Prasada Raju, Dilli's father was not just a man of Atreyapuram—he was a name, a reputation, a pillar of integrity. His life had been a story written in sweat, foresight, and an unyielding desire to uplift his family. Every acre he tilled, every decision he made, every hand he extended to others was guided by a single purpose: to leave behind a legacy that his children could walk upon with pride.
In 2016, that legacy seemed ready to bloom into greatness. With confidence in the future, he invested nearly five crores into a promising real estate venture in Vizianagaram. To him, it was more than an investment—it was the crown jewel of his hard work, the leap that would secure his family's tomorrow. But destiny has a cruel way of breaking men who dare to dream too high.
First came demonetisation, draining liquidity like blood from the veins of the market. Then, under Y. S. Jagan Mohan Reddy's tenure, real estate staggered under policies, delays, and uncertainty. What was once golden earth turned into barren land, a sinking stone that dragged Prasada Raju deeper into the quicksand of debts.
The Fall of a Lion
Yet, pride would not let him yield. He refused to sell his other lands in Vizianagaram—the lands that were more than property, the lands that carried his ancestors' shadows, his family's identity. He held on with stubborn faith that the tide would turn, that his foresight would prove right in the long run.
But as months bled into years, debts multiplied like shadows at dusk. And with them, the cruelest blow of all—the erosion of goodwill. The very people who once praised him for his generosity, who admired his vision, now turned whisperers.
They forgot the ninety-five good deeds he had done for them and clung instead to the five unintentional wrongs. Gossip became their sport; stones of ridicule became their offerings. The man who once walked like a lion now carried his battles in silence, his head unbowed but his heart bruised.
A Son's Fire
For Dilli, watching this tragedy unfold was agony carved into his soul. He had long grown used to people's taunts—he wore resilience like armor, letting insults bounce off him like dull arrows. But when those same arrows were aimed at his father, they cut deeper than any wound he had ever endured.
To the world, Prasada Raju was a man caught in the knots of misfortune. But to Dilli, he was nothing less than a hero—the man who shaped him, the role model he measured himself against, the pillar that gave his life direction. His disagreements with his father, his youthful arguments, his occasional defiance—all of it melted before the truth he carried within: that his love for his father ran deeper than words, deeper even than his love for his mother.
Prasada Raju was his reverse scale—the one place he could never allow the world's hand to touch. He could endure being mocked himself, could accept society calling him a failure. But the moment anyone belittled his father, it tore the very fabric of his being.
The Silent Oath
Dilli saw what the world chose to ignore. He saw the silent sacrifices, the sleepless nights, the dignity with which his father bore humiliation. And in that vision, a fire took root within him—an oath unspoken but unshakable.
He would protect his father's honor. He would carry his name higher than the fields of Atreyapuram, higher than the whispers of neighbors, higher even than the failures that life had thrust upon them. Because for Dilli, life without pride in his father's name was no life at all.
And so, even when he walked different paths, even when he silently disagreed with his father's stubborn pride, his devotion never wavered. His father's struggle became his own, his father's pain his hidden burden, his father's dignity his unyielding mission.
For what is a son, if not the shield to a father who has spent a lifetime being the shield for his family?