May 8, 2025 — Bangalore, India
The city of Bangalore was waking up.
Sunlight painted the skyline in amber, catching on the glass of tall towers and the rust of auto rickshaws below. From the rooftop garden of a high-rise in Indiranagar, Vijay Mehra watched the scene unfold incalm silence. A cup of blackcoffee steamed gently in his hand, untouched.
He wasn't thinking about meetings or investments. Not this morning.
He wasn't even sure why he felt drawn to go there — only that he was. The thought had entered his mind during his morning shower and wouldn't leave. Maybe it was the way the birds sounded. Or maybe the match on TV — India vs Australia — stirred something.
Whatever the reason, he found himself calling his driver with a simple request:
"Take me to Saanjh Children's Home."
The ride was smooth, but the farther they got from downtown, the quieter Vijay became. He hadn't been back in years. Not since the last of the foundation ceremonies he'd quietly funded. Not since he'd stopped pretending that success could fill the quiet spaces childhood had left behind.
He was born here — in this orphanage.
No tragic origin story. No parents taken suddenly. No memories of a life before. Just nurses, bunk beds, school bells, and cheap soap. For the first sixteen years of his life, Saanjh was his entire world.
He remembered sitting on the swings, dreaming of cricket. He remembered stealing glances at the small TV in the common room to watch Tendulkar bat. He even remembered the first time he picked up a real cricket bat — handed down from an older boy — and how his hands fit perfectly around it, like it was built just for him.
He was good.
Natural. Fast. Focused.
For a while, he thought he might play for India. That was the dream.
But life in an orphanage didn't make room for dreams. It made room for survival. The older he got, the more he realized there were no scouts coming to watch him. No coaches offering scholarships. No one with money to buy pads or shoes or even a new ball.
So he shifted.
He picked up books instead.
And he buried that other part of himself — the dreamer.
He told himself it was childish. Weak. That he would never make it in the real world unless he became hard, efficient, focused. And he did. By twenty-seven, he was among India's youngest billionaires. Calm. Respected. Unattached.
But every success came with silence.
Every deal closed left something open inside.
The car stopped just outside the orphanage.
Vijay stepped out slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. He wore a sleek dark suit — not because he meant to impress anyone, but because he always did. Old habits.
The place looked… smaller than he remembered. The faded yellow walls. The narrow gate. The sound of children laughing beyond it. Time hadn't changed it much.
He didn't go inside.
He just stood by the gate, remembering.
He saw himself — a boy of maybe eight — barefoot, chasing a cricket ball across the courtyard. Grinning. Hopeful.
He didn't look like someone who'd end up on magazine covers.
As he watched, a red cricket ball rolled out through the open gate.
A small boy, no more than six, bolted after it. His eyes fixed on the ball. His face wide with joy.
The road was quiet. Almost empty.
Almost.
A silver sedan came around the bend, fast. Too fast.
Vijay's instincts kicked in.
He shouted, "Hey!"
The boy didn't hear. The driver didn't see.
Vijay ran.
He crossed the narrow road in three strides. Everything else slowed down — the wind, the colors, the sounds. In the final second, he dove, throwing himself between the car and the child.
He managed to push the boy clear.
Then the world went black.
Pain.
The first thing he felt was weight. Then heat. Then pain — sharp, crawling, immense.
He was lying on his back. Blood trickled from his mouth. He couldn't move. Could barely breathe.
Voices were shouting. Someone cried. Someone ran. But it was all far away.
His eyes drifted upward.
The sky looked peaceful.
And in that silence, something stirred inside him.
Not fear. Not panic.
Regret.
He saw himself as a boy again. Bat in hand. Sweat on his brow. Dreaming of blue jerseys and roaring crowds. Of sixes and catches and victory laps.
That version of him was still alive somewhere — deep beneath the layers of calm and wealth and strategy.
He had run from it.
He had traded it.
But it never left.
Tears filled his eyes.
Not from the pain.
But from everything he could have been.
And yet…
In these final moments, he had moved without thought. Not for business. Not for numbers. Just for a child. For a ball. For a life.
Just like he used to.
Maybe, he thought, he hadn't buried that part of himself after all.
End of Chapter