Rajiv learned quickly that an orphanage was more than walls and schedules—it was a microcosm of the world outside, complete with hierarchies, silent wars, and invisible boundaries. The classrooms were small, the benches warped and scratched from years of abuse, but the blackboard was his arena.
He was ten now, a boy with dark, sharp eyes that seemed too old for his small frame. While the other children scribbled their letters and numbers, Rajiv memorized the handwriting of each teacher, the tempo of their lectures, the way their moods shifted with the seasons. He was curious, not just about the lessons, but about people—their motivations, their secrets, their hypocrisies.
Science fascinated him. He made rudimentary experiments in the corner of the classroom: mixing vinegar with baking soda to see the foam rise, observing insects trapped in glass jars, tracking shadows cast by the broken windows. He scribbled his observations in a tattered notebook, one he kept hidden under the floorboard of his cot.
But it wasn't just science.
Rajiv noticed everything. The way Ravi flinched whenever an upper caste boy approached. The quiet anger in the cook Bhola's eyes when the warden berated him for trivial mistakes. The sharp, calculating look Sister Mary gave to boys she deemed "troublesome."
One rainy afternoon, Rajiv orchestrated his first act of real justice. The warden had punished a boy named Anil, who had dropped a plate of rice, by making him kneel in the courtyard for an hour. The upper caste boys snickered while the others stared, helpless.
Rajiv knew the courtyard had a drainage pipe that ran behind the old storage shed. During playtime, he slipped a small piece of string through the pipe, tied it to a discarded stone, and when the warden's back was turned, he tugged the string. The stone rolled silently across the courtyard, hitting a metal bucket that clanged loudly. The warden, startled, turned just in time to see the upper caste boys scattering in fear.
Anil had a chance to rise without the usual humiliation. The warden never noticed. Rajiv smiled quietly to himself that night, jotting in his notebook: Justice is not about visibility, but effectiveness.
But it wasn't all clever tricks. Rajiv spent long nights consoling boys who had been beaten, sharing scraps of bread, comforting the ones whose parents had died and left them alone. He became a silent guardian, a strategist, a friend, a mentor, all at once.
And he began to see the cracks in the system: the favoritism, the corruption, the caste politics that allowed certain boys to receive extra attention while others were left to starve or suffer. He began making mental notes, like a chess player cataloging moves for future games. Every humiliation, every unfair punishment, every subtle insult—it was all recorded.
Rajiv understood something most adults never would: injustice was predictable. It followed patterns, rules, and blind traditions. And when he grew strong enough, he would exploit those patterns.
But first, he had to survive.