The afternoon sun beat down on the salt-corroded tin roof of the Sunshine Orphanage Shelter in Worli.
Inside the narrow, open-air activity courtyard, the damp sea breeze smelled of peeled lime, rusting iron, and cheap laundry soap.
The walls were scarred by years of coastal monsoon neglect, their pale cream putty cracking in wide, jagged spiderwebs.
Yet the broken floor was alive with acoustic thunder.
All eight children were gathered in a tight circle around a battered, taped-up paper poster pinned crookedly against the peeling wall.
That very morning, pooling together every single coin they had salvaged—rusted five-rupee coins, crumpled ten-rupee notes, and copper washers.
They had sprinted to the corner newspaper depot to buy a damaged, half-torn promo sheet of the Times of India concert print for half price.
With sticky cellophane tape and trembling, sacred care.
They had smoothed the paper out, mounting their new idol right beside their brass picture frame of Goddess Parvati and Lord Shiva.
Leading the charge were the three eldest anchors of the shelter.
Standing on an overturned wooden milk crate, holding a frayed coir broomstick like an electric battle-axe, was eight-year-old Skanda.
The eldest among the orphans, Skanda had the lean, hardened posture of an ascetic warrior.
His deep bronze skin was taut over high cheekbones, his jet-black hair cropped close to his skull, and his dark obsidian eyes burned with an unnatural, intense gravity.
Abandoned on the temple steps as an infant with nothing but an iron talisman around his neck.
He had shouldered the unspoken burden of being the eldest brother.
Stern, unyielding, fiercely protective, and constantly calculating how to stretch half a loaf of bread across eight hungry mouths.
To his right, clutching a dented plastic water bottle like a high-end dynamic microphone, was seven-year-old Ganesh.
Nicknamed ‘Motu’ by the alley boys.
Ganesh was the absolute antithesis of his older brother: delightfully chubby, round-cheeked, with large, jovial almond eyes that crinkled into crescent moons whenever he laughed.
His worn cotton shorts were perpetually slipping over his soft belly.
His fingers smelling faintly of crushed roasted peanuts, and nestled right inside the front pocket of his oversized checked shirt was a tiny, gray domesticated mouse he had rescued from the kitchen drain.
Ganesh possessed an infectious, unshakeable joy that refused to let the damp walls break his spirit.
And dancing between them, holding a snapped acoustic guitar with only three nylon strings remaining, was six-year-old Sundari.
With her dark hair neatly tied into twin bouncing pigtails by Matron Dadi.
Sundari was an angel carved from pure sweetness.
Her doe-like hazel eyes were luminous, her small round nose smudged with chalk, her slender frame moving with natural, fluid rhythm.
She was the delicate hearth of the shelter.
The child who had instinctively broken off a piece of her hot pav bhaji on the beach sand to feed a weeping giant.
“Alright, choir!
Final chorus!” Skanda barked like an army drill sergeant, sweeping his broomstick through the air.
Ganesh puffed out his soft chest, belting through his plastic bottle with theatrical, dramatic rasps, while Sundari twirled on her bare heels, mimicking Jasmine Sandlas’s fierce stage movements with giggles!
The remaining five children.
Three boys and two girls- stomped their bare feet against the stone tiles, clapping in furious, joyful synchronization.
Sundari struck a final, dramatic pose, tilting her head back.
Her pigtails swinging as she let out an exaggerated, comical pout:
“Haaah…
If Rudra Bhaiya were here, our concert would be ten times louder!
He would make the roof fly away!”
The courtyard fell into a quiet, wistful silence.
The remaining children slumped down against the low brick parapet, resting their chins on their knees.
The hard, unforgiving reality of the street was an open book to them.
Skanda leaned his broomstick against the wall, his dark eyes turning solemn and practical:
“Sundari…
Rudra Bhaiya is a national rockstar now.
The whole city is buying his posters.”
“Rich college girls are screaming his name on television.”
“Big people like that don’t have time to come back to a broken shelter in the slums.”
Ganesh puffed out his cheeks, glaring at his older brother with indignant loyalty:
“He will come!
He promised us!
