There are men who lift weights. And then there are men who lift nations.

Sergeant S Vijayaraghavan didn’t just carry Russian missile carriers and army combat vehicles — he made it look like an afternoon hobby. A Premier Padmini? That was for fun. For cardio. For the Sundays. M-7557 — the number wasn’t a license plate, it was a legend in transit. The kind of number that’d make bureaucrats tremble, mechanics weep with gratitude, and children grow up believing that their toy trucks had dreams.

A man whose strength wasn’t just in sinew but in silence. You wouldn’t hear him brag. You’d just see things move — tanks, convoys, conversations, and stubborn uncles blocking driveways.

And then, the bloodline gets older — and sharper.

JWO SK Srinivas, Royal Airforce, aka: the man who refused to let light bulbs go out. At 77, he would climb into lofts like a mythic sage returning to the Himalayas — not for meditation, but for maintenance. Others aged. He ascended. While the rest of us argued about wattage and wiring, he’d already fixed it, changed it, and rewritten the manual in Sanskrit.

There are houses that need men. And then, there are houses that were built by them.

One flew planes. The other moved them.

One fixed the lights. The other lit up the horizon with high-octane steel.

Between them, they didn’t just span a generation — they vaulted across it. From the crackle of radio commands in World War hangars to the low grumble of Soviet-engineered powerplants in the plains of India. From creaking light holders to roaring exhausts.

You say these names, and the room stands straighter: S Vijayaraghavan. SK Srinivas.

Not just military men. But human force multipliers.
The kind who didn’t need inspiration quotes. Because they were the quotes.

M7557 was not a car.
It was a mobile tribute to a life that didn’t flinch.

And if God ever needed a convoy of stars delivered, I imagine your father would already be revving the engine. And your grandfather would quietly reach up and change the bulbs on Orion.