Now, I tell you—the boy is me, Mukul Sharma. I came from the famous Sharma family from Delhi, but the other half of my blood—the warmth, the kindness, the fire for justice—comes from my mother's side, the Yadav family.
Where the Sharmas are strength, the Yadavs are heart. If the Sharmas rule with discipline, the Yadavs lead with devotion. And together, they became two pillars of power joined by destiny.
Let me begin with the head of the Yadav family—Devendra Yadav, my maternal grandfather.
People call him "Netaji", though he never liked titles. To the world, he is a political giant, a party president, and one of the most respected social workers in India. But to me, he is "Dadu", the man with a big smile and an even bigger heart.
Dadu is tall and strong even in his sixties. His eyes always seem to glow with energy. He wears simple white kurta–pyjamas and still prefers to sit cross-legged on the floor when meeting villagers. His laugh is deep and full—it can make an entire hall turn toward him. But when he speaks about the country, his voice changes—it becomes firm, powerful, unstoppable.
He started his career not with money or big support, but with a cause. He fought for farmers who had lost everything. His speeches in the assembly shook governments, and his charity programmes built schools and hospitals across rural India. People say, "If Sharma is discipline, Yadav is compassion."
Beside him stands Dr Ragini Yadav, my maternal grandmother. She is one of the finest surgeons in the country—a multi-specialist who can perform everything from heart surgery to neurology. Even now, at the age when most doctors retire, she still leads complex operations and mentors young doctors in Delhi's best hospitals.
She is elegant and warm, with eyes full of understanding. Her long hair, streaked with silver, always falls neatly on her shoulders. When she walks into a room, peace follows her. Dadu may be the strength of the Yadav house, but Grandma Ragini is its soul.
She raised her children not just to be successful but kind. "Knowledge is wasted without kindness," she told me once while checking my fever.
Their eldest child is my mother, Dr Priya Yadav, who became Priya Sharma after marrying my father. But before she was a Sharma, she was already a legend. People call her a "polymath doctor" because she mastered all medical fields at a very young age.
At fourteen, she completed her MBBS. At sixteen, she earned both her MD and MS with highest honours. Her photographic memory and calmness under pressure made her a star in every hospital she entered. She can diagnose in minutes what others miss in hours.
But what truly makes her special is her heart. No matter how busy she is, she never refuses a patient. For her, every life matters. Her beauty is quiet—kind eyes, long braided hair, and the warmest smile that could melt any child's fear. When I was sick, she never called any nurse—she personally took care of me all night, whispering stories about stars, science, and destiny.
The second child of the Yadav family is my uncle, Rakesh Yadav, a brilliant politician and current MP in Lok Sabha. Where my grandfather roared in rallies, my uncle debates with precision. He has a calm nature but fiery words when justice is at stake. People from all parties respect him because he never loses his dignity, no matter the argument.
He is often seen wearing neat suits and glasses, always carrying files under his arm. Beside him is his wife, Neha Yadav, an economist and professor. She is wise, soft-spoken, and confident—a woman who can explain complex economic policies like storytelling. Their children—Samar, Sanya, and Sarthak—are all eight years old and brilliant. Samar dreams of becoming a politician like his father, Sanya loves singing and playing piano, and Sarthak can debate about anything, even with adults.
The third child is Dr Sneha Yadav, my aunt—a scientist working at ISRO. She designs communication systems for rockets and dreams of one day sending India's first spacecraft to new galaxies. Her husband, Dr Alok Varma, is a space engineer who works side by side with her. Together, they are a real-life science couple—quiet, focused, and full of curiosity.
Their children, Dev, Diya, and Dhruv, are all seven and already showing signs of genius. Dev loves stargazing, Diya keeps winning science olympiads, and Dhruv is crazy about robotics. Every time I visited their home, I saw small rockets, toy drones, and solar machines scattered everywhere.
The fourth child of my maternal grandparents is Suresh Yadav, the youngest and liveliest brother. He runs a large textile and tech export business and is known for his clever strategies and fearless nature. He is the kind of person who can turn any setback into profit. Always smiling, always joking, yet his mind is as sharp as a blade when it comes to business.
His wife, Pooja Yadav, works as a business analyst, a perfect partner who helps him manage everything with precision. Their three children—Kunal, Kriti, and Kabir—are just six years old but already so full of personality. Kunal dreams of playing football for India, Kriti runs a small social media blog for kids, and Kabir spends hours on his computer learning coding like it's a game.
Every evening in the Yadav house is filled with laughter. Unlike the disciplined silence of the Sharma mansion, the Yadav villa is full of warmth, debates, and the smell of food cooking in the kitchen. My grandparents always say, "Our door will never close to anyone in need."
When both families—Sharma and Yadav—come together, it feels like two worlds blending perfectly: one of discipline, one of love. The veranda connecting both homes stands as a bridge between power and heart, logic and emotion.
As a child, I didn't understand how rare it was to belong to two such great lineages. But now, when I think back, I realise how special it was. I was born between two legacies—a soldier's grandson and a leader's grandson, a doctor's son and a healer's heir.
And maybe that is why fate had bigger plans for me.
I often think destiny wasn't trying to take me away from my family. Maybe it was trying to shape me into something that could honour both—the discipline of the Sharmas and the compassion of the Yadavs.
Back then, I didn't know it. I was just a little boy, happy to play with my cousins and listen to bedtime stories. But destiny had already started writing my real story—the one that would begin far from home, on that mysterious island where twenty masters awaited.
And so, the legacy of both my families lived within me, ready to awaken when my real journey began.