Prakash Murthy pulled his Maruti 800—one of his last remaining symbols of success—to a skidding halt outside "Modern Stationers." It was a tiny, cramped shop, smelling of dust, ink, and cheap paper. He was a CEO, used to glass-walled offices. He felt utterly out of place.
He stormed in, waving the brown envelope. "The person who bought this!" he said, perhaps too loudly. "When? Who were they?"
The elderly shopkeeper, annoyed at the interruption, just blinked. "Sir, I sell fifty of these envelopes a day. How would I know?"
Prakash's hope began to crash.
The "A.V." mentor was a ghost. A genius who had toyed with him. He was about to turn and leave, his miracle slipping through his fingers, when the shop's bell tinkled.
A woman in a simple cotton sari entered, her face familiar to the shopkeeper. "Namaste, Shankar-ji," she said. "Two boxes of white chalk, please."
"Ah, Radha-ji!" the shopkeeper greeted her warmly. "From the government school, yes? How is your son, Arjun? I heard he fainted. Is his health better?"
Prakash froze. His head snapped toward the woman. School. Arjun.
He turned to Radha, his expression a desperate, almost manic plea. "Madam. Forgive me. My name is Prakash Murthy. I am looking for someone."
Radha looked at him, confused by his intensity.
"Yes? How can I help?"
"This envelope," he held it up.
"It was used to send me... a business proposal. An anonymous one. It just had the initials 'A.V.'"
Radha's brow furrowed. "A.V.? I'm afraid I don't know many people... The only A.V. I know is..." She stopped, a small, confused laugh escaping her. "But that's impossible."
"What?" Prakash leaned in. "What is impossible?"
"My son. Arjun Varma. But he... he's a 12-year-old boy."
Prakash Murthy's blood ran cold. He remembered the handwritten code—neat, precise, but clearly written by a small, steady hand.
He remembered the arrogance of the note: If you are smart enough to use it.
It wasn't arrogance. It was the confidence of a prodigy.
He looked Radha Varma straight in the eyes. "Madam," he said, his voice now a low, respectful whisper. "This is going to sound insane. Is your son... is he, by any chance... good with computers?"
Radha was completely bewildered.
"Computers? He's just a boy. He's been reading my old college textbooks and... and the manual from the school's new BBC Micro. But why would you..."
"Please," Prakash interrupted, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. "I must speak to him. It is a matter of my company's survival."
Radha, seeing the desperation in the well-dressed man's eyes, could only nod in stunned silence. "He... he's at home. It's just around the corner."
Prakash didn't wait. He didn't even say thank you. He bolted from the shop, Radha hurrying behind him, completely lost as to what was happening.
He had expected a rival engineer, a reclusive professor, a corporate spy.
The entire future of his company, he realized, was in the hands of a 12-year-old boy who had just fainted in school.