Before the chaos of Beijing, before destiny pulled him away, little Mukul Sharma lived a life wrapped in the warmth of two families. The Sharma villa and the Yadav villa stood side by side in Delhi, their wide veranda connecting them like a single home. No gates, no walls—just laughter spilling across the shared space where cousins chased one another and elders gathered over tea.
For Mukul, the veranda was his whole world. He would wake early, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and toddle straight across the polished stone floor, notebook in hand. Every page of that notebook carried the same thing: seven stars drawn in circles, sometimes crooked, sometimes neat. Nobody understood why he drew them, but nobody stopped him either. It had simply become "Mukul's stars."
His grandmothers, Upasana Sharma and Ragini Yadav, often sat together on the veranda, their personalities so different yet perfectly balanced. Upasana, sharp and witty, would tease her grandson: "What will you do with all these stars, Mukul? Are you building your own sky?"
And Ragini, with her calm surgeon's precision, would stroke his hair and say, "Perhaps he is, Upasana. Or perhaps the stars are building him."
Mukul never answered. He would just smile shyly and return to his doodles.
His siblings, Anand and Kavya, treated him with a mix of love and responsibility. Anand, ten years old and already acting like a soldier, would carry Mukul on his shoulders across the lawn, declaring, "I'll always protect you, little brother." Kavya, just eight, fussed over him like a second mother—feeding him extra sweets, fixing his messy hair, and even scolding him gently when he wandered too close to the koi pond.
"Careful, Mukul," she'd say, her small hands tugging him back. "If you fall in, I'll have to jump too."
The cousins from both sides filled the house with endless noise. Evenings were the loudest—dozens of children racing through the veranda, playing cricket in the garden, or rehearsing dance steps for family gatherings. Mukul was the youngest of them all, the one they all adored, the one they called "our star boy."
But Mukul preferred quieter games. He liked curling up beside his grandfather, General Raghav, who often sat polishing his medals or reading reports late into the evening. "Dadu," Mukul would whisper, climbing onto his lap, "tell me a story about the sky."
And Raghav, the hardened commander who led India's three forces, would soften instantly. "The sky," he'd say, pointing upward, "is full of guardians. Some shine brightly, some faintly. But each has a role, just like every soldier. Perhaps you, too, are one of them."
On other days, Mukul would sit by Devendra Yadav, his maternal grandfather, listening as the old politician spoke on the phone with ministers and party leaders. Once, when Devendra hung up, Mukul asked innocently, "Dadu, are you the boss of everyone?"
Devendra laughed, pulling him close. "No, little one. I only try to help. But maybe one day, you will be the boss of more than I could ever imagine."
The villa life was simple yet extraordinary. Festivals were celebrated with grand fireworks, birthdays with music and sweets, and dinners with long tables where every seat was filled. In those moments, the Sharma's and Yadavs were not two powerful families of Delhi—they were just one big family, their voices blending into one.
And in the middle of it all was Mukul—always smiling, always sketching his seven stars.
On the night before the Beijing trip, the veranda glowed with fairy lights. The families had gathered for a quiet send-off. Mukul sat cross-legged on the floor, his sketchbook open on his lap. Kavya leaned over and whispered, "Why do you always draw stars?"
Mukul looked at her with innocent eyes. "Because the stars are calling me. They say I will go far."
Kavya frowned, not understanding. Anand ruffled his brother's hair. "Don't listen to him. He's just dreaming."
But in the corner, Acharya Raghunandan Sharma, who had stopped by unannounced, heard the boy's words. His wise eyes darkened, though he said nothing.
That night, as the children slept in a row across the villa's grand hall, Mukul clutched his sketchbook tightly against his chest. The stars he had drawn seemed to shimmer faintly under the moonlight spilling through the veranda windows.
No one knew then how quickly that peaceful world would be shattered. No one imagined the veranda would fall silent without his laughter.
For now, though, in those final days at home, Mukul was simply a five-year-old boy—cherished, protected, and surrounded by love.
The stars above the villa watched silently, as if already preparing to take him away.