Chapter 1 The Return
May 2004. New York City.
The penthouse on the forty-fifth floor was a fortress. Outside, Manhattan was a humid, noisy beast, but inside, the air was chilled to a precise sixty-eight degrees. It was a sterile, perfect world of glass and steel.
Fourteen-year-old Arjun sat on the floor of his room, his back against the bed, eyes glued to the small screen of his Game Boy Advance SP. He was one level away from beating the final boss. His thumbs moved in a blur, completely ignoring the panoramic view of Central Park outside his window.
Arjun.
The voice cut through the game music. Arjun didn't look up.
One minute, Dad. I'm almost done.
Now, Arjun. Game over.
Vikram stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, looking every bit the man who had navigated the treacherous waters of the Dot Com bubble and emerged with a fifty-million-dollar fortune while his competitors went bankrupt. He walked over and plucked the console from Arjun's hands.
Hey! Arjun protested, scrambling up. He was tall for fourteen, lanky and awkward in his oversized t-shirt.
Vikram turned the device off and tossed it onto the bed.
Pack your bag. Real clothes. We leave for JFK in two hours.
Arjun groaned, throwing his head back in teenage misery.
Dad, are we really doing this? It's summer break. Ryan and Mike are going to Camp Woodward. Why do I have to go to India? It's going to be boring. There's no internet there.
Vikram didn't smile. He walked over to the window, looking out at the city that had made him rich.
It's not just India, Arjun. It's Rajahmundry. It's where your grandfather lived. It's where I lived until I was twenty. You are fourteen now. You are old enough to understand that the world is bigger than 42nd Street.
Vikram turned back, his expression serious.
I've finalized the transfer. Five million dollars. We are building the district's first super-specialty hospital. I made my money here, but I'm going to spend it there. You need to see this. You need to see where you come from to understand where you are going.
Anjali walked in, holding a stack of passports. She saw Arjun's sullen face and sighed.
Don't start, Vikram. He's a teenager. He's supposed to be annoying.
She ruffled Arjun's hair, ignoring his attempt to dodge her hand.
It's not going to be boring, Arjun. The house has been renovated. And trust me, the food is better than the frozen pizza you eat here. Now go get changed. We aren't going to the airport in pajamas.
Arjun grumbled, kicking at the carpet, but he went to his closet. He knew better than to argue when his father had that look in his eyes.
The journey was a blur of luxury that Arjun was too young to fully appreciate. The drive to JFK was silent. The check-in at the First Class counter was seamless. They boarded the British Airways flight to London, sat in wide leather seats that turned into beds, and then connected to the long flight to India.
For most of the flight, Arjun stared out the window or flipped through magazines, bored out of his mind. He couldn't imagine what could possibly be interesting about a town his dad hadn't visited in ten years.
It was late afternoon when the pilot announced their descent.
Below the clouds, the landscape shifted. The gray and glass of New York were replaced by the lush green expanse of the Godavari districts. The river shimmered like a silver snake cutting through the land.
They landed at the nearest airport, stepping out onto the tarmac. The change was instant. The air conditioning of the cabin vanished, replaced by the atmosphere of Andhra Pradesh. It was hot. Not the dry heat of a radiator, but a heavy, enveloping heat. It felt substantial.
Arjun squinted against the sun. The airport was loud. Even inside the terminal, there was a hum of activity that New York didn't have. People weren't just walking; they were rushing, shouting, greeting each other with loud laughs.
They walked out to the curb. A man in a safari suit pushed through the crowd and waved at them.
Vikram Sir! Here!
Their convoy was waiting. Three black Toyota Qualis SUVs.
Anjali shook her head as the driver loaded their luggage.
Three cars, Vikram? There is no one even living in the house. It's just us.
We are carrying a check for five million dollars, Anjali, Vikram said, opening the door for Arjun. We need to project strength. If you look weak here, people don't respect you.
Arjun climbed into the backseat. He sat by the window as the convoy hit the highway leading to Rajahmundry.
As they crossed the massive bridge over the Godavari River, Arjun felt his boredom cracking. The river was enormous, stretching out as far as he could see. He rolled down the window. The wind roared into the car, loud and untamed. It messed up his hair and forced him to squint, but he didn't close it.
It felt real.
The drive took two hours. By the time they reached Rajahmundry, the sun had set, but the darkness was alive.
It was a local festival day. The town was packed. It wasn't just a crowd; it was a sea of people.
