Asha trudged slowly down a narrow alley in suburban Mumbai, clutching heavy sacks stuffed with plastic scraps and rusty tins.
The midday sun was blistering, sweat soaking her clothes, yet she smiled faintly as she remembered her five children waiting at home: Manish, Manav, Meera, Maya, and Mohini. They were her entire world – five little ones born within the same year, like five drops of the same rain.
These children came after a brief romance with a wealthy guy, who abandoned her when he discovered the truth, preferring notoriety above responsibility. Asha never regretted her decision to be a single mother, scavenging garbage and scrap to feed and educate her children.
Life remained hard. During the rainy season, the roof of their modest rented room in Dharavi leaked, and dinner was frequently a watery dal with cold rice. Nonetheless, she persevered: “If my children keep studying, I can bear any hardship.” But as they grew older, they began to feel disconnected from their buddies.
Her eldest, Manish, would often mutter angrily:
“Mom, why can’t you work in an office like the others’ parents? I’m embarrassed that you still collect trash!”
Manav grew moody and argumentative. Meera and Maya wept because classmates scorned them as “kabadi waale kids.” The youngest, Mohini, clung to her mother silently, sadness clouding her eyes.
One stormy evening, tempers exploded. Asha returned late, holding stale, cheap rotis in her hands. Her five children quarreled loudly. Manish yelled:
“I hate this place! Where is our father? Why won’t you ever speak of him?”
Asha froze. She had hidden the truth for a decade. Trembling, she whispered a lie:
“Your father… passed away.”
But Manish refused to believe. Digging through old things, he found a photograph. He screamed:
“You lied! He’s alive, living rich – why didn’t you find him?”
The children sobbed, smashed objects, hurled questions. Asha hugged them tightly, crying:
“I’m sorry… but I love you more than life itself.”
The next morning, she rose early, kissed each forehead, and left for work, promising kulfi. But that evening, horror awaited: the door stood open, toys scattered, five school bags abandoned – her children were gone.
She ran through the slum frantically asking neighbors. One woman said:
“This afternoon, a luxury car stopped outside. The children climbed in, claiming they were going with… their father.”
Her chest tightened. Their father? How could he have appeared now?
Determined, she began searching. Scraping savings, borrowing from others, she rented a car to South Mumbai. Through an old acquaintance, she reached the mansion of Rajesh Sharma – once her lover, now a powerful industrialist with a young wife and legitimate heirs.
Asha banged on the gate, sobbing:
“Return my children! You abandoned them for ten years – why steal them now?”
Rajesh replied icily:
“Silence. They’re mine by right. They contacted me online, saying they were tired of misery.”
It turned out Manish had tracked him through Facebook and revealed their struggles. Tempted by wealth, the siblings had chosen to leave.
Inside the grand house, at first they marveled at toys and branded clothes. But Rajesh treated them merely as “assets.” His wife despised them, sneering “bastards.” Meera and Maya cried to return, Manav clashed with Rajesh’s son, while Mohini burned with fever in the strange surroundings. Finally Manish begged:
“Dad, please… let’s go back to mom.”
Rajesh smirked:
“Go back to garbage picking? Here you’ll study at international schools.”
But the children quarreled constantly, longing desperately for their mother.
Asha refused defeat. Day after day she stood before the mansion’s gates, holding a placard: Give me back my children. Soon the story spread online, igniting outrage. Reporters swarmed, forcing Rajesh into the spotlight.
Then came a shocking disclosure at a press conference: Rajesh was not their father at all. DNA tests proved no relation. Years ago, Asha had been assaulted while working in Delhi, but she concealed it, raising her children in love so they would never feel tainted.
Through tears she declared:
“You were never their father! I carried them, birthed them, raised them with my own blood. You’re just a fraud pretending to be their parent!”
Rajesh stood disgraced, abandoned by wife and shareholders alike, compelled to release the children.
All five rushed into Asha’s arms, crying:
“Mom, forgive us. We were wrong. From now on, wherever you are, we belong too.”
She smiled through tears, embracing them tightly. Life remained poor, yet her children now knew: wealth could never outweigh a mother’s love.
Asha’s ordeal spread nationwide, moving countless hearts. Charities came forward with help. From then, the tiny room in Dharavi no longer echoed with despair – inside lived a mother and her five children, who finally learned the truth: love is far richer than gold or silver.
