The Spark of Curiosity
I was born in Kadalundi on April 7, 2005, a timeline still rippling with the aftershocks of the massive tsunami that had devastated our coast just months prior. My beginnings were humble—my father drove an auto-rickshaw, and my mother managed our home. Yet, in that simplicity, I found my first classroom.
They tell me I was an intense child. While other babies slept, I would lie awake, staring at the spinning ceiling fan for hours, mesmerized not just by the motion, but seemingly trying to decode the mechanism behind it. By nine months, I had bypassed crawling to flip through magazines, my eyes scanning pages with a focus that often unsettled our neighbors. It wasn't just attention; it was a hunger. I didn't know the words yet, but I knew I wanted to understand how the world worked.
The "Problem Child"
My parents invested everything they had to send me to St. Mary's, a local CBSE school, believing English education was my ticket out. Academically, I thrived. I was reading far above my grade level and constantly raising my hand. But my social education was far rockier. I had a quick temper and a fierce, almost naive sense of justice. If I saw a bigger kid pushing a smaller one, I didn't call a teacher; I threw the first punch.
I became known as a paradox—the student who corrected teachers on planetary motion yet spent half his time standing outside the class for bad behavior. I once interrupted a lecture to argue that the textbook's explanation of gravity was oversimplified. I wasn't trying to be rude; I genuinely couldn't handle the inaccuracy. But to my teachers, I was just disruptive. By age nine, the friction was too much. I was transferred to a government school. To everyone else, it looked like a failure. To me, it felt like the end of the world.
The "Tadpole" Era
The government school was a culture shock. The benches were broken, the uniforms faded, and I was the "stuck-up CBSE boy." I struggled to fit in. I knew facts, but I didn't know life.
The defining moment came on a rainy afternoon. A group of boys were gathered around a puddle, poking at small, swimming creatures. I walked over and genuinely asked, "What are those small fish?" The playground erupted in laughter. "The genius doesn't know what a tadpole is!" they jeered. I knew the biological lifecycle of a frog, I could draw it, label it—but I had never actually *seen* one.
The name "Tadpole" stuck. It became a label for my naivety. I was bullied, mocked, and isolated. Even teachers dismissed me, removing me from quiz teams I was qualified for because they said I lacked "real understanding." It was humiliating, but it was also necessary. It forced me to stop memorizing and start observing. I realized that knowing the name of something is not the same as knowing it.
Rejection & The Dark Path
In 7th grade, seeking validation, I gathered the courage to propose to the class topper. I thought my grades would impress her. Her rejection was surgical. She didn't just say no; she dismantled me. "You have no identity," she said. "You're just 'Tadpole'. You have no talent, no future. Why would I choose you?"
That night, I didn't cry. I burned with a need to prove her wrong. I studied furiously, expecting to top the finals and shove my report card in her face. Instead, I failed. I crashed and burned.
broken and adrift, I found a new world: the internet. It started innocently—video games, forums. But soon, I discovered "text bombing"—crashing WhatsApp with malicious code. It gave me a rush of power. When a stranger hacked my mother's phone, instead of fear, I felt awe. *How did he do that?* I borrowed a phone for one hour a day, filling notebook after notebook with handwritten code, teaching myself cybersecurity. The "Tadpole" was growing legs.
The Abyss
The 2018 floods were a tragedy for Kerala, but for me, they brought a strange gift: a discarded, water-damaged Nokia phone. I dried it out, fixed it, and it became my weapon. It was slow, so I hacked the OS, stripping it down to the kernel to make it fly.
But power without a moral compass is dangerous. I started hacking for sport. I spied on classmates, accessed private chats, and felt like a god. When a rival threatened me, I didn't fight back with fists; I destroyed his digital reputation. I exposed his secrets. I felt triumphant until his mother called me, sobbing, begging me to stop.
I confessed. I deleted everything. I swore to never use my skills for harm again. I channeled my energy into **Texido Meg**, a free blog where I taught ethical hacking, helping thousands of others learn to protect themselves. I helped my teachers secure their online classes during the pandemic.
But redemption isn't a straight line. Impatient to see my exam results, I breached a government server. I changed nothing, just looked. But I was caught. The Cybercell police visited my home. They didn't arrest me, but the shame was worse than handcuffs. My father, in a mix of terrified rage and protection, gathered every electronic device I owned—my phone, my cables, my hard drives—and burned them in the front yard. I watched my digital life turn to ash and smoke.
Rising from the Ashes
For two years, I touched no computer. I focused on my books. I joined a tuition center where nobody knew "Tadpole." I was just Hari. But when I overheard the administration struggling with their student management system, I couldn't help myself. I tentatively offered to help.
I worked from internet cafes. I built them a robust, full-stack web portal. On launch day, the director called me on stage. He didn't introduce me as a "problem child." He introduced me as a genius. The applause washed over me. And there, in the front row, clapping with genuine respect, was *her*—the girl who had rejected me years ago. I realized then that I didn't need to prove anything to her anymore. I had proven it to myself.
The Triumph of Purpose
Today, I stand at IES College of Engineering, not as a hacker, but as a creator. My project, **Q-SAFE**, isn't just code; it's a quantum-inspired shield designed to protect people from the very vulnerabilities I once exploited.
My platforms—**Texido Meg**, **ShopRoyince**, and the **HOPE Platform**—are built on a simple premise: technology should empower, not destroy. I am researching the **Chronon-Super Quantum Level Model** because knowing *how* the universe works is still that same hunger I had as a baby staring at the fan.
The name "Tadpole" was meant to hurt me, but I wear it as a badge of honor now. A tadpole is purely potential. It struggles in muddy water, it changes, it grows legs, and eventually, it steps onto land. I have stepped onto land. And I am just getting started.