He gave Sundari a pinky promise right by the water, and pinky promises are unbreakable!”
Skanda sighed, rubbing his forehead with an exhaustion far too heavy for an eight-year-old:
“Motu, people make promises on beaches when the sun is warm and the food is good.”
“But when the cars pull away, the rich forget the dark alleys.
That’s just how the world works.”
Standing in the kitchen doorway.
Matron Dadi wiped her damp hands on her cotton sari, a heavy, familiar ache catching in her throat.
She knew Skanda was merely trying to shield his siblings from the brutal sting of abandonment- the bitter scar they all shared.
CLAP.
CLAP.
CLAP.
A sharp, rhythmic series of slow, echoing claps reverberated through the iron gate.
“Aur kisne kaha ki Rudra Bhaiya nahi aayenge, hmm?”
(And who dared to say that Rudra Bhaiya wouldn’t show up, hmm?)
Every single head in the courtyard snapped toward the entrance!
Standing casually against the rusted iron frame of the shelter’s main door was a towering, 6’3″ figure.
He was completely disguised:
A deep charcoal windbreaker zipped to his neck, dark sunglasses shielding his eyes, a black woollen beanie pulled low over his brow, and a surgical mask covering his chiselled jaw.
The children froze, startled by the massive shadow looming over the doorway.
Then—
Sundari’s hazel eyes dilated in pure, breathless recognition!
“RUDRA BHAIYA!”
The little girl didn’t hesitate for a microsecond.
She bolted across the flagstones, throwing her small frame into the air!
Rudra’s large, calloused hands caught her cleanly mid-flight.
With effortless grace, he scooped her upward, spinning her through the humid courtyard air in a wide, breath-taking aerial circle that sent her pigtails flying while her ringing, musical laughter bounced off the tin roof!
He pulled her tight against his chest, tucking her head against his neck as she buried her small hands into his windbreaker, sobbing with joyful relief:
“You kept your promise…
You really came back!”
Rudra chuckled, his velvet baritone rich with teasing warmth as he tapped her nose:
“Of course I did, my little princess.
A pinky promise is the most absolute, unshakeable treaty in the universe.”
“Not even the kings of the world can break it.”
He reached up with his free hand, stripping away the dark sunglasses, the woolen beanie, and pulling the surgical mask down beneath his chin.
His thick obsidian hair tumbled free in the coastal breeze.
His piercing, liquid-gold irises burned down into the courtyard with radiant light.
“BHAIYA!”
Ganesh let out a triumphant war-whoop, his round belly jiggling as he charged across the tiles!
The other five children swarmed forward like a joyful tide, latching onto his legs, his belt, and his forearms!
Rudra threw his head back and laughed, sinking to his knees on the concrete, wrapping his massive wingspan of arms around the entire tangled bundle of children, absorbing their sticky, warm hugs with absolute, reverent joy.
Standing five paces back, his broomstick held tight, Skanda stood frozen.
A fragile, disbelieving smile broke across the boy’s stern face.
Rudra caught his eye.
Reaching out with a long, muscular arm.
Rudra hooked Skanda by the collar, hauling the stubborn eight-year-old straight into the centre of the embrace!
He ruffled the boy’s short black hair, whispering directly into his ear with quiet, elder-brother authority:
“Skanda, mere bhai…
Itna bojh akele mat uthaya kar.
Chhota hai tu abhi, zindagi ko thoda jeena seekh.”
“Hum bade baithe hain na sab sambhalne ke liye…
Tujhe akele puri duniya ki chinta karne ki zaroorat nahi hai.”
(Skanda, my brother…
Don’t carry such a heavy mountain on your shoulders alone; You are still a child, learn to taste a little joy in life.
We elders are standing right here to hold the line…
You don’t have to carry the worries of the whole world by yourself.)
Skanda’s dark eyes widened.
The tough, defensive wall he had spent his short life building behind his ribs fractured in a heartbeat.
He looked into Rudra’s golden gaze, biting his trembling lip, before nodding with a soft, tearful sniffle.
Matron Dadi watched from the porch.
Her wrinkled hands pressed to her mouth, her heart overflowing with gratitude.
