Rajiv had always believed in rules. Not the twisted, hypocritical rules of the orphanage, but the unshakable principles that governed fairness, merit, and intelligence. He carried that belief into his teenage years, where he devoured books with a hunger that few could comprehend. History, law, politics, economics—nothing escaped his scrutiny. Every fact, every nuance, every precedent was logged in his mind, organized with a precision that was terrifying to those who underestimated him.
By the time he was sixteen, his intellect had become legendary in the academic circles around him. Teachers whispered about the "orphan prodigy," while classmates alternated between awe and envy. But accolades in the classroom were a fragile thing—they could not shield him from the harsh realities of society.
The IAS—the Indian Administrative Services—became Rajiv's beacon. It was not ambition alone that drove him, but justice, pure and unflinching. In his mind, bureaucracy could be a tool to right wrongs, a hammer to shatter corruption. He imagined using its power to protect the helpless, punish the corrupt, and create a system where merit triumphed over lineage. He spent years preparing, waking before dawn to read, strategize, and memorize, and sleeping only after exhausting every ounce of mental energy.
The day the results arrived, Rajiv's heart swelled. He had cleared the mains with scores that ranked him among the top five in the country. The orphanage, the teachers, the friends who had doubted him—he had proven them wrong. Yet, the victory was hollow.
When he entered the interview hall, the system that promised fairness revealed its teeth.
The panel, a mix of bureaucrats, retired judges, and senior civil servants, looked down at him not as a candidate, but as a curiosity. A boy with no family, no caste advantage, no connections. They whispered, smirked, and exchanged glances that Rajiv could read as clearly as an open book.
"Tell us about your upbringing," one interviewer began, her tone polite but her eyes sharp, calculating.
"I grew up in an orphanage," Rajiv said calmly. "I was raised among children abandoned by the system. I have no family support, no political or social connections, and yet I have prepared myself to serve the country with integrity and competence."
A faint chuckle ran through the panel.
"And yet," another asked, leaning forward, "do you not think your background might make it difficult for you to understand the nuances of administration? Governance requires connections, trust networks, and social leverage. Something you, clearly, lack."
Rajiv's gaze hardened. "I may lack social leverage, sir, but I possess the tools to see through the leverage of others. I know the system—its strengths, its weaknesses, and its biases. I have observed it closely from the outside and studied it meticulously from within. Merit, preparation, and intelligence do not need social leverage; they need only opportunity. And opportunity is what I seek."
A pause. A silence that was deafening. They were used to obsequious candidates, polite and pliable, ready to be molded. Rajiv had none of that. He spoke with truth, with fire, with the confidence of one who had seen injustice firsthand. And the panel recoiled.
By the end of the interview, Rajiv knew he had been humiliated—not for lack of knowledge, but because of who he was. The orphan, the boy from a low caste, the one who dared speak plainly. His top scores in the mains were dismissed, his preparation ignored. They had let him enter the hall to show him the limits of the system, to remind him that merit could be crushed under the weight of lineage and privilege.
He left the room not angry, not yet, but burning. The embers of fury were quiet, patient, watching, waiting. Rajiv realized that the system he had trusted, the very bureaucracy he had dreamed of serving, had betrayed him. They had taken his effort, his years of sleepless nights, and spat upon them because he lacked connections.
On the streets, he walked past the ministers' mansions, the sprawling offices of industrialists, the banners of political dynasties. Every brick, every door, every shiny surface was a reminder of what the world valued: power, inheritance, and nepotism. Merit had no place here. Integrity was a joke.
That night, he sat by the river, staring into the black water, and made a vow. He would rise, yes, but not to be part of this system. He would tear it down. Every bureaucrat who had laughed, every politician who had ignored injustice, every industrialist who hid behind legal loopholes—they would pay. Not in rumors or whispers, not in fleeting embarrassment, but in a way that would strip them to their very bones.
Rajiv began to plot. Not impulsively, not blindly, but with precision. If the system believed it could break him with caste, connections, and nepotism, it had underestimated a boy who had survived an orphanage without love, without family, without mercy.
Each injustice he faced became a data point. Each betrayal, a lesson. The humiliation of the interview, the dismissive smiles, the thinly veiled scorn—they all fed a growing storm.
He imagined it clearly in his mind: the politicians losing their illegal posts and wealth, the bureaucrats forced to answer for every unjust act, the industrialists' benami accounts revealed, their empires crumbling. He would use the system against itself, the law as a chainsaw, slicing through privilege, exposing hypocrisy, punishing cruelty.
By the end of the week, Rajiv had formulated the first outlines of his plan. He would not simply avenge himself; he would protect those like him, the ones abandoned by society, ignored by governance, crushed by caste and politics. The orphanage had taught him empathy, but the system had taught him ruthlessness.
And in that quiet, determined fury, Rajiv felt the first taste of true power: the understanding that knowledge, preparation, and patience could level mountains. One day, the system that had humiliated him would kneel before him, brick by brick, law by law, and he would be the architect of its downfall.