The son did not allow his old mother to enter the house as she had lost the house papers. She secretly went to stay at her neighbour’s place and met the police to plan revenge. Exactly a week later…

A two-storey house at the corner of a small lane in Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, was my life’s savings, built in my name with years of sweat and tears while selling vegetables in the market. But that day, I was standing right in front of the iron-locked gate, looking at my real son, Arvin, who was rudely pointing to the street:

“If you lose the property papers, don’t blame me! Irresponsible people are not welcome in this house!”

I was stunned. It was true that a few days ago the property papers were missing from the cupboard, but I did not dare to suspect anyone. I just saw Arvin calling out anxiously, then suddenly changing the lock and kicking me out of the house like a stranger.

I silently turned away. I didn’t cry. I didn’t giggle. I didn’t tell him anything:
I still had notarized photocopies and other important papers that he didn’t know about.

That night, I packed my bags and went to live temporarily at my nearby neighbour’s house. She loved me so much that she gave me the old back room, next to Arvin’s house. From there, I saw everything.

Three days later, I heard him partying in the house, his arrogant laughter echoing throughout the courtyard:

“The land broker said that since the house was in my mother’s name, he lost all the documents and had to wait for more than a month to get the fake documents made. But now I have the scan, I have signed the bail contract, and within a week two crores have been paid!”

I froze. So that’s all that happened…

Without hesitation, I called up an old friend – who is now a retired economic police officer in Kanpur, but he still had many contacts. I explained everything to him, a copy of the land certificate, the relevant documents, even the recording of the conversation from across the wall and the clip of the mini camera I secretly installed before leaving the house. Every piece was a piece of the puzzle, but together they planned an organized property fraud.

Exactly a week later, when Arvin was taking the “home buyer” to see the house, three plainclothes policemen came out of Seema’s house with me.

“Mr. Arvin – please come to work at the police station. We have received a complaint against you for forging documents and fraudulently trying to sell property that does not belong to you. ”

His face turned pale. The man accompanying him was stunned:

“Didn’t your mother agree to sell the house already?”

I stepped forward, took out the original land document from my pocket, and said plainly:

“I’m the legal owner. I have never authorized anyone. And if you want to know more, the file exposing his forged signature is already in the hands of the police. ”

The news shook the entire neighborhood. Neighbors gossiped, some sympathized, some criticized. Some said I was clever, others felt sorry for the son who was so greedy that he lost his mother.

As far as I’m concerned… I felt neither happy nor happy.
I just feel relieved that I didn’t put my full trust in the person who calls me mother, but sees me as an obstacle that must be removed.

Part 2 – The Darkness Behind Bars

That evening, when Arvin was being taken to the police station in Lucknow in plain clothes, the entire locality was still in commotion. Falsification of land documents is a very serious offence in India, usually dealt with under Sections 420 and 467 of the Indian Penal Code (IPC), which can lead to a jail term of 2 to 7 years.

In the interrogation room, the inspector sternly said:

“Mr. Arvin, we have enough evidence: audio recordings, cameras, original photocopies and fake contracts. Do you want to confess your guilt for the sake of leniency?”

Arvin bowed his head, silent. His always arrogant face was pale now. He knew that once the case was transferred to the district court, all avenues of escape would be closed.

I, sitting outside, was sad and determined. No mother wants to see her son shackled, but she also cannot let him dominate his life’s work.

The news spread quickly. Neighbours whispered, some blamed me for “taking my son to court”, but others nodded in agreement: “It is no longer uncommon in India for children to cheat their parents into selling their land. If they don’t get tougher, the elders will lose everything. ”

Eventually, Arvin was held in the district jail for three months awaiting trial. There, she witnessed bad days: tasteless prison food, contempt of fellow inmates, and long, sleepless nights of remorse.

One morning, he received a packet of clothes I had sent him. In the pocket was an old handkerchief and a small note:

“You did wrong, so you will have to pay the price. But I still hope you’ll change. ”

Reading this, Arvin burst into tears in the closet, fearing losing his mother more than losing money for the first time in his life.

Part 3 – The Path to Salvation

A few months later, the case went on in the Lucknow district court. In the yellow light, Arvin stood in the dock, his head bowed. The judge heard the defence counsel and the police representative.

Thanks to the cooperative attitude and my partial bail – although my heart was broken – the court declared:
“The defendant Arvin, sentenced to 3 years of suspended sentencing and 6 months of community service. If he commits a repeat offence, the suspended sentence will be immediately commuted to a jail sentence. ”

On the day of the return, he walked out of the court gate with a lean face. No one greeted him in the neighborhood, no one looked at him directly. In India, once found guilty of land fraud, you lose your reputation in society.

Arvin wanted to go home, but the door was locked. I didn’t open it right away. I just said through the crack of the door:
“If you still consider this to be your home, prove it by your deeds. ”

And that’s how Arvin started trying to improve himself. She applied for a job as a helper in a woodworking workshop on the outskirts of town, where she received a modest but steady salary. At first the workshop owner hesitated a little, but gradually he realized that he is hardworking, calm and not carefree.

At night, Arvin would often sit on his knees for hours in that little temple in the city. People used to gossip when they saw him:

“Maybe he really regrets it. ”

One day, on the festival of Diwali, he brought me a small oil lamp box and placed it in front of the gate:

“Mom, give me a chance to reawaken my faith.” ”

I was silent, tears flowing. Forgiveness is not easy, but I knew that if I didn’t help even once, my son would be plunged into darkness forever.

I opened the gate. Ervin stood there trembling, his hands hardened with exertion, clutching the box of lamps tightly.

The whole neighborhood saw the scene. People were no longer critical, just nodding slightly: Perhaps, in India or anywhere else, family is the only place a person can return to after losing their way.