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After the funeral of his wife and the thirteenth-day ceremony, retired postman Manohar moved from his village to the large house of his son Sunil in Mumbai. Sunil had invited him several times before, but his mother always insisted, “Why should your father interfere in your life? He has spent his entire life here, and he will spend the rest of it here too.”

This time, there was no one to stop him, and the memories of his wife were overshadowed by his son's affection.

Upon entering the house, Manohar hesitated. He was unsure about stepping onto the soft, plush mat. He remarked, “Son, will my dirty feet ruin this mat?”

Sunil smiled and reassured him, “Don’t worry about that, come and sit down.”

As soon as Manohar sat on the cushioned sofa, he panicked, exclaiming, “Oh no! I’m sinking!” The soft cushion had enveloped him.

Sunil then took him on a tour of the house, showing him the lobby for guests, the dining hall, the kitchen, the children's room, their bedroom, and even a guest room for visitors. There was even a room designated for pets.

He then led him upstairs to show him the storage room, saying, “Dad, this is the junk room where broken items are kept.”

Inside, there was a folding cot with bedding and Manohar's bag nearby. He realized that his son had placed him in the room meant for clutter.

Sitting on the cot, Manohar thought, “What kind of house is this where there’s a room for a future pet but none for elderly parents? No… I am not yet junk. Sunil's mother was right; I shouldn’t have come here.”

The next morning, when Sunil brought tea upstairs, he found the room empty. His father's bag was also missing.

He rushed downstairs to find the main gate wide open. Manohar had already boarded the early morning bus back to the village.

He pulled out the old house key from his kurta pocket, held it tightly in his fist, and smiled. The wind from the moving bus strengthened his resolve: “I will be my own support in old age, not my children.”