While the Sharmas searched with silent discipline, far across the veranda that joined both homes, my maternal grandparents—Devendra Yadav and Dr Devendra Ragini Yadav—lived through the same endless ache in their own way.
For five years, they had carried the same wound — a pain neither politics nor medicine could heal. Every photo of me around their mansion and every scribble I left on walls or paper still lived in the mansion and rested untouched. No one dared to remove them.
On the surface, their household stayed busy. People came and went, attending meetings, discussing party policies, or requesting guidance. Devendra Yadav, president of his party and still the face of hope for millions, continued standing tall before the people. To the world, he looked like the same brilliant leader he had always been — calm, commanding, and unbreakable. But those closest to him knew the truth: his public strength was a mask for private grief.
Every evening, when the house emptied of crowds and cameras, the great statesman would walk alone to the veranda, where the laughter of two families had once mixed. There, he placed his hand on the old wooden railing and looked up at the stars, whispering, "Where are you, my little star?"
President Ragini often joined him, wearing her usual white coat even at home, as if afraid to stop being who she was. She would sit beside him with a cup of herbal tea, her eyes heavy but unwavering. "You're still asking the sky, aren't you?" she would say quietly.
He smiled faintly. "The stars don't lie, Ragini. They see more than maps and men ever will."
That night, after another long silence had stretched between them, she said softly, "If the Sharmas can search in their ways, then so can we—but not through politics or medicine. The world mustn't know how far we'll go."
He turned to her with slow realisation. —but "You mean… something beyond?"
She nodded. "If logic can't reach him, perhaps faith still can."
From that day onwards, realisation. They made a vow of their own — one only the two of them would share.
By morning, Devendra Yadav still led public life as always—giving speeches, meeting ministers, shaking hands, and smiling for cameras. But whenever journalists asked about me, his eyes softened slightly. "My grandson is not lost," he would say. "He walks elsewhere, where even the winds haven't reached yet."
The world took his words as poetic grief. Only Ragini understood the truth hidden beneath them.
Using his political influence quietly, Devendra began establishing "missing persons coordination cells" under charitable banners. Publicly, they were framed as humanitarian projects helping families search for lost loved ones. In reality, each cell became his network — a web of investigators, legal experts, and human trackers spread across continents.
Privately, he funded teams through personal accounts, contacting trusted allies from his decades in politics — people who owed him favours, diplomats stationed worldwide, and information officers placed in embassies abroad. To every one of them, he gave the same instruction: "Find whispers, not headlines."
He didn't want international media noise. He wanted silence, precision, and answers. Officially, no one connected these networks to the Yadav family name. It was what he called Operation Ankhen Band—"Eyes Closed".
Meanwhile, Ragini Yadav built her own search through science and faith combined. She reached out to doctors across countries, coordinating through the international medical community. Under the name of "The New Hope Foundation", she launched a global rescue initiative for children lost in disasters—a noble cause widely praised by the media. Yet, hidden within it was her personal mission: every rescued boy was scanned secretly for a seven-star birthmark.
Her idea spread faster than expected. Hospitals, rescue camps, and relief workers began quietly sending her data files and photos of unidentified children. Under the pretence of "case study research, she reviewed each one personally, day and night.
And when she grew weary, Devendra sat beside her with old photos of me, comparing features beneath dim light, hoping for a resemblance. They found many boys who looked familiar — but never the one.
Yet neither stopped.
"We must try everything," Ragini said once, exhaustion in her voice. "Even methods you'll call impossible."
Devendra raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by impossible?"
She hesitated before answering. "Acharya Raghunandan once said Mukul's path walks between worlds. I've decided to consult those who understand that world better than ours."
He didn't answer at first. He simply reached for her hand and squeezed gently. "Then we'll walk that path together."
Almost secretly, she met spiritual healers, astrologers, and seers — people who worked quietly outside science yet held deep wisdom. Some were cheats, others genuine, but Ragini listened to each. She compiled notes, connecting prophetic words to mathematical patterns, searching where fate met logic.
Devendra, though sceptical, respected her. "You chase light through stars," he said. "I'll follow shadows through men."
Within months, the Yadav network grew as vast as the Sharmas' military web. One worked through discipline and technology; the other through compassion and influence. Yet neither side knew how deep the other's efforts went.
Late at night, when Delhi slept, Devendra and Ragini met in the large balcony where the two mansions touched. There, they lit a small diya under the open sky, one flame for each year I had been gone.
"He's out there," Devendra said one such night. "And when he returns, I want him to see that his grandparents didn't just wait—we fought for him."
Ragini smiled tiredly. "He'll return when the world is ready. Until then, our faith is his shield."
They clinked their cups of tea, their vow sealed not in ceremony but in silence.
The next morning, they faced the world again — Devendra, the charismatic leader, and Ragini, the healer of thousands. But behind those calm faces, their secret war continued: one fought with influence, another with intuition.
Every act of kindness, every foundation built, every whisper traced carried one hidden name in their hearts — Mukul.
And under the same seven stars that lingered every night over the Sharma–Yadav homes, two other hearts prayed without words:
"Wherever you are, child of destiny, let our love light your path home."