Chapter 1: The Golden Cage
New York, USA – June 2004
The screen of the television flickered with the graphics of a PlayStation 2 game. Outside the window of the penthouse apartment, the New York skyline glittered like a sea of diamonds.
Fourteen-year-old Arjun paused his game as his father, Ramesh, walked into the room. Ramesh looked different tonight—he wasn't wearing his usual suit. He looked lighter, yet his eyes held a serious intensity.
"Arjun," Ramesh said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. "Turn it off. We need to talk."
Arjun dropped the controller. "What's wrong, Dad? Is it the stock market again?"
"No. The stocks are fine. Better than fine," Ramesh said, glancing at Arjun's mother, Priya, who stood by the doorway with a gentle smile. "We've done it, Arjun. We sold our shares. We have more money than we could spend in ten lifetimes."
"Cool," Arjun shrugged. "Can I get the new bike then?"
Ramesh laughed, but it was a soft, sad sound. "You can have the bike, son. But not here. We're going home."
Arjun frowned. "Home? This is home."
"No," Priya spoke up, walking over to brush Arjun's hair back. "This is just where we work. Our home is India. We have fifty million dollars, Arjun. Do you know what that can do in India? We can build schools, hospitals. We can change lives. We can't just hoard this wealth while our people struggle."
"But... my friends? My school?" Arjun protested.
"You will make new friends," his father said firmly, standing up. "Pack your bags. We leave on Friday."
Hyderabad, India – Two Days Later
The heat hit them the moment they stepped out of the Begumpet Airport terminal. It was a thick, humid warmth that smelled of dust and exhaust fumes.
"Welcome to India!" Ramesh took a deep breath, spreading his arms as if to hug the chaotic traffic.
Arjun wiped sweat from his forehead, already missing the New York winter. They piled into a hired Toyota Qualis for the long drive to Rajahmundry.
The journey was exhausting. By the time they reached their new house in Rajahmundry, it was pitch dark. The house was a massive, colonial-style bungalow with a large iron gate and a sprawling garden. It was beautiful, but to Arjun, it felt dangerously quiet.
For the next two days, the house buzzed with activity. News traveled fast in 2004. The "American Returnees" had arrived, and rumors of their wealth spread through the town like wildfire.
Arjun sat on the porch, bored, watching a stray dog chase a crow.
"Dad, I'm bored," he called out. "When do I start school?"
Ramesh was sitting on the veranda with a vernacular newspaper, sipping filter coffee. "Patience, Arjun. I've spoken to the principal. You join on Monday."
Just then, a white Scorpio SUV screeched to a halt in front of their gate. A cloud of dust rose up.
The security guard opened the gate, and a group of men walked in. In the center walked a man who looked like he owned the world. He wore crisp white khadi clothes, gold rings on four fingers, and dark aviator sunglasses.
He removed his glasses, revealing a charming, trustworthy smile. This was Virender Rao.
"Namaste, Ramesh garu!" Virender boomed, walking up the steps with open arms. "I am Virender Rao, the local MLA. I heard great souls have returned to our soil to do good work. How could I not come to pay my respects?"
Ramesh stood up, flattered. "Namaste, MLA garu. Please, come in. Have some coffee."
Arjun watched from the doorway. The men sat in the living room for hours. Virender Rao spoke smoothly, praising Ramesh and Priya for their "noble hearts."
"But sir," Virender lowered his voice, leaning in. "Bureaucracy in India is difficult. If you want to donate 40 million for education, the government red tape will eat you alive. You need a registered trust. I can help you fast-track it. I know the District Collector personally."
Priya looked at Ramesh. "He seems very helpful, Ramesh. It would save us months of work."
Ramesh nodded, smiling at the politician. "We would appreciate that, Virender garu."
Virender stood up, clasping Ramesh's hand. "Consider it done. Tomorrow evening, come with me to the registrar's office. Bring the initial draft papers. We will make history together."
The Next Night
The clock on the wall ticked loudly.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
It was 9:30 PM.
Arjun paced the living room. His parents had left with Virender Rao at 4:00 PM. They said they would be back for dinner.
The food on the table was cold.
"Where are they?" Arjun whispered. He tried calling his father's mobile—a chunky Nokia model—but it was switched off.
10:00 PM.
11:00 PM.
Suddenly, the silence of the night was shattered by the wail of a siren.
Arjun's heart hammered against his ribs. He ran to the front gate. A police jeep and an ambulance had pulled up. The spinning red and blue lights painted the walls of the house in terrifying colors.
A police Sub-Inspector stepped out, adjusting his belt. He didn't look sad. He looked bored.
"Are you the son? Arjun?"
Arjun nodded, his throat dry. "Where are my parents?"
The Inspector lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating his indifferent face. "Truck accident on the highway. Brakes failed. Head-on collision."
He gestured vaguely to the ambulance. "Dead on the spot."
The world stopped spinning. The sound of the insects, the hum of the transformer, the beat of his own heart—everything went silent.
"No," Arjun whispered. "No!"
He ran toward the ambulance doors, but a constable held him back.
"Don't look, kid. It's... messy."
Arjun collapsed on the dirt road, screaming. His voice tore through the quiet neighborhood, but the neighbors merely watched from their windows, afraid to come out.
The Funeral
The next day passed in a blur of white smoke and chanting priests. Arjun performed the last rites like a robot. He felt hollowed out.
As the pyres burned, turning his past, his love, and his future into ash, the crowd began to disperse.
A hand touched his shoulder.
It was an older constable, a man with graying hair and tired eyes who had been at the house the previous night. He looked around nervously to ensure the Inspector wasn't watching.
"Boy," the constable whispered. "Come here."
He pulled Arjun behind a large banyan tree, away from the mourners.
"Listen to me, and listen good," the constable hissed, his voice trembling. "Take whatever money you have left in the house and run. Go back to America. Go to a relative. Just leave."
Arjun looked up, his eyes red and swollen. "Why? It was an accident..."
The constable gripped Arjun's shoulder hard. "It was no accident. The truck driver works for Virender Rao. Your father's car was run off the road intentionally."
Arjun froze. The image of the smiling man in white khadi flashed in his mind. "Virender...?"
"They wanted the charity money," the constable said quickly. "And now that your parents are gone, they will come for the property documents. The Inspector has already been paid off. There is no FIR. There is no investigation. You are alone here."
The constable let go and stepped back, looking terrified. "I have children your age. That is the only reason I am telling you. Run, boy. Before tonight."
The constable walked away, disappearing into the smoke.
Arjun stood alone by the burning pyres. The tears stopped falling. The sadness that had been crushing his chest began to harden. It turned into something hot, something sharp.
He looked at the fire consuming his parents.
They killed them for money.
They smiled, shook hands, and killed them.
Arjun wiped his face with his sleeve. He didn't run. He didn't pack his bags.
He looked at the direction of the city, his fists clenching until his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.
"I'm not going back to America," he whispered to the fire.
"I'm going to kill them all."