The convoy slowed to a crawl as they entered the main street. Drums—the fast, aggressive beat of the Teen Maar—echoed off the buildings. Men covered in yellow turmeric danced in the streets.
Vikram tapped the driver's shoulder. Stop here.
Dad? Arjun asked, looking nervously at the chaotic crowd. We're getting out?
Yes, Vikram grinned. He looked younger, the stress of New York melting off his face. You can't experience this from a car window. Come on.
He opened the door and pulled Arjun out.
The heat was intense, radiating from the bodies of the dancers and the asphalt, but the energy was infectious. When the locals saw Vikram, a cheer went up. They recognized him. The boy from the big house who went to America and came back a king.
Someone threw a marigold garland around Vikram's neck. He laughed and immediately took it off, placing it around Arjun.
Welcome home, kid, Vikram shouted over the drums.
Arjun stood there, clutching the garland, wide-eyed. A group of teenagers, about his age but looking much tougher, were dancing nearby. One of them saw Arjun and waved him over.
Arjun hesitated. He looked at his expensive sneakers. He looked at his dad.
Go, Vikram nodded. Don't be a tourist. Be an Indian.
Arjun took a breath and stepped forward. He moved awkwardly at first, trying to match the frenetic pace of the drums. The local boys laughed, not unkindly, and showed him the step. Within minutes, Arjun was grinning. He forgot about his video game. He forgot about the heat. He stomped his feet to the rhythm, the bass thumping in his chest.
After the dance, they stopped at a street stall. The air was thick with the heat of frying oil.
Vikram handed Arjun a paper plate with a Mirchi Bajji—a large green chili dipped in batter and deep-fried.
Eat it, Vikram challenged.
Arjun looked at the chili. It was huge. He took a hesitant bite.
The spice hit him instantly. It was sharp, raw heat that exploded in his mouth. His eyes watered immediately, and he coughed, his face turning red.
The locals watching laughed and clapped.
Arjun gasped, reaching for a bottle of Thums Up. It burns!
Vikram laughed, slapping his back. It's supposed to burn! That's how you know you're alive!
Arjun wiped his tears, took a swig of the soda, and looked at the half-eaten chili. He grinned through the pain.
It's good though, he admitted, taking another bite.
They walked the rest of the way to the ancestral home. It was a massive, traditional house with wooden pillars and a large courtyard, maintained by a few old staff members. There were no cousins, no aunts. Just the empty halls of a family that had moved away.
They stood on the open terrace, the night breeze coming off the Godavari River finally cooling the town.
Vikram stood by the railing, looking out at the darkness beyond the town lights. He held a glass of water, his face serious now.
You had fun? Vikram asked.
Yeah, Arjun said, leaning on the railing. He was tired, his legs ached from dancing, but he felt a strange sense of belonging. It's... crazy. But cool.
Vikram pointed to a large, empty plot of land shrouded in darkness about a mile away.
Do you see that ground?
Arjun squinted. Yeah. It's just dirt.
It's not just dirt, Vikram said softly. That used to be the clinic where I was born. It shut down years ago. Now, people die because they can't get to the city in time.
He turned to Arjun.
That's why we are here, Arjun. I made fifty million dollars in the market. I secured your future. You can play video games for the rest of your life and never run out of money. But that's not a life.
Vikram's voice was firm, the voice of a man who commanded boardrooms.
We are going to build a hospital there. A real one. Five million dollars. The transfer happens tomorrow to the Trust. We are going to save this town.
Arjun looked at his father. For the first time, he didn't just see 'Dad' who told him to do his homework. He saw a hero. A man who had power and used it for good.
That's awesome, Dad, Arjun said, his voice filled with genuine admiration.
Vikram smiled and placed a hand on Arjun's shoulder.
Tomorrow, we meet the Trust members to finalize the paperwork. Then, we are going on a tour. I want to show you the whole country—Kerala, Delhi, Jaipur. We'll spend a month traveling. When we come back, the foundation stone for the hospital will be laid.
Arjun nodded, feeling a swell of pride. He was part of something big. A grand tour, then a grand project.
They stood there in the silence, father and son, looking at the empty land, dreaming of the future.
They didn't know that the future wasn't going to wait for them to finish their tour. They didn't know that their arrival had already triggered a chain of greed that would consume everything they loved.
For now, Arjun just looked at the stars, thinking this was going to be the best summer of his life.