“My name is Mukeshwari Yadav, and this is my story. A journey of love, loss, and the strength to give life, even in the face of unimaginable pain.

I was born and raised in Hyderabad, a city that has been both my sanctuary and the backdrop of my struggles. Life took an unexpected turn when I was married at the young age of 17. By 18, I became a mother to my first son, Mallikarjun Yadav, whom I lovingly called Sunny. Four years later, my second son, Bunny, was born.

Marriage was not the fairytale I had hoped for. My husband was an alcoholic, unreliable, toxic, and absent in the moments that mattered most. By the time Sunny was a year old, I realised I had no choice but to fend for myself and my children.

With no financial support, I took up a teaching job, earning just ₹1,600 a month, while simultaneously working toward my Political Science degree at Osmania University. Education became my ladder to a better life. Soon, I landed a job at ICICI Bank, where my salary increased significantly. Over the years, I climbed the corporate ladder, determined to build a future my sons could be proud of.

But home was still a battleground. My husband’s presence was a storm I could not control, and I feared its impact on my children. To shield Sunny from his father’s influence, I made the heartbreaking decision to send him to a hostel during his high school years.

Despite these hardships, Sunny thrived. He excelled in academics, completed his B.Tech in Computer Science, and secured admission to the New Jersey Institute of Technology for his master’s degree. His dream was not just his own—he wanted to go abroad for me.

“Mom, I’m doing this for you,” he would say.

But fate had its own plans.

On November 15, 2024, my world shattered. Sunny had gone out with friends for a party, and on the way back, he wanted to help his friend, who was not in a condition to drive, by dropping him home safely. However, his friend refused to hand over the bike and didn’t allow Sunny to drive. Left with no choice, Sunny sat at the back as a pillion rider.

But on the Paradise Flyover in Hyderabad, their speeding bike crashed into an Activa. In his attempt to help, Sunny lost his life to his friend’s negligent driving.

Sunny suffered severe head injuries and was rushed to Yashoda Hospital. By the time I reached him, he was unresponsive. The doctors told me there was bleeding in his brain. I held onto hope, praying for a miracle. On November 16, they declared him brain dead.

I had lost my son.

The next day, the doctors approached me with a question that would change everything:

“Would you consider organ donation?”

They explained the Jeevandan program, how my son’s organs could give life to others. As a mother, I had always been fiercely protective. I had never even considered donating blood before, let alone my son’s organs.

I turned to my younger son, Bunny. “This is the situation in front of us. What do you think we should do?”

Without hesitation, he said, “Mommy, we should go for organ donation. Even if he’s not with us, he’ll live on in someone else’s body. He’ll still be alive.”

His words gave me the strength I needed. After consulting with my family, I agreed.

When the doctors asked about organ donation, I agreed to donate Sunny’s heart, lungs, liver, and kidneys, knowing he would have wanted to save others. But I couldn’t part with his eyes. They were too personal, the windows to his soul, the first thing I saw when he was born, and the last thing I wanted to remember. His eyes held his dreams, his love, and his determination. They were the part of him that felt most alive, most connected to me.

On November 17, I walked my son to the operation theater, his heart still beating, and handed him over for organ donation. His liver, heart, lungs, and kidneys were donated, saving multiple lives. The hospital honoured him with a final salute, a hero’s farewell. Amidst my grief, there was pride. My son, even in death, had given life.

Losing Sunny was the hardest thing I have ever endured. He was not just my son; he was my pride, my joy, my reason to keep going. He was kind, intelligent, always willing to help others. His death was the result of someone else’s negligence, but his legacy lives on in the people he saved. That thought kept me standing. It gave me purpose.

The day Sunny was declared brain dead, I had gone to the temple, desperately seeking divine intervention. I had taken tokens for “Mruthyam Jaya Homam” and “Ayush Homam,” both scheduled for November 17.

Little did I know, at the exact time I was sending my son into the operation theater, these rituals were being performed in his name. It felt like a message from the universe. While the “Ayush Homam” was meant to pray for his long life, that day, Sunny was giving Ayush (life) to others through his organs.

His life had a greater purpose.

Choosing organ donation was the most difficult decision of my life, but also the most meaningful. Sunny was a kind, cheerful soul, always looking out for others. Even in death, he gave life. Because of him, families who had lost hope got a second chance. Someone’s heart beats because of him. Someone breathes because of him. His spirit lives on in ways I never could have imagined.

As a mother, I couldn’t be prouder. The pain of losing him will never fade, but neither will his legacy. And in that, I find solace.

Bunny, too, held on to Sunny’s dream. He had just finished his B.Tech and was working as an intern at ISB. He was already preparing for his September intake abroad. After Sunny’s death, he made a promise:

“Mom, I will go abroad. I will fulfil my brother’s dream.”

Life has never been kinder to me. In 2016, my husband passed away due to alcoholism. I had to return to work just 21 days after his death because I had two children to feed. This time, after losing Sunny, I took 25 days off. On the 26th day, I went back to work.

Because I still have Bunny.

I work as a Manager for Corporate Communications at Bharat Biotech, a position I have worked hard to achieve. People call me a fighter, a role model, an inspiration. But I don’t want sympathy. I just want to keep moving forward.

I often think about how proud Sunny would have been of me. Recently, I completed my MBA from Osmania University, specialising in HR. I had pursued it because of him. One day, when I scolded him for a backlog in his B.Tech, he said, “Mommy, if you do B.Tech, you’ll understand how hard it is.”

That statement hit me. I wanted to prove to him that I could do it too.

Even after his death, I had to attend my MBA viva within 15 days. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Every time I went for an exam, Sunny would smile and say, “All the best, Mommy. You’ll always be my mom.” I didn’t want to let him down, so I gathered the courage to attend the viva and even scored well. But the pain of losing him is something no one can understand. No one can share that pain.

I never got to show him my results. But I know he would have been proud.

In my darkest hour, I was not alone. My friends, family, and even my company stood by me, offering strength when I felt I had none left.

Now, I don’t fear death. If it comes, I’ll be at peace, because I know I’ll see my son again. But until that day, I have a promise to keep. I have another son to raise.

Bunny and I live in the same house, pretending to be okay for each other’s sake. But deep down, we both know we’re not. We just support each other, just as Sunny would have wanted.

To all the mothers out there who have faced unimaginable pain, I say this: Don’t talk about karma or past lives. Don’t ask “why me?” Instead, accept what has happened. Live for tomorrow.

“My dreams may have shattered, my plans may have fallen apart, but I still have to fight.

Because life goes on. Because love never dies.

Because Sunny still lives on. Not just in my heart, but in the lives he has touched.”