Skanda had never let anyone see him cry; yet in thirty seconds, this young titan had pierced the boy’s armor with pure, effortless empathy.
Rudra sprang back to his feet, kicking the heavy iron gate shut behind him with his heel, ensuring no roaming street cameras or paparazzi could catch the interior.
He snatched the three-stringed battered acoustic guitar from Sundari, snatched the dented plastic bottle from Ganesh, and struck an exaggerated rockstar stance!
“CONCERT TIME, TROOPS!” Rudra roared!
He swept his thumb across the three nylon strings, beatboxing an aggressive percussive rhythm with his throat while belting out the playful hooks of Mauja Hi Mauja!
The courtyard turned into glorious madness!
Rudra lifted Sundari onto his left shoulder, tossed a giggling seven-year-old girl onto his right, and began executing absurd, synchronized Michael Jackson pelvic slides across the stone tiles!
Skanda and Ganesh took opposite sides, strumming invisible guitars, while the children danced, screamed, and vaulted over the benches!
After ten minutes of relentless cardio.
Ganesh collapsed flat on his back, his belly heaving, panting like a winded pug.
Skanda wiped his brow, poking Ganesh’s stomach with his toe:
“Dekha, Motu?
Isliye kehta hoon roz mere saath dauda kar!
Thoda kam khaya kar!”
(See that, Motu?; That’s why I tell you to run with me every morning!; Cut down on your portions!)
Ganesh turned bright red, huffing with indignation.
Rudra chuckled warmly.
Stepping over, he bent down and scooped the chubby seven-year-old straight into an effortless, dramatic bridal carry!
He winked down at Ganesh’s round, flushed face:
“Agar tu hamare concert ka Arijit Singh hai, toh stage ke baad tujhe aise hi lift milegi, hero!”
(If you are the official Arijit Singh of our rock concert, then this is the royal lift you deserve after the show, hero!)
Ganesh blushed furiously, hiding his face in his hands while the entire courtyard erupted into howling laughter!
GURRRRRRRRRGLE.
A massive, cavernous growl echoed from deep within Ganesh’s abdomen!
The laughter died.
Every eye locked onto Ganesh, who sheepishly scratched his messy curls, looking up at Rudra with large, pleading eyes:
“Bhaiya…
wo…
Kal raat jaisa koi tasty snack laye ho kya?”
(Bhaiya…
well…
I’m a little bit hungry.
Did you happen to bring any tasty snacks like last night?)
Skanda scowled, stepping forward to scold him:
“Ganesh!
Sharam nahi aati tujhe—”
(Ganesh!
Have you don’t any kind of shame)
Rudra raised a gentle palm, cutting Skanda off with a fond, conspiratorial smirk.
He knelt before Ganesh, tapping the boy’s round stomach:
“Ganesh beta, tu kya samajhta hai mujhe tera record nahi pata?
Tu sabko khaane ki competition mein hara sakta hai na?”
(Ganesh my boy, do you honestly think I don’t know your credentials?; You can wipe the floor with anyone in an eating championship, right?)
Ganesh puffed his chest out with supreme, triumphant pride, shooting a smug look at his older brother as if he had just won an Olympic medal for India!
DING-DONG.
The front shelter bell chimed.
Matron Dadi walked to the gate, unlocking the latch and gasped in pure, bewildered astonishment.
Standing on the pavement were two delivery drivers from Domino’s Pizza, holding four massive, steaming thermal insulated warming bags!
“Twenty large cheese-burst pizzas, thirty boxes of garlic breadsticks, choco-lava cakes, and cold beverages for Sunshine Shelter!” the delivery boy announced, double-checking the prepaid receipt.
“YAYYYYYYY!”
The children roared like a pack of starved, victorious lions!
Ganesh scrambled to the porch table, ripping open two boxes of steaming, bubbling pepperoni and cheese pizza.
Translucent drool pooled at the corners of his mouth as the intoxicating, oregano-spiced aroma filled the courtyard.
He tore off a molten slice, took a massive, eye-rolling bite, before carefully breaking off a tiny piece of warm crust, slipping it into his shirt pocket for his little mouse companion.
