RUDRA POV
The rays of the morning sun shone through the curtained windows bringing light into the room signalling the of a new day. I rose from the sofa where I sat through the night, I turned to the garden window as I looked out of the house to the garden etching it into my memory before depating the place.
This universe was a dangerous place, with bi-yearly "end of the world" events, but in that moment, I didn't care about any of it. The only thing that mattered was finding the person responsible for my parents' deaths.
My mind felt like a warzone, torn between the raw, animalistic grief of a child and the cold, calculating fury of a man who would not rest until he had his revenge.
My first step was to secure my own safety and begin my long-term plan. With one last, lingering look at the home where I was born and raised—the place where my beautiful, peaceful life had abruptly ended—I sat into the cab prepared to board a flight to India, where my paternal grandparents lived. They had already been informed of my parents' deaths and had arranged everything for my travel.
As the cab moved the morning sun's light shone through the window but I felt anything but warmth instead a fierce, cold fire of vengeance burned within me, and I was ready to stoke it, to let it fuel me on this long, arduous path.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Life in Rameshwaram was an abrupt, profound change of pace. For a child with a burning vendetta, the days became a monotonous rhythm—a slow, relentless beat of sunrises and sunsets that bled into one another. Yet, time itself passed with unnerving speed.
Two years with my grandparents felt like a blur, every waking moment consumed by the meticulous planning of my revenge. I was a child with the mind of an adult, a volatile and deadly combination of innocence and ruthless calculation. I spent my days devouring financial news, studying corporate law, and plotting the intricate downfall of those who had wronged my family.
The fire of my obsession, once a source of strength, was beginning to burn me out. It was a constant, searing heat behind my eyes, a low thrum of anxiety that never truly went away.
My grandmother, with her keen, knowing eyes, saw the slow-motion self-destruction. She saw my tunnel vision for what it was: a boy drowning in a sea of his own making, clutching a burning hatred as if it were a life preserver. So, like a force of nature, she took matters into her own hands, leaving me powerless to resist. She didn't argue or try to reason with me; she simply acted.
With my grandfather's guidance, I had already founded a company in his name, pouring my time and energy into the business as a way to build power. It was a cold, calculated move—a machine I built to fuel my revenge. But my grandmother, worried sick about my mental state, saw that this was just another form of my obsession. She packed our bags with a quiet finality, her movements betraying no hint of negotiation.
Our destination was an ashram—a monastery attached to the Rameshwaram temple—where she hoped the peace and quiet routine would pull me back from the abyss of my own creation. The change was disorienting, a stark contrast to the spreadsheets, stock charts and crime reports that had become my world. The air was thick with the scent of incense and jasmine, and the only sound was the soft chanting of prayers, a stark difference from the frantic tapping of a keyboard.
The two years that followed were truly transformative. While I left the day-to-day running of the company to my grandfather, I found a semblance of peace in the ashram's quiet discipline. The raw, searing rage that had defined me for so long began to recede. It was a slow, agonizing process, like a wound healing over, leaving a faint but persistent scar.
I accepted my parents' death, at least on the surface, but the desire for vengeance still simmered beneath. It no longer consumed my every thought, no longer dictated my every move, but it was still there, like the raging undercurrent of a frozen river, a dangerous power hiding just beneath the tranquil surface.
During this time, the world outside the ashram's walls was in flux. Tony Stark became Iron Man, a moment that officially kicked off the age of heroes. The news reached us in hushed whispers and grainy television broadcasts, a world of metal suits and larger-than-life figures. My company, meanwhile, thrived. I had invested heavily in tech giants like Facebook, Google, and Apple, riding the wave of innovation and the rising tide of Stark Industries' stock. My bank account swelled, a constant stream of new zeros, inching ever closer to a billion dollars in shares. It was a testament to my past life, a legacy of the meticulous investor I had once been.
My life, once again, had a semblance of peace. But with this newfound peace came a different kind of loss. The motivation that had driven me for so long had faded, leaving a gaping void. The burning desire for revenge had been my purpose, the singular star I had navigated by. Now that it was no longer consuming me, I was left without a map, without a direction.
I dwelled on this emptiness, searching for a new purpose in the quiet moments between half-hearted prayers and meditation that never truly led to reflection yet nothing clicked. I found no answers in my own mind and I finally did what my grandmother had always advised when I find myself overwhelmed: I asked for help.
"Asking for help when you can't find a solution isn't a weakness," she had once told me, her voice a calm counterpoint to my turmoil. "It's a sign of maturity and wisdom. If you can put aside your pride and ask for help, it doesn't mean you've lost it—it means your pride isn't arrogance. It means you're stronger than your ego."
And who better to ask than her? A woman who had seen more of life than me even when I add both of them, the retired priestess of the Rameshwaram temple, and one of the wisest people I have ever known.