That night, long after the rest of the house had gone quiet, Gadhiraju sat alone on the veranda. The dim yellow bulb above his head flickered, drawing lazy moths into its circle of light. In his hand, he still held the small plastic bank card his son had pressed into his palm earlier.
The numbers haunted him. ₹2,46,000. Two and a half lakhs. Earned, his son claimed, in just six days.
He rubbed his forehead with a weary hand. How? How can a boy of his age manage such things? Stocks don't explain it. Salary? Impossible. Bug detection? That's a clever lie if I've ever heard one.
His eyes softened despite his doubts. But why would he lie, except to protect me from worry?
The more he thought about it, the heavier his chest grew. He had lived through hardship, carried burdens too heavy to name. He wanted his son to have none of that, to laugh, to run through the fields, to live the childhood he himself never got. And yet here was Dilli, speaking of research stations, advanced computers, company buildings—as though he were not a boy at all, but some old billionaire reborn with unfinished business.
The thought chilled him: Is he really my child… or some wandering soul with memories older than my lifetime?
But then another voice rose within, warm and firm: He is my son. My blood. My lion cub. If he wants to roar, let him roar.
He leaned back against the cool cement wall, staring out into the dark fields where the frogs croaked. Fear gnawed at him—fear that Dilli was burning too brightly, too fast. That he would lose his laughter, his innocence, his very childhood to this restless fire.
Yet, pride swelled higher than the fear. He remembered the way Dilli clung to him earlier, whispering, "Daddy, don't think too much. I won't harm our reputation. I know what I'm doing."
Those words weren't of a child—they were of a man carrying burdens on shoulders far too small.
His eyes grew wet, though no one was there to see. He whispered into the night, as though confessing to the stars:
"My son… I don't want your tears. I don't want your pain. I only want your smile. But if you insist on walking this path, I'll be your shadow. I'll take every thorn, every arrow, every insult. You just walk forward. Let me bear the weight."
He tightened his grip on the card, then pressed it to his chest.
He picked up the old landline phone, dialed a familiar number, and waited. After a few rings, a groggy but affectionate voice answered:
"Annayya… what's this, calling at this hour? Is everything alright?"
Prasadaraju closed his eyes, his voice low but steady.
"Madhu… I need to talk. Not as a casual brother, but as someone carrying too much on his chest tonight."
There was silence on the other side, then MadhavaRaju's voice softened.
"Tell me, Annayya. Your silence alone has weight. What's troubling you?"
Prasadaraju sighed, the sound carrying years of weariness.
"Madhu… I've decided. You must find buyers for our farmland. Eighteen acres… and another twenty-two… the ones near Ganapathinagaram."
The line went silent for a moment, and then MadhavaRaju almost choked.
"Annayya! That land? Your backbone, Your blood and sweat? Why so suddenly? You know how much you've held on to it all these years… What's forcing you now?"
Prasadaraju's voice wavered, but he didn't break.
"Madhu, you know my son Dilli. He's… not like the others. He's burning with something I don't fully understand. He speaks of machines, of research, of a future bigger than I can dream. I used to think it was madness… but now I see it. The boy is not meant for normal things—his mind is racing towards skies we can't even see."
A pause. Then his voice cracked, barely audible.
"I've been harsh on him all these years, Madhu. So harsh… He thought I hated him sometimes. But I only wanted to discipline him, to keep him from losing his way. And now, when I see him… determined, full of vision, calling himself ready to carry burdens no boy his age should carry… what else can I do? If his path needs money, I'll give him whatever I can. Even if it means selling the soil our I walked on."
On the other end, MadhavaRaju's eyes brimmed though no one could see. He whispered:
"Annayya… you love him so much, but you carry it like a wound inside. Why didn't you tell him this before? Why break yourself in silence?"
Prasadaraju gave a broken chuckle.
"A father's love is like a coconut, Madhu. Hard on the outside, all milk inside. If I showed him only softness, he would never grow strong. He needed my sternness to sharpen him… and now that he has become fire, he needs my support to burn brighter. This land… let it go. Let it turn into his wings."
MadhavaRaju swallowed hard, his voice thick.
"Annayya, I'll arrange the clients. Don't worry about that. But promise me one thing—don't break yourself in the process. Dilli will shine, I have no doubt, but he needs a father who stands tall, not one who crumbles behind him."
For the first time that night, tears slid down Prasadaraju's cheeks. He held the phone tight, whispering,
"Madhu… you've always been more than a co-brother. You're my own blood. Thank you. If I falter, remind me why I'm doing this—for my son, for his tomorrow. Even if I lose everything, if Dilli wins, that's enough for me."
On the other end, MadhavaRaju closed his eyes, his throat tight.
"Annayya, don't speak of losing. We'll carry this together. Dilli's dream is not only yours—it's ours. Remember that."
The call ended, but both men sat in silence long after, hearts heavy yet strangely lighter, bound by love, sacrifice, and a boy's blazing dream.
"I don't understand your ways, Dilli. But I understand one thing—you are destined for something greater than I can imagine. If I must give up my peace for that, then so be it. Just… don't lose yourself, my child. Don't lose the boy within while chasing the man you wish to become."
The night stretched long. Somewhere inside, the crickets sang. And out there, in a small room, Dilli bent over notebooks and screens, etching blueprints for dreams too vast for his age.
Between father and son, two hearts beat differently—one with fear wrapped in love, the other with determination wrapped in fire. Yet both hearts carried the same vow: to never let the other fall.