still sturdy. I parked my bicycle, wiped the cold drops of water from my face, and in the distance, I saw a stooped figure approaching me.

It was an old man. He was wearing a thin, torn raincoat; his dim eyes still shone when I saw someone in the hut.

I hesitated for a moment, then stepped away and called out:

“Come inside and take shelter, it’s raining heavily!”

The old man folded his hands in thanks and went inside, trembling. As I approached, I saw that he was thin and tired; the smell of mud mingled with the musty scent of wet clothes. He sat on the edge of the hut, as if afraid of disturbing me.

I reached into my bag and pulled out a chapati sandwich and a carton of milk, which I often brought for students who didn’t want to eat:

“Please eat this to warm your stomach.”

He stared at me for a long time, his eyes strange—quite emotional, as if he recognized something familiar. He stammered:

“You… are very kind… Miss Nandini, aren’t you?”

I was startled. How did you know my name? I nodded cautiously:

“You know me?”

The old man smiled, took a bite of the cake, and said in a choked voice:

“I… knew your mother.” Decades ago, I was in the army with your father. I… I owe your family a great debt…

The rain was still pouring down. This confused me. I had never heard my mother mention anyone like that.

— My mother died when I was 20. As for my father… I never met him, — I said softly.

He nodded, his sunken eyes glistening with tears:

— Yes… because I was the only one who witnessed the night he sacrificed himself… in the mountains above Kargil, near Dras.

I was stunned.

When I was little, whenever my mother asked about my father, she would simply say: “Your father is gone forever.” No picture, no death certificate. Just an old wedding ring he’d preserved in a wooden box.

The old man said softly:

— That day, my unit and your father’s were guarding the same high ground. When enemy artillery suddenly opened fire, they pushed me into the bunker, and he… bore the full impact of the shrapnel. When I woke up, he was lying unconscious, his sweater covered in blood.

He stopped, took a small thing wrapped in an old cloth from his shirt, and handed it to me:

— I’ve kept this for decades. It was his, and he asked me to bring it back to your mother… but I didn’t have the courage… I couldn’t face the people standing behind me.

With trembling hands, I opened it: a faded letter, and a photo of us together—my young mother, standing next to a tall man in military uniform, smiling brightly. That smile… for the past 35 years. I was looking at him in the mirror.

I burst into tears.

The rain slowly stopped. The wind brought back the scent of wet grass and a part of the past.

The old man looked at me and said softly:

— Will you take me home? I just want to… finish what I have to do.

I nodded.

The small house where I had lived alone for more than ten years suddenly filled with warmth, aided by the sound of distant footsteps and the old man’s slow breathing. After a simple meal, I made hot tea and invited him over to sit and talk. The letters and photographs were still on the table. I looked at them, then at him, my heart filled with questions.

— What did you do after the war?

— I’ve been everywhere, with no relatives left. It feels like I’m living out the remaining years of someone who should have died in the mountains. — The old man smiled sadly. — I collect junk, work as a laborer. I even intended to find him and his mother… but I was a coward. I thought she would be angry at my return, but she wasn’t.

— What’s your name?

I’m Mohan. The unit called me Mohan, “Silver Beard,” because I was a year older than my brothers and always worried about the future.

Looking into Mohan’s eyes, I no longer felt strange. There was something so familiar there—like a lost piece of my family.

A few days later, I bought him new clothes, took him for a haircut, and cleaned his spare room. He became so emotional that he almost cried while eating a hot meal at home.

One morning, he quietly handed me a sheaf of old papers: a notebook containing detailed battlefield notes, the names of his fallen comrades, and a bold line: “Arvind Rana—Martyred on the high ground near Dras. Sending letters and photos to relatives.”

My throat choked. This name—my mother had never said it. But now I knew: it was my father.

Mohan said:
— At that time, we only had time to temporarily bury him on the mountain and then change the location. Many years later, a memorial was built there. If you want… I can take you to the war memorial in Kargil, Dras, and then to that old high ground.

My eyes filled with tears. After so many years of solitude, I never imagined I would have the chance to learn about my father.

…

A month later, I asked for leave and went to Ladakh with Mohan. That trip proved to be a turning point in my life.

At the Kargil War Memorial in Dras, with the help of fellow soldiers and old unit records brought by Mohan, we found my father’s name engraved on a pink stone slab in the strong mountain winds. I folded my hands, offered a garland of marigold flowers, and whispered:
— I’ve come, Dad…

That afternoon, we walked up the stone path to the hill where Mohan had told us the bunker used to be. The sky was purple behind Tololing Peak. He pointed to a grassy ridge and said:
—We built a stone mound there… In the snowy season, everything changed, but that place… I will never forget.

I knelt down, picked up some small stones, arranged them into a simple stone shrine, and placed the incense sticks I had brought from home inside. A cool breeze blew, the smoke from the incense sticks mingled. Mohan stood behind, silently wiping away his tears. I knew that at that moment, he was not only my father’s companion but also a keeper of memories—a part of history, a part of my family.

When I returned, I took Mohan to live with me. I called him “Grandpa.” In the evenings, I taught the village children, and he would sit on the veranda, telling stories of the mountains and forests, stories of soldiers who knew how to give their lives for each other. In that small house in Madhya Pradesh, for the first time in many years, I felt I was no longer alone.

I may not have met my soulmate, but I had found my roots again—my father’s name, the place where he lay, and an old man whose honest eyes were like those of people who refuse to turn their backs on the past. And I understood: sometimes, a sudden rain is enough to turn life onto a new path—a path where there is family, names, memories, and solace.