Chapter 9: The Learning Flame
January 1982 – December 1983
Lucknow, India
Bharat's Age: 6–8 Years
The early winter mornings in Lucknow carried the smell of dew-soaked earth, haldi milk, and old paper. In the Singh household, the sun rose not just on the rooftops but in the mind of a boy whose eyes always sparkled with purpose. Bharat, now almost eight, was no longer just a playful child. His days had begun to take a different shape—one of curiosity, determination, and quiet ambition.
From the outside, he was a joyful boy with a sweet smile and an infectious laugh. But behind that smile hid something extraordinary—a photographic memory and the awareness that he had been gifted a second chance in life.
"So I don't forget this time," he whispered to himself one evening, turning the yellowed page of a history book.
He never forgot what he read. Words, pictures, names—they all stayed, alive and glowing in his mind. Yet he never boasted. In front of his family, he acted like any other boy: playful, distracted at times, even pretending to forget things on purpose. Only when he was alone—or teaching his cousins—did the depth of his memory shine through.
Morning Rituals and Discipline
His day began early, just after dawn. Wrapped in a woolen shawl, he would tiptoe to the veranda where Arjun Chacha, now a Major in the Indian Army, practiced yoga under the rising sun.
"Stand like this, Bharat," Arjun instructed one morning, arms raised in the Surya Namaskar pose.
Bharat followed, wobbly at first, then steadier. The cold stone floor pressed against his feet, the air smelled of burning incense and neem leaves. He closed his eyes, steadying his breath.
"Discipline is the soul's muscle," Arjun once said.
Bharat never forgot that line. It echoed in him long after the birds began chirping.
Reading with the Family
After breakfast, he would sit with his Dadaji in the reading corner—a quiet spot by the window where warm sunlight pooled. Dadaji would pull out old newspapers and leather-bound books, brushing off the dust.
"Do you know about 1857?" Dadaji asked once, holding up a brittle book titled The First War of Independence.
"Yes," Bharat replied softly, "but I want to hear it from you."
So Dadaji told him stories—not just about battles and dates, but of his own father, Bharat's great-grandfather, who had hidden revolutionaries in a granary outside the city, helping Netaji's men escape British patrols.
"He said fear is a small price for freedom," Dadaji whispered, eyes far away.
Bharat listened like he was watching a film unfold in his mind. He pictured his great-grandfather's dusty kurta, the dark hiding places, the British boots in the alley. He said nothing—but the story was etched into his memory.
Later in the afternoon, his mother Vandana would sit on the floor, surrounded by books and clothes to mend.
"What are you reading, Maa?" he asked.
"A book about Jhansi ki Rani," she smiled.
"Was India ever free before the British came?"
Vandana paused. "In spirit, yes. In land, sometimes."
He would sit beside her, his small fingers tracing the margins of the page. Sometimes she read aloud to him—tales of valiant queens, wise kings, and ordinary people who fought for justice.
The Library in His Mind
Bharat had made a secret schedule. He didn't share it with anyone, but each day he read from at least four different fields:
History with his mother and grandfather: Indian revolts, freedom movements, and ancient kingdoms.
Medicine from Chachi Pooja's textbooks. When she visited, he would borrow her anatomy books, pretending to look at the pictures, but reading the labels carefully: "Aorta… pancreas… synapse…"
Commerce with Raghav Chacha. Once, Raghav brought home a ledger and taught Bharat how to calculate margins.
"If we sell fabric at ₹50 per meter but buy raw thread at ₹20, what's our profit?" he asked.
"₹30!" Bharat chirped. Raghav chuckled.
Spiritual texts with Dadi. Each evening, as the diya flickered in the family mandir, she recited shlokas from the Ramayan or Bhagavad Gita. Bharat joined her, eyes closed, absorbing the rhythm of Sanskrit.
Mythology and storybooks with his little sister Gudiya and cousin Pinky. They would sit on the charpai and listen wide-eyed as Bharat told tales from Chandamama or Amar Chitra Katha.
Teaching While Playing
Bharat wasn't just learning—he had begun teaching too. His younger cousins, Pinky (age 4), Montu (age 3), and Gudiya (just 2), adored him. He invented games that were secretly lessons.
One evening on the terrace, he drew shapes with chalk.
"This is a triangle. Count the sides," he said, handing Montu a pebble.
"Three!" Montu shouted.
"If you answer correctly, you get a sweet," Bharat laughed.
Another day, he explained the seasons using marbles and a lamp.
"The earth goes around the sun like this," he said, spinning a ball.
"You should be a teacher," Nirmala Chachi said, watching from the doorway.
"I'm just playing," Bharat smiled.
But everyone could see—this was no ordinary play.
Cousin Bond and Chachi's Mischief
The house had become a festival of sounds: children laughing, utensils clanging, music playing from the small radio in the drawing room. In the afternoons, Kavita Chachi would often pull Bharat aside and make funny faces while combing his hair.
"One day you'll be a neta (leader)," she teased.
"Only if I get ladoos every day," Bharat joked, making everyone laugh.
At night, all the children snuck into Nirmala Chachi's room where she read out funny tales from an old Bengali book. Bharat translated them for the younger ones.
His cousins began calling him "Mini-Masterji."
But Bharat never acted older than them. When they played with pillows and made "ghost forts" under the bed, he screamed the loudest and laughed the hardest.
Inner World
Despite the joy around him, Bharat often sat by the window, lost in thought. The sky was a familiar friend. He would look at the stars and wonder about satellites, galaxies, and the Vedas.
Sometimes, his body was still—but his mind ran fast through verses, theories, maps, and questions.
Once, Pooja Chachi caught him sketching the human brain.
"Where did you see that?"
"In your book."
"You remembered from one look?"
Bharat just smiled.
But he knew. He remembered everything. His photographic memory was a gift, a secret he guarded quietly.
The Question That Stirred His Father-
One evening, while watching his father tap away on a clunky keyboard connected to a loud, humming terminal, Bharat asked:
"Pitaji… why do we write code in English? Why not in Hindi?"
Ajay paused mid-type.
"Hindi? Hmm… I don't know if anyone's tried that."
Bharat tilted his head. "India thinks in Hindi. Why should we learn another language just to talk to a machine?"
Ajay stared at him, stunned by the question's weight. He closed his notebook slowly.
That moment changed something. Not just for Ajay—but for the future of everything he was building.