The year was 1978. It was a time of brass, velvet, and a relentless, corrosive ambition that smelled nothing like sweet , honest diesel of Gambheera freight. For Ojas Gambheera , barely seven years old, the world has been defined by a simple, comforting duality: the scent of his mother's sandalwood soap-a clean, eternal promise of safety-and the dark, sophisticated aroma of his father's strong South Indian coffee, always savored over ledgers that crinkled with the subtle power of earned money.
Their home, a sprawling, colonial-era bungalow, was not merely a house; it was a fortress of his father's self-made success. Suryan Gaambheera had carved his logistics empire from the ground up, starting with a single, battered truck and building it into a fleet that commanded the regional routes. It was a legacy built on trust and sweat, now tragically under siege.
On that particular Tuesday evening, the familiar sounds of their life-the cook humming, the servants preparing dinner-had been replaced by an unsettling, profound silence. The only sounds were the clipped, anxious whispers of his parents trapped behind the heavy, polished teak doors of Suryan's study. Ojas knew the source of the tension; the name 'Ramnandan Roy' had become a venomous word, spat out in hushed tones, the name of the man who had abandoned fair fair competition for outright, brutal sabotage. Kishore, whose logistics company was driving down prices to suicidal levels, hijacking trucks, and using intimidation to seize Gambheera Freight's long-held contracts it was a business war being not fought with spreadsheets, but with basketball bats.
Ojas sat on the cool, wide marble window seat, tracing geometric patterns on the pane misted with evening dew. Three blocks away, through a gap in the trees, he could see the garish, flickering neon sign of 'RR Logistics,' a red and blue monstrosity that seemed to pulse with a malevolent light. It was a silent, taunting reminder of the enemy closing in.
Finally, with a soft click that resonated like a pistol shot in the silence, the study door opened.
His father, Suryan Gambheera , emerged. The man ojas knew-the man whose shoulders looked wide enough to carry the world-was gone. In his place was a shadow; suryan's starched white shirt was badly rumpled, his dark hair was mussed, and his eyes held a frantic, cornered desperation. A vein near his temple throbbed, a terrifying, tiny drumbeat of stress.
"Ojas ," his father said, his voice stripped bare of its usual booming authority. It was thin, trembling. "Go to the kitchen. Ask your mother to fix you a proper meal, and go to bed early. I have a very long night of paperwork ahead."
His mother, Leela was already moving. She dropped to her knees with a speed that startled Ojas, pulling him into an embrace that was crushingly tight, her usual jasmine perfume overhelmed by the sharp, metallic tang of fear. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead, her hand shaking slightly.
"My brave little man," she whispered, her voice cracking." Your father and I love you, Ojas. Remember that. Hold it tight. Whatever happens, rember that we loved you, always." The strange, absolute finality in her tone, the sheer desperation of the hug, itself in ojas's young mind as the first, confusing sign of the coming catastrophe.
He retreated, glancing back. Suryan was moving slowly, mechanically. Ojas watched his father lock at the main door-not merely bolting it, but turning the key twice in the deadbolt, a desperete, failure geasture of sealing their fate.
Then came the object that defined the night: the metallic briefcase. It wasn't the usual leather document holder; this was a heavy, specialized aluminium case, triple-locked. Suryan placed it on the mahogany desk, a morbid display. But he wasn't interested in that. He pulled out a small, ancient leather-bound ledger, its pages brittle and yellowed and began writing with a frantic, desperate energy. The scratching of his quill was the final sound of an honest life being recorded.
The air outside shrieked. A sudden, voipent wind whipped through the trees.
The sound that followed was not wind. It was the shattering roar of heavy vehicle tires grinding to a halt, followed by a violent, earth- shaking crack as something massive-a truck, perhaps-slammed into and ripped their wrought-iron gate off its hinges.
Suryan gambheera froze, his a horrifying portrait of realization. He knew. He didn't move.
"Leela!" he managed to bellow, but the sound was consumed by the terrible noise of the front door being obliterated, splintering into matchwood.
