Rain drizzled on a narrow alley in Mumbai, where golden lights from humble homes spilled out, blending into the damp night. I stood under the awning, a cigarette unlit in my hand, my eyes following the overflowing stream on the street. Tonight, my heart felt heavy, as if the rain itself was trying to wash away wounds that wouldn’t heal. I am Arjun, thirty years old, a civil engineer with a life that could be called stable. But to Priya’s mother, the woman I loved, I was nothing more than a blemish, simply because I was an orphan, without roots, without a family.

Priya and I met on a rainy afternoon at a small cafe in Bandra. She was a kindergarten teacher, with a gentle smile like morning sunshine and eyes always full of hope. We fell in love simply, like how young people find each other amidst life’s hustle. I never hid my past from Priya: growing up in an orphanage, not knowing who my parents were, only fragmented memories of a man who once held me as a child. Priya didn’t mind. She said, “You are who you are now; I don’t need to know where you came from, only where you’ll go with me.” Her words made me believe that even if life was harsh, I could still dream of a warm home.

But Priya’s mother, Mrs. Mehta, was a different woman. She owned a prominent gold shop in the Zaveri Bazaar, shrewd, pragmatic, and always proud of her “esteemed” family background. The first time I met her, she looked me up and down, her gaze as cold as a knife. “You have no family, you don’t know your parents, how can I dare to marry my daughter to you?” she said, her voice barely concealing her contempt. Priya tried to defend me, but Mrs. Mehta only grew harsher. “If you want to marry him, then don’t call me Mother anymore!” she declared in front of me. I remained silent, not because I had nothing to say, but because I knew, to her, I had no value worth defending.

Despite this, Priya was resolute in staying with me. After two years of dating, we decided to get engaged. Mrs. Mehta, though she disagreed, couldn’t stop us when Priya threatened to leave home. But she set a condition: “If you want to marry, you must have a representative from the groom’s side. Are you suggesting the groom’s side is just you, all alone like a beggar?” Her words felt like a stab, but I nodded. I didn’t want Priya to be put in an even more difficult position.

To prepare for the wedding, I sought out Mr. Sharma, a garbage collector in my neighborhood. Mr. Sharma was around sixty, thin, sun-darkened, but always wore a gentle smile. I often saw him pushing his cart past my house, occasionally stopping to chat with the children in the alley. Once, he even offered me a cool bottle of water when he saw me working under the sun, even though he himself was drenched in sweat. I didn’t know much about him, but a feeling of familiarity from him made me think he was the right choice to play the role of “adoptive father” on my wedding day.

I went to meet Mr. Sharma one afternoon as he was resting by his garbage cart. “I’m getting married soon, but I don’t have a family. I’d like to ask you to be my adoptive father, to represent the groom’s side on my wedding day,” I said, a little awkwardly. He looked at me, his eyes crinkling under the brim of his worn straw hat. “You trust me that much, Arjun?” he asked, his voice deep. I nodded. “You’re a good person, Uncle. I can feel it.” He smiled, patting my shoulder. “Alright, I’ll be your adoptive father. Consider it destiny.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking everything was settled. But I never imagined that the destiny Mr. Sharma mentioned would be a gateway to unimaginable surprises.

The wedding took place at a small restaurant in Juhu. The space was cozy, adorned with white silk ribbons and red roses. Priya wore a white lehenga, beautiful as a dream. I stood beside her, trying to hide my nervousness. Mrs. Mehta sat at the main table, her gaze still cold, but she said nothing. Mr. Sharma, in the suit I rented for him, looked unfamiliar but maintained his calm demeanor. He stood by my side, playing the role of a father, exchanging words with the bride’s family according to tradition.

Everything went smoothly, until the wedding gift exchange began. According to custom, the groom’s representative would present gifts to the bride, as a blessing. I had prepared a small pair of gold rings, a simple gift but containing all my love. But when Mr. Sharma stepped forward, took the microphone, the atmosphere in the room suddenly quieted. All eyes turned to him, the thin man with a weathered face.

“Distinguished guests, dear families,” he began, his voice deep but clear. “Today, I am not just here as Arjun’s adoptive father. I am here to tell the truth about him, and about myself.”

I froze, my heart pounding. Priya squeezed my hand, her eyes filled with worry. Mrs. Mehta frowned, clearly displeased that a garbage collector was speaking at her daughter’s wedding. But Mr. Sharma paid no mind. He took a thick envelope from his suit pocket and placed it on the table in front of everyone.

“Arjun is not an orphan with unknown roots,” he said, his voice choking. “He is my son. Thirty years ago, I abandoned his mother when she was pregnant. I was a coward, not brave enough to face my responsibilities. When I learned she had passed away, I went to the orphanage, but I didn’t dare to claim him. I just stood from afar, watching him grow up, and promised myself I would atone for my mistakes.”

The wedding hall was silent. I felt my head spin, as if the ground beneath my feet was crumbling. Mr. Sharma, the man I thought was just a kind stranger, was my biological father? I looked at him, trying to piece together fragmented memories. The image of a man holding me, singing lullabies by the orphanage door, suddenly became clearer than ever.

Mr. Sharma opened the envelope, taking out two land deeds and a small wooden box. “These are two plots of land in Andheri, and ten gold taels,” he said, his voice trembling. “I worked my whole life, not daring to spend, only saving for this day. Arjun, this is what your father wants to give you, not to show off, but so you know that I always loved you, even though I made a mistake.”

The guests buzzed with murmurs. Mrs. Mehta, who had always looked down on me, sat still, her face pale. Priya hugged me, tears streaming down her cheeks. I didn’t know how to react. Joy, pain, astonishment – all mixed within me like a storm. I stepped forward and embraced Mr. Sharma. “Father…” I whispered, calling him that for the first time in my life. He patted my back, his eyes red.

After the wedding, Priya and I moved into a small house that Mr. Sharma had quietly bought for us. He didn’t live with us, but often visited, bringing stories of his life. It turned out, he wasn’t just a garbage collector. Many years ago, he had been a skilled goldsmith, but due to a business mistake, he lost everything and chose to live a simple life, hiding his past. The land and gold he gave me were the result of years of tireless work, with the hope of one day making amends to me.

Mrs. Mehta, after the wedding, changed. She came to see me, apologizing for her harsh words. “I was wrong to judge you,” she said softly. “I only wanted what was best for my daughter, but I forgot that love is the most important thing.” I wasn’t angry with her. I understood, prejudice isn’t easy to overcome, but sincerity can melt even the most rigid barriers.

One evening, Priya and I sat on the balcony, looking at the golden lights from the narrow alley. She leaned her head on my shoulder, whispering: “You know, I never thought your past was something to be ashamed of. To me, you are my whole world.” I smiled, holding her hand tightly. Under the golden lights, I felt the warmth of family – something I once thought I would never have.

Life, it turns out, always has unexpected turns. There are wounds that seem impossible to heal, but love and truth, like golden lights in the night, always find a way to shine, leading us back to each other.