Every family learns to cope with loss differently. Some pray. Some fight. Some search until they have nothing left to give. But for Anand Sharma, my elder brother, the loss became a command written into his very bones.
He was only ten when I vanished. By eighteen, he carried eyes older than most soldiers.
Anand had always been disciplined, even as a child — the grandson of a general, trained early in military behaviour, quiet, focused, and sharp. Yet before I disappeared, he also laughed easily, teased me often, and filled my world with stories of adventure. After I was gone, he never told another story again. He spoke less, smiled less, and began training harder than anyone demanded.
To the public, he was called "The Young Lion," heir to the Sharma legacy. Newspapers wrote about his perfect conduct, his military scholarship, and his awards in combat training. Few realised that every medal he earned was not for ambition, but for me.
"Mukul's shadow walks beside me every morning," he said once to our sister, Kavya, when she asked him why he still trained past midnight. "As long as I'm strong enough to fight, he's not alone."
By the time he turned eighteen, Anand was accepted into special youth training under national defence programs. Even then, his focus never strayed. Each physical exercise, each shot fired, each run across the field echoed one silent vow: "One day, I'll find my brother."
In public, his search took shape through work. He joined the Civilian Rescue and Tracking Division, volunteering for missions across border regions and sea coasts. When questioned about his obsession with disaster zones, he always answered calmly, "Every lost life deserves one more chance to be found."
But everyone who knew him closely understood—he wasn't talking about everyone.
He was talking about one boy with seven stars on his neck.
Working under his grandfather's network helped Anand quietly access military reconnaissance files. Though young, he had inherited General Raghav's intelligence, learning how to move through ranks without raising suspicion.
At night, while others his age were chasing dreams of love or freedom, Anand studied topography, sonar imaging, naval route declassification, and deep-sea signals. He spent hours mapping maritime records, searching for anomalies reported in unknown regions of the Indian Ocean.
Some nights, when his eyes grew tired, but his will didn't, he whispered to my photo on his desk:
"If you're out there, little brother, wait for me. I'm learning how to walk the paths that no one else can."
Every promise hardened his resolve.
Unknown to our family, Anand's discipline had turned into something far more powerful — a perfect balance between soldier and strategist. At nineteen, he founded what he called "Operation Trident," a youth-based humanitarian mission that focused on helping lost travellers and disaster survivors across coasts.
Publicly, it carried a noble face—rescue, emergency response, coastal safety awareness. Privately, it was part of his secret vow.
He built a network of divers, fishermen, and local navigators who owed him loyalty, often denying payment. "Only one favour in return," he'd tell them softly. "If you ever hear of an island that appears and disappears with the storms, call me first."
One day, he received a call from a diver off the Madagascar coast. "Sir, we saw something strange out there—a reflection in the waves at night. Not land, not ships. Light—steady, circular, like an eye."
Anand froze, heart pounding. "How far from shore?"
"Three days by sail, sir. But by morning, it was gone."
He took note of the coordinates. Coincidentally—or perhaps not—they matched an area already flagged in multiple networks under different names: Sharma's Phantom Division, Yadav's Eyes Closed, and Rajendra's Project Aruna. He didn't know that yet—but fate already wove their paths together.
At home, Anand never spoke of his work. Only Kavya, our sister, saw through him. Sometimes, she entered his room late at night to find maps spread across the floor, ocean charts pinned to the wall, and my photos placed over coordinates in red ink.
She asked him quietly, "Anna, why do you keep doing this? Everyone's already searching."
Anand didn't look up from his papers. "Everyone's trying to find evidence," he said. "I'm finding him. Evidence stops when logic breaks. But love doesn't stop."
Kavya stood beside him silently for a moment. "Then promise me one thing—when you find him, don't leave him alone."
He smiled faintly, lifting his eyes for the first time that night. "I made that promise the day we lost him."
Anand's arranged military deployment gave him access to classified radar readings—something he used carefully, never breaking official rules outright but bending them wherever needed. His loyalty and record made senior officers trust him blindly.
Through those channels, he started quietly copying radar patterns over the southern ocean, comparing shifts in magnetic distortion with star alignments—to him, everything pointed to the same theory:
There was an island out there, one that refused to be seen by human systems.
While others used technology, he combined it with something simpler: instinct. "If he's alive," he wrote once in his private logbook, "he'll call to me. The bond we share is not bound by miles—it's blood."
Some nights, when he looked at his wrist, he saw faint shapes—the same pattern of seven dots carved into an old wristband I had given him as a child. He touched it gently, whispering, "Lead me where you are, little brother."
By the time rumours of a strange energy pulse began appearing in secret radar circles, Anand had already narrowed his watch zone. It was close, somewhere between myth and sea.
But before he could act further, General Raghav and Rajendra unknowingly crossed the same path, searching through their respective networks. Anand noticed reports moving through secure lines far above his access level—all tagged with the same word repeated faintly… Aarvak.
He didn't know what it meant, but he would find out.
For him, destiny was not a story told by elders or priests—it was a mission, a duty born of love.
And so, one night when the monsoon rolled over Delhi, Anand stood at the edge of the veranda, rain soaking his uniform. He looked up at the glowing sky, where seven stars pierced through the storm clouds, and whispered his own vow—quiet, fierce, eternal:
"You're not lost, Mukul. You're waiting. And this time, when I find you, I'll never let you fall again."