After his wife’s funeral and the thirteenth-day rituals, retired postman Manohar finally left his village and came to Mumbai to live with his son, Sunil.
Earlier, whenever he had suggested moving in, his wife would gently stop him.
“Why should we interfere in our son’s married life? Our whole life has been spent here. Whatever little is left will also be spent here.”
But this time there was no one to stop him. The silence of the empty house pressed on his chest. Memories of his wife weighed less than the pull of his son’s affection. So, with a small bag and heavy heart, Manohar boarded the train to Mumbai.
The Big House
Sunil was an engineer in a leading construction firm, and his home in a posh Mumbai locality reflected his success.
As Manohar stepped in, he hesitated at the doorway. His feet were dusty, and he worried he might soil the gleaming floor and plush carpet.
“Don’t worry, Babuji. Come inside,” Sunil assured.
Tiptoeing nervously, Manohar sat on the soft sofa — only to jump up in alarm as it sank beneath him.
“Oh! It’s dead!” he muttered. Everyone laughed, but his unease lingered.
After tea, Sunil proudly led him around the house.
“This is the lobby where we greet guests. That’s the dining hall. Here’s the kitchen and store. This is the kids’ room…”
Manohar frowned. “So children don’t sleep with their parents?”
“No, Babuji. This is the city. Kids here learn to sleep alone from birth. Mother just feeds them and carries on with her work.”
They moved on.
“This is our bedroom, that’s the guest room. And this small one is for pets — if we ever adopt a dog.”
Finally, Sunil climbed upstairs and opened a door in the corner.
“This is the junk room. Broken or useless things are kept here. We clean it on Diwali or Holi. There’s also a bathroom here.”
Inside, Manohar noticed his small bag placed neatly beside a folding cot. The room smelled faintly of dust and mothballs. A cracked chair leaned against the wall. His heart sank.
Sunil was already heading downstairs. Manohar stood alone, staring at the cot.
A Father’s Realization
He sat down slowly, running his fingers along the chipped wood of the chair. “A house so big it has a room for pets, yet for old parents, only the junk room is considered suitable…”
His chest tightened. Am I junk now?
No. He shook his head. I am not.
In the quiet, his wife’s words returned, as if carried by the evening breeze: We shouldn’t leave our home.
The Keys
The next morning, when Sunil carried tea upstairs, the cot was folded, the bag missing. He checked the bathroom, the terrace — nothing.
Panicked, he rushed downstairs. The main gate stood ajar.
Manohar was already seated in a taxi, ticket in hand. As the car moved, he slipped his hand into his kurta pocket and felt the cold touch of metal. His own house keys.
He clenched them tightly, as though they were his last anchor. The city sped past in a blur of glass towers and traffic horns. With each passing minute, his chest grew lighter.
In his mind, he could already hear the sparrows chirping on the neem tree, the clang of the handpump, his wife’s voice calling from the courtyard.
He wasn’t junk.
He was going home.