Standing near the water cooler.
Rudra watched the feast unfold, his golden eyes glowing with tranquil peace.
Matron Dadi stepped up beside him, resting a gentle, trembling hand against his broad back.
“Rudra beta…” Dadi whispered softly, her eyes glistening with concern.
“You gave them a royal feast on the beach yesterday, and now this…
You are spoiling them.
They will start expecting the world to be sweet.”
Rudra turned, offering a gentle, absolute shake of his head.
“Children like this can never be spoiled, Dadi,” Rudra answered, his velvet voice dropping into quiet reverence.
“They have tasted the bitter iron of abandonment before they even learned their alphabets.”
“A few slices of cheese and warm laughter won’t make them soft; it will remind them that they are worthy of joy.”
“And as long as I have breath in my body…
they are my family.”
He looked down into her weathered, wrinkled face, his voice softening:
“I don’t call you Dadi as a polite formality, ma’am.
In my past…
I knew an elder just like you.”
“A sacred soul who taught me the unyielding steps of the cosmic Tandav, who looked at a nameless orphan and loved him like her own flesh.”
“She passed into the earth before I could ever build her the palace she deserved.
Being able to serve you today…
is my penance and my honor.”
Matron Dadi’s breath hitched.
Looking into those liquid-gold irises.
She saw the sheer, crushing depth of the ancient sorrow he carried.
The very same ache that had brought five thousand souls to their knees in Worli.
She pulled the towering titan into a fierce, maternal embrace, pressing her cheek against his chest:
“I am blessed by the heavens to have a grandson like you, Rudra.”
Rudra embraced her tightly, but as he pulled back.
His golden eyes surveyed the deteriorating physical structure of the shelter.
The concrete lintels above the dormitory were flaking; damp mould crept along the electrical conduit lines.
The plumbing in the washrooms groaned under pressure.
Rudra knew how the municipal machinery operated.
Government welfare subsidies for orphaned wards were routinely siphoned off by corrupt ward officers and middle-tier contractors, leaving vulnerable children to sleep beneath leaking asbestos sheets while bureaucrats built private villas in Alibaug.
A flash of cold, titanic wrath flared in the depths of his pupils.
‘Just wait,’ Rudra swore silently to the cracked walls.
‘When I take this city by the throat, every corrupt leech who stole bread from these children will crawl through these gates on their bare knees to beg for mercy.’
Half an hour later.
The children were sprawled across the shaded veranda in deep, contented food comas.
Ganesh lay flat on a cotton rug.
His round belly swollen like a taut drum, snoring rhythmically with his pet mouse sleeping peacefully atop his chest, while the other children curled together in quiet, whispering huddles.
Rudra led Matron Dadi into her cramped administrative office.
Stepping up to her battered metal desk.
Rudra reached into his windbreaker, pulling out a thick, tightly wrapped bundle of high-denomination currency notes.
He placed the stack directly into her calloused palm:
Two lakh rupees in crisp, uncirculated banknotes.
Dadi’s eyes widened in sheer, paralyzed shock!
“No!
Rudra, no!” Dadi gasped, trembling, trying frantically to push the bundle back into his chest.
“I cannot take this!
You are just starting your life, you are only twenty years old”
“This is too much money!
We cannot accept casual charity!”
Rudra’s large hand gently closed around hers, holding her fingers firmly over the currency.
His golden eyes turned dead serious, brooking zero argument:
“Yeh koi daan nahi hai, Dadi…
Yeh mere parivaar ka pyaar hai.”
(This is no charity, Dadi…; This is the pure, unconditional love of my family.)
(Flashback: Two Hours Earlier — The Shroff Penthouse Balcony)
The morning sun had warmed the teak railings as Imtiaz Ali’s sedan pulled away down Carter Road.
Rudra had stood on the driveway, whispering his cold, dual declaration of Shakuni and Krishna to the wind.
Turning back toward the building.
He saw Jackie and Ayesha leaning over the fourth-floor terrace, waving him back upstairs with warm smiles.
