A Story About a Boy, a Machine, and a Very Stubborn Truth

Ah, sit down, sit down. You’re always rushing—where are you even running to? You think if you go fast enough, life will sort itself out? Ha! That’s not how it works, dear. Sit. Listen. I’ll tell you a story.

There once was a boy—bright but foolish, like all boys are at that age. His name was Ruru, and he was born in Lalgudi, a small town where the river was slow, the cows were slower, and time moved at the speed of an old man deciding which betel leaf to chew next.

His father was a schoolteacher, a man who believed that if you build your house with books, your child will grow up to be a wise man. Which is a lovely idea, except books make terrible walls, and wisdom doesn’t always follow inheritance.

Ruru? Oh, he had no patience for wisdom. His teenage years were one long joyride with no brakes and no map. He stumbled into a degree in chemistry—because why not?—then tripped into a career in software, which he approached with the same precision as a drunken man fixing a leaking tap.

And life, my dear, has a way of letting fools burn their fingers.

The Road to Somewhere (Or Nowhere)

For years, he failed. Not spectacularly, not tragically, just… continuously. He couldn’t hold a job, couldn’t find a path, and worst of all—he had no idea what he wanted.

But then, fate—being an old woman with a wicked sense of humor—gave him a lucky break. A steady job. A ticket abroad. A salary. He worked, saved every rupee, and came back to India with three things that made him feel like a man who finally had his act together.

1. An Africa Twin motorcycle—a machine so powerful it could smell fear.

2. A Mercedes-Benz—because if you’re going to be lost, at least be lost in comfort.

3. A 4×4 Thar—a beast made to conquer bad roads and bad decisions.

He thought he had arrived.

But my dear, that’s the trick life plays on young people. The moment you think you’ve arrived, the universe taps you on the shoulder and says:

“No, you haven’t. Sit down.”

The Junk Shop and the Book That Changed Everything

One day, Ruru parked his Thar in front of a junk shop that looked like even ghosts had given up on haunting it. Inside, among the wreckage, was an old man—face like a dried coconut, eyes sharp as a needle, silence thicker than temple prasadam on festival days.

Without a word, he shoved a book at Ruru.

Not a sleek, modern, TED-Talk kind of book. An old, crumbling thing. A dangerous book—the kind that doesn’t just teach you something but unsettles your entire existence.

It was the poetry of Akka Mahadevi—a woman who had loved Shiva so fiercely that she walked away from the world wearing nothing but her devotion.

Ruru opened the book.

“O Shiva, my ignition, my all, I burn raw for you.”

And just like that—something inside him clicked.

You see, my dear, wisdom doesn’t come gently. It slams into you like a cow that doesn’t believe in traffic rules. And that’s exactly what happened to Ruru.

Suddenly, the road wasn’t just a road.

The sky wasn’t just the sky.

Everything pulsed with meaning, and he had been too blind to see it.

Tuning the Engine of the Soul

From that day, he changed.

He devoured scriptures—not as a priest, not as a scholar, but as a mechanic looking for the missing tool.

The Shiva Purana. The Tirumantiram. The Bhagavad Gita.

He rode his Africa Twin through highways that felt ancient. His Mercedes whispered down city roads like a ghost who had seen too much. His Thar climbed mountains like an old warrior remembering battles past.

He hunted temples—not as ruins, but as engines built to move the soul.

• Kailasanatha, Kanchipuram—its stones whispering secrets to those who listen.

• Brihadeeswarar, Thanjavur—its walls still holding the weight of a thousand prayers.

• Konark’s Sun Temple—its wheels frozen in time, but still spinning in another world.

And then, my dear, the world noticed him.

The Billionaire and the Seized Engine

One day, a rich man from Bengaluru—the kind whose money runs faster than his soul—called Ruru.

“Where’s my juice?” the man asked, like a car that won’t start.

Ruru, now a Tech Monk, tapped the Bhagavad Gita and said:

“Run clean, not gummed up.”

The billionaire choked. Something inside shifted.

And just like that, another engine in the world started running right.

The Corrupt, The Assassin, and The Vanishing Act

But, my dear, if you fix too many engines, the ones profiting from broken machines will come for you.

Soon, Ruru found himself dragged to Delhi, where men in power sat like polished but rusting scrap metal.

They sneered. They dug into his past.

“You once pawned a temple photograph for fuel!” they accused.

“You’re a fraud! A conman! A digital monk with a WiFi halo!”

And then, of course, they sent the assassin.

A woman with a Kozhi (rooster) tattoo, a knife, and a very bad mood.

She lunged. He stayed still.

She hesitated. He smiled.

“Truth’s the high octane,” he said.

She froze. The Kozhi twitched.

Instead of fighting, Ruru tossed her a digital drive.

“Here’s the wiring diagram,” he said.

And just like that, the blade dropped. The data sang.

And before the world could blink—Ruru was gone.

The Road Never Ends

Now, my dear, if you ever feel lost—remember this story.

Ruru was once just a boy, laughing through his own misfires, searching for meaning in machines, money, and movement.

But in the end, he tuned his own soul. And when you do that, no one can stop you.

So the next time your life feels stuck, rusty, misfiring—think like a mechanic.

Find the problem.

Tear it down.

Rebuild it.

And always, always remember:

Quality outruns the muck. Always.

Final Thoughts: Why This Feels Like Grandma’s Storytelling