Rajiv Sen had always noticed details others didn't. While the other boys at St. Jude's Home for Boys scraped mud off their knees after a game of football, Rajiv was already cataloging every crack in the walls, every creak of the wooden floorboards, every shadow cast by the flickering ceiling fan.
That morning, the orphanage smelled of wet bricks and turmeric—the faint tang of the kitchen mixing with the damp air. The smell reminded him of the time he counted the exact number of bricks in the southern wall: 298, not 300, because two were chipped beyond repair. No one else cared, but Rajiv had memorized it. Details were a world unto themselves, a refuge from the chaos of human neglect.
He sat on the fire escape, dangling his thin legs, and watched the older boys chase a deflated football. A fight broke out over a scuffed shoe, fists flying and voices shouting. Rajiv didn't flinch. He merely noted the number of punches thrown, the time it took for the head warden, Mr. Ghosh, to notice, and how long it took for Sister Mary to arrive with her slow, limping steps.
"Rajiv! Down here, now!"
Her voice carried urgency, but also something softer. A warmth Rajiv had learned to count in fractions—0.6 warmth per syllable, he had decided that morning.
He descended the stairs carefully, mindful of which steps groaned and which didn't. Each step gave him information: the wood was old, the nails slightly rusted, and the humidity was so high the iron railing was slick. By the time he reached the ground, he had memorized the path in case he ever needed to escape.
That afternoon, a minor incident cemented his awareness of the cruelty and injustice that seemed baked into the walls of the orphanage. A loaf of bread had gone missing from the pantry. The warden accused the older boys, raising his voice until it echoed through the courtyard.
Rajiv stood up, his thin frame drawing all attention. "It wasn't them," he said, his voice quiet, almost imperceptible, yet sharp as a scalpel.
The warden, red-faced and flustered, looked down at him. "And how would a boy like you know anything?"
Rajiv simply recited what he had seen: the slight tilt of the tin on the shelf, the movement of the warden's own keyring catching the edge of the container, the faint thud of bread falling into the gap between the sacks. By the time he finished, the missing loaf was found exactly where he said it would be.
There was no praise, only silence. The other boys began to regard him differently—some with awe, some with suspicion. Rajiv realized then that the truth could be a dangerous thing. It could isolate you as easily as it could set you apart.
Later that night, as he lay on his thin cot, he counted heartbeats—not his own, but those of the boy next to him. Seventy-two per minute. Steady. Safe. Unlike the world outside, where he already knew that justice was a lie, and those in power would ignore suffering unless it served them.
He closed his eyes and memorized everything he had seen that day: the exact shade of green in the courtyard grass, the tiny spider spinning a web in the corner, the faintest smell of burnt dal from the kitchen. The world could betray him. People could lie, cheat, and hurt. But his mind, his memory, would never leave him.
Rajiv Sen was seven years old, and already he had learned the first law of life: the world does not care for the weak. And if you wanted justice, you had better be prepared to deliver it yourself.