In a large city colony, every morning began with the rustling of newspapers, the milkman's bell, and the sounds of car washes. Everything was at its own pace. Amid this hustle and bustle, every day came Ramu, who would deliver newspapers early in the morning, then wash Mohanji's car, and then garden at Sohanji's house.
Ramu's day would start before sunrise and end last. But rarely did anyone ask him,"Ramu, how are you?"
One day, Mohanji's younger daughter, Riya, asked,"Ramu Bhaiya, why do you come so early in the morning? Can't you sleep?"
Ramu smiled, "I do, daughter. But if I delay, the newspaper will arrive late, the car will be washed late, and then everyone will arrive late at the office. Then it will be my fault."
Riya fell silent. For the first time, she thought about how many people's days have passed before her day even begins.
That evening, Riya asked her mother, "Mom, what would the homes of the people we see working in our homes be like every day?"
Mother said, "They might be small, but what do we care?"
Riya didn't like this answer. She decided she would go to Ramu Bhaiya's house.
The next Sunday, Riya asked her father, "Papa, should we go to Ramu Bhaiya's house today?"
Mohan was initially surprised, then asked, "What will you do by going there?"
Riya replied, "Papa, he comes to our house every day. We can go to his house one day."
After some hesitation, Mohan ji agreed. Ramu was asked where his house was. He was initially scared and said, "Sir, there's nothing worth seeing there."
But Riya insisted, "Still, let's go, we want to see it."
In the evening, they all left with Ramu. About five kilometers away, in a slum on the outskirts of town, stood Ramu's house—mud walls, a tin roof, and a clothesline strung outside. Ramu's wife was lighting a wood stove in the kitchen, and their two young children were tracing letters from old books.
Riya looked around. A broken calendar hung on the wall, a bulb flickering intermittently, and an old radio. But there was a strange warmth in that small house—a sense of belonging, simplicity, and the scent of hard work.
Mohanji remained silent for a moment. He realized that behind every comfort in their home was the sweat of some Ramu. The cleanliness of their house, the beauty of the garden, the children's punctuality in arriving at school—all were the result of someone's labor.
Riya asked Ramu's wife, "Don't you feel tired?"
She smiled, "I do feel tired, daughter, but when the children study, it feels like they're doing something good."
Returning home that night, Mohan told his family,"The people we call 'helpers' are the ones who actually make our house a 'home.' We think we pay them a daily salary, but the real payment is our respect."
From the next day, they made a new rule—every Sunday, one family member would dedicate it to "Helpers' Day." On that day, they would visit their homes, talk to them, and offer some help.
Gradually, other people in the colony joined in. The newspaper vendor, the gardener, the driver, the sweeper—everyone now had people from the city visiting their homes, listening, and showing respect.
Ramu's slum was starting to look a little better. The children had new books, and his wife's face glowed with self-respect.
One day, Riya said, "Dad, did you see? We just thought of 'going to their house once,' and now everyone has a home in their hearts."
Lesson : -
Every home runs on someone's labor. We must remember that the same love, respect, and affection should reach the homes of those without whom our home is incomplete.
Because—Look at how many homes are run from your home. Look at how far their homes are from yours—look at those homes."
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