They say rage makes you blind. But mine… it made me see everything.
I remember that day with the kind of clarity that feels more like a scar than a memory.It was quiet at first. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—the stillness before lightning cracks the sky.
My brother and I were at the neighborhood temple. He was playing cricket with a few smaller kids, all joy and noise, his tiny bat swinging at imaginary sixes. I sat at the edge of the platform, pretending to scroll on my phone, but my mind was heavy—crushed under the weight of unfinished assignments, disappointment in my marks, and that hollow pressure that builds when you're expected to be strong… but don't feel it.
And then came the sound.A wooden snap.A sudden cry.The kind of cry that doesn't ask for attention—it demands it.
I looked up—and the world shifted.
A group of older boys stood behind him. One held a splintered wooden plank, the others laughing like hyenas.My brother… He wasn't crying from the pain.He was shaking—from the shock. The betrayal.He didn't understand why someone would hurt him like that.
And I—I didn't understand why I wasn't moving fast enough.
But something inside me answered the call.
I stood.Took one step.Then another.Then—I wasn't stepping anymore.
I was charging.
The air felt heavier, as if gravity had turned against everyone but me. My fists clenched so hard I felt my own bones strain. But I wasn't afraid of that pain.I welcomed it.It gave shape to something deeper than anger.
It gave shape to Rudra.
I didn't know his name back then, but I felt him—this silent scream rising from somewhere ancient within me. A storm that had waited too long to be heard.
The first boy raised the plank again.I didn't stop to warn him.
My elbow drove into his ribs—crack. He folded instantly.The second one tried to swing his bat. I ducked low, stepped into his stance, and slammed his own momentum into my knee. He dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
One after another. They weren't enemies.They were targets.Fifteen of them.No coordination. No mercy.It was over in less than two minutes.
When it ended, the street was silent.Only the sound of my own breath, slow and strangely calm, filled the space.And my brother… looked up at me.
But not like a hero.He looked at me like I was a monster.
Something inside me cracked again—not like a snap this time, but like a quiet tear across something sacred.
"What have I done?"
And yet—I felt no guilt.Only power.Surging through my blood like fire.
But that night, when the house was asleep, and I sat in the corner of my room with my head against the wall... the fire didn't fade.
It grew colder. Sharper. Focused.
And then I heard it.
Not with my ears—but somewhere deeper.
"We are not done yet."
My eyes opened wide.The room hadn't changed… but something in me had.
A presence. A consciousness.Not foreign.Familiar.
The storm had a name.But I wouldn't hear it until later.