His wife was gravely ill, and the husband soon turned to the maid, vowing to transfer the property into her name. When the registration day came, the entire household was stunned by her hidden truth…
In South Delhi, Mrs. Meera silently endured her critical illness. The home in New Friends Colony grew lonelier each day. Her husband, Mr. Rajesh, cared for her at first, but exhaustion led him to rely heavily on their young maid Pooja, who lived with them.
“Please eat,” Pooja muttered, setting the warm dal before him.
“Thanks. You’re always so kind,” Rajesh whispered, sadness clouding his face.
Pooja clasped his hand gently. “Don’t worry. I know how painful this must be for you.”
Her soft words and tender gestures soon trapped Rajesh’s heart. Whenever Mrs. Meera slept after medicine, he and Pooja disappeared together. Pooja then started picturing herself as mistress of the Delhi house. She kept convincing him:
“Rajesh ji, I only wish for a little place where I can oversee you forever. Will you… give this house to me?”
Rajesh wavered, but blinded by attachment he eventually agreed. Pooja hastily drafted the deed and expected an appointment at the sub-registrar’s office in Saket.
That night, as Pooja prepared the transfer papers, Asha—daughter of Rajesh and Meera—walked into the living room, clutching a small tape recorder.
“Papa, listen first,” Asha said firmly, her tone calm yet unwavering.
The tape played. At first, Pooja’s voice argued, “Sir, I only need a house…” Then another recording followed—her voice over the phone to a friend:
“That old woman won’t last long. The New Friends Colony property will soon be mine. Mr. Rajesh is weak and alone, he’ll yield if I push a little…”
Rajesh froze, his skin drained of color. He faced Pooja—shaking now, her face pale as chalk.
“Pooja, say something!” he implored.
She cried, attempting excuses, but no words came.
Asha straightened, eyes sharp on Pooja. “My mother has just passed, and already you plot so audaciously. I won’t let my father lose what he built his whole life. Leave our house. Right now.”
Pooja lowered her head, covered her face, and rushed out through the gate, abandoning the unsigned deed on the table.
Rajesh collapsed into a chair, burying his face as tears spilled. His wife was gone, and now even his trust in himself was rui:ned. He muttered to his daughter, voice breaking: “Asha… you saved me.”
Asha wrapped her arms around him. “I did it to protect you and this home—the very home my mother guarded till her last breath.”
The South Delhi night fell silent. Rajesh realized then: the greatest treasure was not passion born from emptiness, but truth and family bonds—what Meera had left behind, and what Asha now carried forward.
