The first morning run did not feel heroic.
Rudra learned that within ten seconds.
He had slipped out of bed while the sky was still dark, the world outside quiet enough to hear distant dogs barking and the hum of a lone milkman's scooter. The clock on the wall read 5:10 a.m.
Too early for ambition.
Too early for excuses.
He pulled on his shorts and stepped into the hallway, careful not to wake his mother. The cool floor sent a small shock up his legs, and for a moment, he felt absurdly young—barefoot, half-awake, sneaking around his own home.
At the door, he paused.
Twelve-year-old lungs, he reminded himself. Not forty-four.
He opened the door and slipped outside.
The lane was empty, washed clean by the night's rain. Streetlights glowed softly, casting long shadows that made everything look larger than it was. Rudra started jogging.
Or rather—he tried to.
His stride was awkward, uneven, his arms swinging too stiffly as he fought the urge to move like the adult he remembered being. Within minutes, his breath shortened, chest tightening uncomfortably.
"Too fast," he muttered, slowing down.
A dog barked at him from behind a gate. He startled, nearly tripping over his own feet, and laughed quietly at himself.
So much for dignity.
By the time he reached the end of the lane, his calves burned and his sides ached. Sweat clung to his shirt. He bent forward, hands on knees, panting.
This is ridiculous, he thought. I used to run boardrooms.
Now he couldn't even run two streets without gasping.
Still, he straightened and turned back.
Halfway home, a group of boys appeared on bicycles, riding too fast and far too noisily for the hour. One of them slowed, grinning.
"Hey! Training for Olympics or what?"
Rudra flushed.
"No," he said. "Just… running."
They laughed and pedaled off, leaving behind echoing taunts and the rattle of chains.
He watched them go, then shook his head.
Child antics, he realized, weren't something to avoid.
They were something to survive.
When he reached home, sweat-soaked and exhausted, he found his father standing at the doorway, fully dressed, shoes on, briefcase by his side.
"You're up early," his father said.
Rudra froze. "I—I didn't want to wake anyone."
His father studied him for a moment—his flushed face, the damp shirt, the way his chest still rose and fell unevenly.
"Running?" he asked.
Rudra nodded. "Trying to."
There was no smile. No praise.
Just a small nod of approval.
"Don't overdo it," his father said. "Consistency matters more than speed."
The words landed heavier than encouragement ever could.
"I'll remember," Rudra replied.
His father adjusted his glasses. "Good. Finish your bath. Breakfast will be ready."
As he turned to leave, his father paused. "And… if someone laughs, let them. Results speak later."
Rudra stood there long after the door closed.
Not because of pride.
Because support, when it was quiet, was the hardest thing to ignore.
That night, as he lay in bed, his legs aching in a dull, persistent way, Rudra felt the faintest sense of alignment.
No miracles.
No leaps.
Just one slow run before school.
And somewhere, silently, effort had been noticed.