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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 often invited him before, but his mother would always respond, “Why should I interfere in my son and daughter-in-law's life? I have spent my entire life here, and I intend to spend whatever time I have left here as well.”

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 felt uncertain 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, Baba. Please, have a seat.”

As Manohar settled onto the cushioned sofa, he felt a sudden panic, exclaiming, “Oh no! I’m sinking!” The soft cushion enveloped him deeply.

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.

Finally, he led Manohar upstairs to the storage room, saying, “Baba, this is the junk room where we keep broken items.”

Inside, a folding cot was set up, and Manohar noticed his bag placed nearby. He realized that his son had allocated him space in the junk room.

Sitting on the cot, Manohar thought, “What kind of house is this that has a room for a future pet but none for aging 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. Manohar's bag was gone.

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

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