My name is Rohan Mehta. I was born in a poor rural area of ​​Uttar Pradesh, where summers are dry and the village roads are knee-deep in water during the monsoons.

I had a university admission notice and a dream of escaping poverty.

My mother passed away when I was 10 years old, before I could even call my biological father “father.”

The only person who stood by me during those years was my adoptive father, a man who was not related by blood but who gave me all the love I could ask for in this life.

My adoptive father, named Raghav, was formerly my mother’s best friend. He drove a rickshaw in the Kanpur market and lived in a small, rented room of less than 10 square meters on the banks of the Ganges.

When my mother passed away, he was the only person to attend her funeral. No one expected that after that day, he would go back to his mother’s old house and tell the neighbors:

“I’ll raise this boy. He’s my friend’s child, and mine too.”

In the years that followed, he worked hard from morning until late at night, carrying rented luggage, washing cars, and carrying loads so I could go to school.

Once, I had to pay extra tuition fees. I was scared and didn’t dare say anything. But that night, he quietly slipped me change, still smelling of antiseptic, and whispered:

“Dad just donated blood. People gave him a few hundred rupees. Take this, pay my tuition fees.”

I was stunned.
A poor man like him had sold his blood to pay for my education—not just once, but many times.

No one knew this except him and me.

When I received my admission notice to Delhi University, he hugged me like a child.

Tears streamed down his sunburnt face.

“Well done, son. I can’t help you for the rest of your life, but you have to study to get through this.”

In college, I worked part-time—working at a tea stall, tutoring, delivering groceries—but he still sent me a few hundred rupees every month, even though that was all he had.

I told him to stop sending money, but he always said irritably:

“It’s my money, you have the right to take it.”

After graduating, I worked for a foreign company in Bangalore. My first monthly salary was 30,000 rupees.

I immediately sent 10,000 rupees to my father.

He didn’t accept it.

“I’m saving it. You’re old, eat less and spend less.”

Years passed, I got promoted, and my salary increased to over 1 lakh rupees per month.

I wanted to take him to Bangalore to live with me, but he refused.

“I’m used to being poor. I’m afraid I’ll upset you if I stay with you.”

I had to agree to everything he said, sending him money occasionally and visiting.

But one day, he suddenly came to see me.

That day, he was standing in front of my house in Whitefield, carrying an old cloth bag, which had already become thinner and darker.

He sat timidly on the sofa, his voice trembling:

“Rohan, I’m old now… my eyes are blurred, my hands are shaking. I’ve been very ill lately. The doctor said I need surgery, which will cost around 60,000 rupees.

I don’t have any relatives left… so I’ve come to borrow some money from you to make ends meet.”

I was stunned.

Before me was the man who had sold his blood to fund my education, the man who had stayed up all night, starving, braving the rain, to raise money for my university entrance exam.

The image of him waiting for me outside the classroom gate, drenched in the old rainy night, was clearly visible.

I took a deep breath and said softly:

“No. I won’t lend you a single penny.”

His eyes were sunken, his gaze filled with pain, but not anger.

He nodded slightly, about to get up and leave like a rejected beggar.

But at that very moment, I went to him, held his hand tightly, and knelt down.

“Dad… you are my father. How can there be any talk of borrowing between a father and son?

You said earlier: ‘Dad, I have the right to take your money,’ and now I say: ‘Dad, I have the right to use your money.’
Dad raised me with his blood, now let me raise you with my entire life.”

He looked at me, tears flowing down his clammy hands.
I hugged him like a child hugs his father after a nightmare.

After the surgery, I brought my adoptive father to live with me.
My wife, Anjali, not only didn’t object, but also cared for him like her own father.

On weekends, we would take him for walks in Cubbon Park, eat vada pav, and tell him stories about my mother.

He said:

“I don’t worry about anything anymore. That old boy has grown up.”

The next year, I bought a small house and dedicated a bright room to him, adorned with photographs of us together.

In the afternoons, he would often sit on the balcony, sipping tea, and watch me play with his young son.

His eyes were bright and calm, as if he had just completed a long journey.

Many people asked me:

“He’s not my biological father, why are you so kind to him?”

I just smiled:

“He raised me with his own blood—literally. A man who has no blood relation, yet he donated his blood, his strength, his youth so that I could build a future.

