Pushpvathi thought marriage would end her poverty.

Born in a small village on the banks of River Cauvery in Karnataka, she struggled with hunger since childhood. When she married Mohan and moved to Bangalore, she believed her destiny would finally change.

It didn't.

Mohan, broken by family burden and his drinking habit, abandoned her after daily quarrels.

Alone in a big city, Pushpvathi had to become both mother and father. With three small children to feed and a fourth one growing in her womb, she took every household work she could find. But the monthly room-rent was heavier than her life.

A kind lady named Swapna once rewarded her dedication, but kindness in Bangalore is short-lived. Even during her pregnancy, she couldn't stop working — her oven's fire at home was cold, but she had to light the oven in others' houses.

In her worst days, help came from an unexpected place — a generous childhood friend of her estranged husband. And then from a mad woman in a public park, where Pushpvathi had to live with her three children to stay safe from evil eyes.

She waited for her husband to return. He never did.

She wanted to be stoic. She wanted to smile at every problem. But poverty made her ashamed of her own smile.

Eight months pregnant, weak, carrying one child in her lap and one in her womb, she stepped out to fetch drinking water. That short walk made her bleed profusely. She collapsed on a busy Bangalore road in broad daylight.

A wretched woman collapsed. The bustling city did not stop.

That movement became her last movement. Forever.

This is not just Pushpvathi's story. This is the story of thousands of mothers who die invisible in our cities every day.