By the time Rajiv was twelve, the orphanage had become both his battlefield and his sanctuary. The walls, though cracked and peeling, echoed with laughter, cries, and the occasional shout of injustice. To an outsider, it was a place of mere survival, but Rajiv had begun to see its patterns—the unspoken rules, the hierarchy of children, the alliances and betrayals that dictated life inside.
Rajiv's mind was like a silent observer, cataloging every injustice, every favoritism, every moment of cruelty. The upper caste boys still thought themselves untouchable, but Rajiv had learned to anticipate their moves. He didn't fight with fists; he fought with strategy. A misplaced book here, a whispered suggestion there, a clever diversion that caused their schemes to unravel—he became untouchable, not through strength, but through cunning.
One evening, the warden called him into his office. The kerosene lamp flickered, casting shadows that danced across the cracked walls.
"You're clever, boy," the warden said, tapping a stick against the desk. "But cleverness without respect gets punished."
Rajiv met his gaze steadily. "Respect is earned, sir. Not demanded."
The warden's eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps even reluctant admiration. Rajiv had learned to read people as well as he read books.
It was during this period that Rajiv first tasted the bitter sting of betrayal. Rohan, a boy smaller than most, with bright eyes and a mind as sharp as Rajiv's own, had been rejected for a scholarship. The reason was simple: caste, lineage, connections—the very walls of privilege that Rajiv hated so deeply.
Rajiv spent nights helping Rohan. He drafted essays, rehearsed answers, and guided him through the smallest details of the application process. He knew that no amount of talent alone would suffice against the systemic bias that favored the connected.
When Rohan succeeded, he acted as if Rajiv had played no part. Worse, he spread rumors that Rajiv had cheated, manipulated the process, and exploited the system unfairly. Some of the boys who had once looked up to Rajiv now whispered behind his back.
Rajiv's chest tightened, but he did not lash out. He had learned early that emotion could be a weapon used against you. Instead, he cataloged everything—the betrayal, the whispers, the injustice. Each event became a data point, a lesson, a blueprint for the future.
Even in moments of personal pain, Rajiv could not abandon his sense of justice. He quietly ensured that the weaker boys were fed first during meals, shared his meager belongings, and consoled those punished unfairly. He began to see patterns in the cruelty: the way favoritism flowed from caste and connections, how some children received privileges for nothing more than their birth, while others suffered endlessly for the same.
Rajiv began to dream in terms larger than the orphanage. The injustice here was a reflection of the world outside: the politicians who thrived on nepotism, the bureaucrats who punished the innocent, the industrialists who built empires on stolen labor. If the system could be predicted, it could be outsmarted. And he would outsmart it.
Late at night, in the darkness of the orphanage dormitory, Rajiv would lie awake, listening to the soft snores of the other children. His mind, however, was alive, turning over strategies, imagining scenarios, and cataloging vulnerabilities. He knew that one day he would leave this place, and when he did, he would not merely survive the system—he would dismantle it, piece by piece.
The betrayal of Rohan taught him another lesson: even those you trust, even those you help, can become instruments of deception. From that day onward, Rajiv began to refine his methods. He would be generous, but cautious. He would fight for justice, but always strategically. The boy who once relied on raw intellect alone now began to cultivate patience, observation, and calculation—the tools of a true tactician.
By the time he fell asleep, his dreams were no longer about toys or games. They were about patterns, hierarchies, and strategies. The orphanage, with all its cruelty and camaraderie, had become his first battlefield. And Rajiv had decided that when the time came, he would fight not just for survival, but for vengeance, justice, and the absolute dismantling of the system that had allowed betrayal to flourish.
Even then, at twelve, he knew one truth clearly: to change the world, you must first understand it—and then you must strike at its heart.