He had returned to the balcony, expecting his parents to interrogate him about the private script reading with Imtiaz.
Instead, Jackie had pulled him into a side-hug, chuckling through his aviators:
“Bhidu, you don’t owe us an explanation.
An artist’s meeting with his director is sacred ground.”
“But your mother and I have a small debt to settle.”
Ayesha stepped forward, holding a sealed brown envelope, placing it firmly into Rudra’s hands.
Rudra unsealed the flap, his eyes widening at the thick stack of currency inside: two lakh rupees in cash.
“Mom…
what is this?” Rudra asked, bewildered.
“You bought me a brand-new M5 yesterday!
I already have my monthly allowance.
Why are you handing me liquid cash?”
Ayesha smiled.
A breath-taking, radiant smile that washed away every lingering shadow of the 2009 tabloid scars.
“This isn’t for you, Rudra,” Ayesha whispered softly, her hands cupping his cheek.
“This is for the Sunshine Shelter.
You told us how you fed those children yesterday…
how their pure blessings gave you the strength to stand on that stage.”
“Jaggu wanted to send five lakhs immediately, but I stopped him because I knew you would refuse our help.”
She looked deep into her son’s golden eyes:
“This is a humble token of gratitude from two parents to the blessed angels who helped our boy become a living rockstar.”
“Take it to them, Rudra.”
Rudra had stood on the sunlit terrace.
His heart swelling with an emotion so vast it threatened to split his chest, bowing his head in deep, silent reverence before accepting his parents’ blessing.
(Flashback Ends)
Inside the small office, Matron Dadi stared at the currency, fresh tears spilling over her wrinkled cheeks.
When Rudra quietly revealed that he was the son of Jackie Shroff, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
She knew of Jackie Dada’s legendary street-bred generosity.
A star who had spent thirty years quietly paying for the cancer treatments and heart surgeries of anonymous slum dwellers without ever calling a press conference.
“The tree bears the fruit of its roots…” Dadi wept softly, clutching the money to her chest.
“May the Almighty guard your steps, my son.
We will fix the roof before the rains come.”
Neither of them noticed the slight, silent shadow standing outside the frosted office window.
Skanda stood in the corridor.
His back pressed against the wall, listening to every word.
Silent tears rolled down the eight-year-old’s stoic face.
He wiped his cheeks with his dusty sleeve, his jaw setting into an unbreakable, solemn resolve as he looked toward his sleeping siblings:
“Main vaada karta hoon, Rudra Bhaiya…
Main hamesha apne parivaar ki dhaal banunga.”
(I promise you, Rudra Bhaiya…; I will forever stand as the unbreakable shield for my family.)
Fifteen minutes later.
Rudra returned to the central courtyard.
He knelt before Sundari, pressing a soft, lingering kiss upon her forehead.
“Troops, your King has to march now.
There are empires waiting to be conquered, and I need your blessings.”
Every child raised their small hands in the air, offering playful, solemn blessings!
Skanda stepped up behind Ganesh, lightly tapping the chubby boy’s ankle with his toe.
Ganesh snorted, rubbing his eyes groggily, sitting up with a dazed smile: This chapter was taken from novelping.com without permission.
“Mmm…
Am I in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory…?
Can I eat the walls…?”
The courtyard dissolved into giggles!
Skanda shook his head with an exasperated eye-roll: “Idiot.”
Rudra chuckled, but then his smile turned mysterious.
“Hold on…
before the King departs, one last delivery.”
He walked out to the iron gate, pulling a massive, fifty-kilogram industrial wooden crate into the courtyard, lifting the colossal container with effortless, hydraulic ease!
The children gasped, their eyes shining like stars as they swarmed the crate!
“Pull the ribbon together!” Rudra commanded!
SNAP!
The crate panels fell open!
Inside was a colourful, breath-taking mountain of treasures.
Brand-new school uniforms, durable leather school shoes, soft cotton bath towels, imported art supplies, sketchbooks, classic storybooks, fragrant soaps, dental kits, and modern sports gear!
“THANK YOU, BHAIYA!” the children shrieked, piling onto his torso in another chaotic, tearful tackle!