Then came the boots. Heavy measured, too many. They thundered across the Italian marble of the foyer, a relentless army of retribution. The frantic, terrified screams of the household staff-the cooks, the drivers, the maids-were cut short with brutal efficiency.
Ojas, small and quick, instinctively disappeared beneath the massive dining table. The thick, fringed velvet tablecloth dropped around him, creating a temporary, illusory safe space. he pressed his hands over his ears, but the noise was inside his head now, a cacophony of terror.
He heard the deep, sickeningly familiar voice of the leader. It was cold, refined, and laced with absolute power.
"Suryan Gambheera," Roy purred, every syllable drawn out for maximum psychological damage. "Your pride wrote this cheque. You should have simply signed over the remaining assets. Instead, you forced us to visit. And now, the collection fee has multiplied."
Ojas's father, his voice raw with disbelief, finally erupted. "You vermin! This was business! you didn't just cross the line, Ramnandan you annihilated it! you brought brutes into my home!"
The sound of the antique vase shattering was followed by a sickening, fleshy thud and a gasping cough. Ojas knew, his father and been brutally struck.
The questions came next, not about the bankrupt company, but about the secret funds. "Where is the hidden account, Suryan? The emergency funds? The ledger for the boy's future! where did you hide it, you desperate fool!"
His mother's scram was high-pitched, agonizing. "Leave him alone! we have nothing! It's all gone! please!"
A hollow, sharp crack-a sound Ojas would hear every time he closed his eyes for the next twenty years. The floor vibrated beneath him. He knew what that sound meant. He pressed himself into the corner of the table's pedestal, tears streaming silently down his cheeks, yet unable to make a sound.
He heard his father's final, gurgling breath, a sound that ended the world. "The briefcase... empty..."
The men raged, tearing the study part, looking for the small, leather ledger, ignoring the metallic box. Roy cursed, his voice finally losing cold control.
Ojas felt a new coldness nearby. He forced his eyes open just enough to see the polished black leather of Roy's boots. They stood terrifyingly close to the tablecloth, utterly still.
Then, Roy's voice spoke, low, calm, and utterly final.
"We have made our point. There will be no witnesses. Burn it all. Every wall, every book, every body. Leave nothing behind to suggest this was anything but a tragic electrical fire."
The boots moved away. Ojas heard the distinct, sickening click-click-CLACK of a Zippo lighter, followed by the immediate, overwhelming, and toxic smell of heavy kerosene. The floorboards near the foyer were instantly slick with the fuel.
He was alone. The silence returned, but it was a silence filled with crackling promise of fire. The wetness near his hiding place was not water. He knew hos parents were dead. His home was his tomb.
A brilliant, dangerous flicker of orange light danced under the tablecloth, growing quickly. The smell of burning teak and fine velvet slammed into his lungs, choking him. The low, hungry roar of the fire had begun.
The child Ojas, paralyzed by shock, didn't scream. But his hand, trembling uncontrollably, brushed against something small, dense, and cool beneath the table's central support.
It was the old-fashioned leather ledger.
In a final, magnificent act of defiance, his father, Suryan Gambheera, must have used his last ounce of life the book-the true testament of his assets and, more importantly, the record of Ramnandan Roy's crimes-to the only place he knew his son would be.
Ojas gripped it with the fierce, absolute conviction of survivor. The leather was cool, the only cool thing in a world rapidly turning to ash. This book was not just money; it was the seed of his revenge.
The heat was now unbearable. The flames were consuming the velvet fringe inches from his face. He had to move. The survival instinct, ancient and savage, overcame the shock.
He burst out from beneath the table, a small, soot-stained figure. He didn't lookback at the carnage. He ran not to the safe back garden, but directly toward the blinding inferno of the front, door, the only way out, the only way to avoid the men who had just killed his family. He ran straight into the blazing heart of the tragedy, clutching the book-the map and the motivation for the next twenty years of his life.
He burst out out of the flames and into the night air, the wail of distant sirens finally beginning to raise above the roar of the fire. The shadow of Ramnandan Roy's departure was long. Ojas did not cry. He just kept running, the cool ledger pressed against his feverish chest.
He had lost everything, but he found the weapon.