If I don’t repay him, I won’t be worthy of being called a human being.”

My foster father—who was a poor man in India—taught me one thing:

“A blood relation isn’t necessary to be a father and son. There just needs to be a bond of heartbeat and love.”

There are some debts in life that can’t be repaid with money.

But if you owe someone a favor, no matter how long it takes—repay it with all your heart.

For the three years after my adoptive father, Raghav, moved in with us, our family life was filled with laughter and joy.

Although he was frail, he still loved helping me water the plants, play with my grandson, and teach the child ancient verses every night.

But that winter, his heart disease returned.

One morning, as I was getting ready for work, he smiled and said:

“Don’t cook for me today. I want to taste your daughter-in-law’s biryani.”

Then he laughed—a faint smile that I didn’t know would be his last.

That afternoon, I was in a meeting when Anjali called. Her voice choked:

“Rohan… Dad fainted. The doctor said his heart… won’t heal.”

The world around me seemed to collapse.

I ran to the hospital, embraced his thin, cold body, and cried like a child.

The man who had sold his blood, his youth, to raise me—now lay quietly, as if finally free from poverty.

A few days after the funeral, I went to the hospital to collect my medical records and death certificate.

An old nurse called me and asked,

“Are you Mr. Raghav Mehta’s son?”

I nodded.
She handed me a thick, old file, tied with a red thread.

“That old man gave you this file. He said that if he died, give it to his only son.”

I opened it with trembling hands. Inside were records of blood donations from Kanpur Hospital going back more than twenty years.

Raghav Mehta’s name, blood group O, was signed on every page with a shaky purple pen.

Over 70 donations in total.

Some pages read: “Patient requested compensation.”

But many more pages read: “Free donation for an unknown pediatric patient.”

I was stunned.

Below, a yellowed piece of paper, in his familiar handwriting, read:

“If you’re reading this, it means I’ve moved on a long way.

You once asked me why I love you so much, even though we’re not related by blood.

Actually, when I first met you in Kanpur Hospital, you weren’t my friend’s child. Your mother died after giving birth, and your biological father also passed away. No one at the hospital would adopt you.

That day, you had a high fever and needed an immediate blood transfusion, especially with the rare O blood group.

Dad – the only remaining donor at the time – donated as much blood as he was allowed.

After that surgery, the doctor said: “If it weren’t for Mr. Raghav, the baby would have died.”

You are that same girl.

So don’t think I raised you with love.

I just… gave you back your blood.”

I was devastated, my heart pounding.

It turned out that the man who had donated blood to save me years ago… was my biological father, whom I never knew.

I returned to Kanpur and went to the old hospital.

Upon hearing Raghav’s name, an elderly doctor said softly:

“He was the most generous blood donor I’ve ever known.

He lived a simple life, but never refused to save a life.

We used to joke that he could feed the entire city with his blood.”

I stood outside the hospital veranda, raindrops pattering on the old corrugated iron roof.

Across the street was the small alley where he used to live—the narrow rented room where I grew up.

I saw the image of that man sitting by the window, his hands trembling as he held a cup of tea, his soft eyes watching me read in the yellow light.

Now, every memory became more sacred than ever.

Not just because he had raised me,

but because he was my biological father—who never spoke openly, fearing I would suffer another pain called “blood debt.”

In the last envelope, I found a small piece of paper with a few trembling lines:

“Son, if you ever find out the truth, don’t hate me.

I didn’t hide this from you because I was ashamed, but because I was afraid you would have to live in gratitude.

You’ve paid everything back—not with money, but by living a compassionate life, with a loving eye for those around you.

That’s all I want.”

I pressed the paper in my hand, tears mingling with the rain.

Now, I understand why they never let me call him “biological father.”

They didn’t want their child to live in regret, but instead wanted me to live in freedom and gratitude.

Many years later, I founded a fund called the Raghav Foundation, dedicated to helping poor children access education and healthcare.

Every year, I run blood donation drives across the state.

At every event, I always say the same thing:

“A drop of my father’s blood saved my life, and it still flows in my heart. I’m just giving back what he gave me.”

His only photo—a man in an old tank top, with a gentle smile—hangs among the plaques in my office:
“True love doesn’t need blood, it just needs a big heart.”