The iron gate of Maharshi Vidya Niketan creaked open as Gadhiraju and Dilli stepped in. The school stood proudly in the heart of the town—its yellow walls glowing under the sun, the morning air alive with the chatter of children. For Dilli, though, every sound seemed muffled, as though the world was holding its breath for what was about to unfold.
He walked half a step behind his father, eyes fixed on the familiar cement floors. His heart thudded louder than the morning assembly drum. This isn't about skipping classes… this is about my father staking his honor for me, he thought.
At the end of the corridor, the Principal's office door was already open. Inside, a tall man with silvering hair sat behind a large teak desk. The nameplate read: N. V. Ramaraju – Founder & Director. But to Gadhiraju, he wasn't a Director. He was still the same old Ramaraju, his friend of decades.
"Ahh! Gadhiraju!" Ramaraju rose with surprising agility and extended both hands. "Still the same storm, just with a little more grey in your beard!"
"And you," Gadhiraju shot back with a mischievous grin, "still the same lazy fellow who tricked students into reading out lessons so you could nap in class!"
The room erupted with laughter, echoing with the warmth of years gone by. Dilli looked from one to the other, confused—was this the same stern father who rarely cracked a smile at home?
Ramaraju gestured to the chairs. "Sit, sit. Tell me, why have you dragged poor Dilli here during school hours? Planning to make him Principal in my place already?"
Dilli's lips twitched, but he held back a laugh. His father cleared his throat, his expression shifting from playful to serious.
"Ramaraju, I came here not for jokes but for a request. My Dilli… he wants to do research. Says classrooms are wasting his time."
"Research?" Ramaraju leaned back, chuckling. "At his age, we researched how to pluck mangoes without getting caught by Subbarao's dog!"
"Don't remind me," Gadhiraju said, shaking his head. "That dog chased us so much I can still feel its teeth in my dreams."
Both men broke into laughter again. Dilli watched silently, his chest tightening. He had never heard these stories before—his father as a mischievous boy, not the stern disciplinarian.
But then, Gadhiraju's voice took on a steady weight. "Listen, Ramaraju. I've told Dilli—if he scores 90 percent in the upcoming quarterly exams without attending classes, then I want you to allow him freedom to continue this path. If he fails, don't blame him. Blame me."
The words dropped like stones into a still pond. Even the ceiling fan seemed to hum quieter.
Ramaraju leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "Are you serious? You're ready to take the weight of this on yourself?"
"I am," Gadhiraju replied, voice unwavering. "If he stumbles, punish me. Beat me, not him. He deserves the chance. If I don't stand behind him now, when will I?"
A long silence hung in the room before Ramaraju broke it with a slow grin. "You haven't changed one bit. Always ready to throw yourself into fire for others. Do you remember the day you stood up for me when the headmaster accused me of stealing chalk boxes?"
Gadhiraju laughed. "How could I forget? You were too scared to open your mouth. If I hadn't spoken up, you'd have been thrown out of that government school."
"And now look at us," Ramaraju said, spreading his arms proudly, "that frightened teacher and that reckless friend sitting here as Director and guest. Life has a sense of humor, eh?"
The two men burst into laughter again, their voices carrying the weight of old days, of youthful battles and shared hardships.
Dilli, however, wasn't laughing. His throat ached, his fists clenched tightly on his lap. He's doing all this for me, Dilli thought. He is betting his reputation, his friendship, his word. All for me.
Finally, Ramaraju shook his head with a grin. "Alright then. I'll agree to this gamble. But mark my words—if your lion cub doesn't roar and score that 90 percent, I'll march him back into classrooms with a full drum band leading the way!"
Gadhiraju slapped his thigh, laughing loud. "Done! And if that happens, I'll join the band myself and dance in front!"
Even Ramaraju couldn't hold his composure at that, and the office roared with laughter.
But Dilli's eyes stung. Beneath the humor, beneath the old anecdotes, he saw something no one else did: his father carrying a shield in front of him, absorbing every arrow the world might fire.
For the first time, Dilli realized that his father's love wasn't about soft words—it was about standing tall, taking blame, and turning himself into armor.
Inside, he vowed silently: I will not let you dance with that drum band, Daddy. I'll make you proud. The world will not laugh at us—they will salute us.
And in that small, sunlit office, as laughter died down and promises lingered in the air, the foundation of Dilli's destiny was laid—on the bedrock of a father's faith.