Rudra laughed brightly, hugging them all before turning to Dadi.
He dropped to both knees, reaching out with both hands to touch her bare feet, drawing his palms up to his brow and chest, absorbing her fatigue into his own unyielding vessel.
“Next time I visit, we’re renting a bus and touring the entire city,” Rudra promised with a wink.
“Be good, and don’t give this gorgeous lady any headaches.”
He secured his dark sunglasses, pulled the black beanie over his hair, and zipped his windbreaker to his throat.
Slipping through the iron gate.
He vanished down the Worli lane toward the quiet side street where the BMW M5 was parked.
Sitting behind the wheel.
He touched his Rudraksha beads, whispering to the empty cabin:
“Did you see them, Sati…?
Did you see how their laughter lights up the dark…
just like you used to do for me?”
A warm, familiar giggle brushed against his ear:
“Now go and conquer the stage, my sexy, sinful hubby…
and erase the word ‘orphan’ from their lives forever…
hehehe.”
VROOOOOOOOOOM!
The M5 tore into the arterial traffic, rocketing northward toward Aram Nagar.
Sunshine Shelter — Twenty Minutes Later
The courtyard was peaceful.
Sundari was brushing the blonde hair of her brand-new Barbie doll.
Skanda was methodically adjusting the leather straps of a professional junior cricket pad.
While Ganesh was roaring with laughter, using a miniature remote-control racer to give his gray mouse a high-speed joyride across the flagstones!
Ganesh took a deep breath, grinning ear-to-ear:
“Yaar, hum log kitne lucky hain na…
ki hume achanak se Rudra Bhaiya mil gaye!”
(Man, how incredibly lucky are we…; That we crossed paths with Rudra Bhaiya out of nowhere!)
Sundari nodded enthusiastically, tucking her doll into a blanket:
“Haan!
Kal hum kitne udaas the ki didi busy thi, aur aaj bhi nahi aayi…
Isliye Dadi maa hume beach par le gayi, aur bhagwaan ji ne Rudra Bhaiya ko bhej diya!”
(Yes!; Yesterday we were so sad because Didi was busy, and she couldn’t come today either…; That’s why Dadi took us to the beach, and God sent Rudra Bhaiya to our side!)
Skanda smiled softly, his fingers tracing his new bat:
“Haan…
Hum bohot lucky hain ki hamari zindagi mein Ashi Didi aur Rudra Bhaiya dono hain.”
(Yes…; We are truly blessed that our lives have both Ashi Didi and Rudra Bhaiya.)
“Oho!
Toh bas ek din ke liye main kya bahar gayi…
mere bache apni favourite Didi ko bhool gaye, hmm?!”
(Oh really!; So I leave the city for just a single day…; and my sweet angels completely forget their favorite sister, hmm?!)
The children froze!
Standing in the courtyard archway was a young woman.
She was dressed in a modest, oversized khadi kurta and faded denims.
Her face was almost entirely obscured behind a thick white surgical mask and heavy, dark tortoiseshell spectacles that hid the upper half of her features.
Her hair was pulled into a functional, messy bun.
She had been volunteering at the shelter for over a year under a simple, unassuming alias:
Ashi.
“ASHI DIDI!”
All eight children abandoned their toys, swarming the young woman in an explosive, affectionate collision!
Ashi laughed.
A rich, cultivated sound that carried an innate, unshakeable aristocratic poise- dropping to her knees to embrace the bundle of children.
She looked around the transformed courtyard, taking in the empty Domino’s pizza boxes.
The stacks of glossy new storybooks, and the mountain of leather sports kits, raising an eyebrow behind her thick frames:
“Aisa kaun aa gaya tumhari zindagi mein, jo itne saare gifts aur pizza ki barsaat ho gayi yahan?!”
(Just who on earth walked into your lives…; to rain down such a mountain of gifts and pizza across this shelter?!)
Sundari and Ganesh excitedly dragged her across the courtyard, speaking over each other in breathless, high-speed chatter!
“Didi, look!” Sundari gasped, pointing toward the peeling wall.
“We bought this poster this morning with our coins, but it was completely torn in half!”
