Kalyan's earliest memories were fragments of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. He remembered the smell of jasmine flowers blooming in the courtyard, the sound of his father's laughter echoing through the small house, and the warmth of his father's hand as it held his own. His mother was a ghost in those memories—a face he knew only from photographs, a voice he had never heard. She had died giving birth to him, and though his father never spoke of her, Kalyan could see the shadow of her absence in his eyes.
His father, Major Rajesh Varma, was a man of quiet strength. He was a soldier, a protector, but to Kalyan, he was simply "Papa." They lived in a modest home on the outskirts of a small town, far from the chaos of the cities. Life was simple, but it was filled with love. Every evening, after his father returned from duty, they would sit together on the porch, sipping tea and watching the sun dip below the horizon. His father would tell him stories—tales of bravery, of honor, of the men and women who fought to protect their country. Kalyan would listen, wide-eyed, dreaming of the day he could be like his father.
But there were moments, fleeting and rare, when his father's mask would slip. Kalyan would catch him staring into the distance, his eyes clouded with something the boy couldn't understand. Once, when Kalyan was seven, he had crept into his father's room late at night and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching a photograph of his mother. His father's shoulders were shaking, and when Kalyan called out to him, he quickly wiped his tears and forced a smile.
Why are you crying, Papa?" Kalyan had asked, his small voice trembling.
His father had pulled him into a tight embrace, his voice thick with emotion. "Because, son, I've taken the lives of innocent.. I widowed hundreds of women.. Orphaned hundred of children.. '
Kalyan hadn't understood then. But he would soon..