In April 1970, Rudra's flight from the United States touched down in Delhi. The heat was already thick with the promise of the summer months, and as he stepped off the plane, the buzz of the city seemed to welcome him back. But what awaited him wasn't just the return to his homeland—it was a nation uncertain about his future.
A few reporters had gathered near the arrival gates, their cameras flashing as they caught a glimpse of the man they had heard so much about. Rudra stood tall, adjusting his glasses as the questions began.
The first reporter, eager for an answer, stepped forward with a microphone. "Mr. Rudra, your return has surprised many. What are your plans now that you're back in India?"
Rudra, though no stranger to the media, had never been one for making grand declarations. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before responding in a calm, measured tone.
"I've returned to India because it's my country, and I believe there's much that needs to be done here," he said, his voice steady but not overly confident. "But I know that talk is cheap. Right now, I need to listen to the people, understand their struggles, and prove myself before I can say what exactly my next steps will be. I've been fortunate enough to have received an education and experiences abroad, and I want to see how they can be used to benefit this country. But there's a lot of work to be done, and it starts with me understanding what's at the core of India's problems."
The reporters, while intrigued, seemed to notice his lack of immediate political claims. They pressed on, asking, "Do you have any specific goals or aspirations in mind for the future?"
Rudra gave a small, almost reassuring smile. "Right now, my focus is on seeing what the people truly need. The country's future can't be shaped by just one person or one idea—it needs to be a collective effort. And I'm here to learn, not to make promises I can't keep."
His words weren't grandiose, nor were they filled with an air of political ambition. They were simple, humble—intended to convey a sense of someone who wasn't rushing to make sweeping changes. He wasn't ready to claim any leadership role, not yet. His emphasis was on proving himself first.
The journalists jotted down their notes, sensing that his answers weren't meant to stir up a firestorm but rather to introduce him as someone who was still figuring things out.
Later that week, Rudra's interview made its way into the newspapers. The headline read: "Rudra's Return: A Young Man with Promise". The article quoted his measured response, reflecting the sentiment that he was taking a cautious approach. His words were broadcast on the radio, too, reaching listeners far and wide.
On the streets of Delhi, the reactions were varied, but skepticism was the common thread.
A street vendor scoffed, "What's a young man like him going to do? Just more talk, I bet."
An office worker passing by a newspaper stand muttered, "Prove himself? Sounds like he's just figuring it out. Who knows if he's got what it takes."
A student at the local university remarked, "He sounds sincere enough. Maybe he's not in a rush to make a name for himself. But he's gonna need to show us something before we believe it."
Across India, people listened with mixed emotions. Some were curious, others skeptical. He wasn't a politician yet, nor did he seem eager to become one overnight. But the idea of a young man returning from abroad, with education and some sense of purpose, sparked a quiet hope in the air.
The air in Delhi was thick with the scent of dust and blooming trees as Rudra stepped out of the car, staring at the grand yet modest home that was once his childhood refuge. The place hadn't changed much, at least in appearance. The gates were still the same, the old trees still stood tall, and the whitewashed walls held the weight of history.
As he walked in, a wave of nostalgia hit him. The house was quiet—too quiet. A few servants greeted him respectfully, and one elderly caretaker, who had been around since his childhood, approached him with tears in his eyes.
"You've grown, baba," the old man said, placing a wrinkled hand on Rudra's shoulder.
Rudra managed a small smile. "It's good to be home," he replied, though the words felt foreign. Was this still home? Or was he just a stranger returning to a past he had barely lived?
He didn't linger long. After freshening up, he set out for Shakti Sthal, the memorial of his grandfather—Lal Bahadur Shastri. The drive there was silent. The car cut through the city streets, past the bustling crowds, the chaotic markets, and the cycle rickshaws struggling for space alongside Ambassador cars.
When he arrived, Rudra stood still for a moment, staring at the memorial. A simple black marble platform marked the resting place of the man who had once led India with humility and strength. A man who had mysteriously died in Tashkent. His death had always been controversial—there were whispers of conspiracy, of betrayal—but for now, Rudra pushed those thoughts away.
He bent down, touching the cool stone with his fingertips.
"Dadaji, I am back." The words were barely a whisper.
A storm raged within him—anxiety, anger, uncertainty. What was his purpose? Could he truly change anything? And even if he could, was it worth the struggle?
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. No matter what, one truth remained unshaken—he had to act.
As he stood back up, he felt something shift within him. It wasn't resolution, not yet. But it was the first step.