“But when we woke up from our afternoon nap…
Rudra Bhaiya used his magic to heal the paper!”
Ashi stepped up to the wall, her dark eyes locking onto the framed print.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It was the viral Filmfare image from the Worli concert:
Rudra standing beneath the full moon, weeping tears of pure diamond, while arterial blood scattered from his fingers like rubies across the dark wood.
Ganesh jumped excitedly, pointing his chubby finger at the centre seam:
“Dekho Didi!
Bhaiya ne apne haathon se ek golden line draw ki hai…
Aur yahan Sanskrit mein ‘Shiva Shakti’ likha hai!”
“Bhaiya ne hamari life ka pehla autograph hume diya hai!
Woh sach mein jaadoogar hain…
sab kuch theek kar dete hain!”
(Look, Didi!; Bhaiya drew a beautiful golden line with his own hands…; and right here he wrote ‘Shiva Shakti’ in sacred Sanskrit!; Bhaiya gifted us the very first autograph of his entire career!; He is a real-life magician…
he fixes everything in a single heartbeat!)
Ashi slowly raised her slender, manicured hand.
Her index finger traced the delicate, perfectly penned Sanskrit calligraphy of Shiva Shakti sealing the torn edge of the paper.
She knew that handwriting.
She had studied the high-resolution media reports that had flooded the corporate terminals of the Bandra-Kurla Complex that morning.
A quiet, electrifying shiver travelled down her spine.
Beneath her cotton mask, her lips parted in a breathless, knowing whisper:
“Rudra…
Hum jald milenge.
Kyunki tum koi aam insaan nahi ho.”
(Rudra…
We will cross paths very soon; Because you are no ordinary mortal walking this earth.)
Her fingers lingered over the sacred signature, her voice a silent vow to the peeling wall:
“…Shiva Shakti.”
[ Chapter End ]
Author’s Note
I know many of you are waiting, surprised, even a little fatigued, wondering when the film shoot will finally begin.
Don’t worry, from the next chapter onwards, the cinematic sequences will arrive with shocks that will leave you breathless.
But before that, I needed to add multi‑layers to Rudra to make him more human, more grounded.
Yes, he carries the Shroff legacy, but he also needs roots deeper than fame.
Many clever readers already sensed who these three children are.
The Sunshine Orphanage will play a major role in the future and remember Ashi because she will play major role in future arcs.
The real reason I introduced this part is personal.
It is a tribute to my elder brother whom I call Big bro – one of the finest Webnovel amateur novelists I have ever read.
He is not just a writer, but an AI specialist engineer who recently went to Zurich for work.
Through his stories, he revealed something that shook me: he donated his entire bonuses, worth lakhs, to orphan children and needy people.
He didn’t care about money, only about giving them hope.
That is why I respect him so deeply because we share the same love for orphans along with many other things which I will reveal later on.
I am not yet capable of helping at his scale, but I will in the future.
For now, I walk alongside my mother, a doctor who volunteers tirelessly in her free time, and I join her whenever I can.
No one can truly understand the pain of little children who cry silently when their families abandon them.
That pain makes me cry too, even if no one sees.
I am grateful that I have a family, and this chapter is dedicated to those children who don’t.
Rudra will erase the word “orphan” from the dictionary.
Because Rudra is not just a character – he is part of me, and I am part of him.
We all know society hides heinous truths.
Politics divides people by religion and caste while behind closed doors those same leaders laugh together, drink wine, and feast because for them, only money and power are gods.
Rudra will dismantle that hypocrisy with his strength.
This chapter was emotional for me to write.
My humble request: when you are capable, donate or give essentials to children, to the blind, to the mute, to the deaf.
Even small acts matter.
One more thing that I want to mention the reader Kitanu_Naamhaisanu, who gave me the 5th review.
Thank you, brother, for supporting me like this.
Now I need 5 more reviews to help this novel reach a wider audience.
So, any readers who love my story, please give me your reviews.
Thank you.
Haha, enough drama for now.
From the next chapter, the R18 dark romance returns.
Mohini is coming back, and the film shooting will begin.
Be prepared.