❝ my beginning, my middle, my end ❞

~·Prologue: Abhimanyu's Story·~

Birla Mansion, Udaipur, Rajasthan, India

A 9-year-old boy wearing a pristine white lab coat-tailored specially for him-and a plastic play stethoscope around his neck ran up the stairs, crying uncontrollably.

Abhimanyu. Abhimanyu Birla. The smartest and the most lovable kid anyone could ever meet. But this little boy had already seen a lot more than his little heart could take.

It was just another day with little Abhi pretend-playing a doctor-wearing his lab coat, examining teddy bear patients with his plastic stethoscope, and prescribing lemon candies to them-when he heard his father yell at his mother, yet again. He had seen the same scene numerous times before, but it always affected him more than the last time. His father, Dr. Harsh, yelled loud insults at his mother, Manjiri, terming her incapable of doing anything and calling her out for not being qualified "enough" and not being a "doctor." Little Abhimanyu heard it all. He couldn't understand exactly what his father was saying, but he knew his mother was getting hurt.

Abhimanyu tightly clutched his toy stethoscope in his hand until his knuckles turned pale as hot tears streamed down his beautiful, hazel eyes. He wanted to go to his mother, pull her away and run out of that torture chamber his mom called home. But he knew she wouldn't agree; she wouldn't understand. Abhimanyu couldn't bear any more. So he ran to his room-a place where he would probably feel safe.

He skipped steps as he ran up, and his breathing kept getting heavier. He pushed open the door to his room as soon as he reached it. He dropped the stethoscope he was holding and shut the door tight, bolting it to cut out all the voices. But how could he cancel the voices in his mind? The voices that were etched in his brain like a haunted memory? Still wearing his doctor's coat, he grabbed the space-themed blanket from his bed, hid under his study table, and covered himself with the blanket, letting the darkness of the space engulf him. He took labored breaths as he continued crying silently, hidden from the rest of the world.

'Not even a doctor! Bas mere gale pad gayi ho.'

'Ek kaam theek se nahi hota tumse.'

'Sab kuchh bigad diya hai tumne. Meri zindagi barbaad kar di.'

'Mere bete ko bhi mujhse door kar diya, uske kaan bhar diye mere khilaaf!'

His father's voice rang in his ears as shivers ran through his body.

"Nahi. Nahi," Abhimanyu muttered between his sobs. "Aap mere papa nahi ho sakte. I hate you, Sir. I HATE YOU. Maa please mujhe yaha se le chalo, I don't want to live here," he cried.

Still covered in the blanket, he pulled his knees to his chest and rested his head on them. He kept mumbling and pleading with his mom to take him away until sleep overtook him and his sobs turned into soft snores-another night when Abhimanyu cried himself to sleep.

~❈~

3 years later

A 12-year-old boy holding a heavy encyclopedia about 'Human Anatomy' in his hands ran up the stairs, trying to control his tears.

Abhimanyu Birla. Now taller, more handsome, but still as innocent and lovable. Three years passed, but the situation had not changed much for him.

Abhimanyu had immersed himself in his encyclopedia when he heard his father yelling at his mom. Again. Like he had seen multiple times in the past three years and even more times growing up. His hands itched to do something-to break something and release all the pent-up anger. But he started reverse counting numbers from hundred to one as his therapist had suggested. He had been taking therapy for two months now. His teachers had started complaining about how he had grown closeted, his grades declined, and he had sudden anger outbursts. He was able to take charge of his emotions with the help of therapy, but he still couldn't bear seeing his mother in the state. He felt helpless. So, still counting the numbers, he ran up the stairs.

He tried to control his breathing as he skipped steps to reach his room. He stormed into his room and dropped the encyclopedia on his study table before bolting the door. He grabbed his blanket, which was now plain white, and pulled out his mp3 player from his study table drawer before hiding under it, just like his 9-year-old self. He took deep breaths to calm himself, now that he had already finished reverse counting the numbers.

Still unable to cancel the voices in his brain, he plugged in the earphones of his mp3 player and played music. He closed his eyes as the soothing melody played, and Lata didi's voice did its magic.

♪ Lag jaa gale ke phir
Yeh haseen raat ho na ho ♪

The song that always gave him peace. Abhimanyu felt his breathing start to normalize as soon as the first few lines of the song played. He loosened his hold on the mp3 player, letting it drop to his side. The player had become his most prized possession ever since he realized that music helped him get rid of all the intrusive thoughts. His tauji had gifted him the player on his 12th birthday.

♪ Lag jaa gale ke phir
Ye haseen raat ho na ho
Shayad phir is janam mein
Mulaqat ho na ho
Lag jaa gale ke phir
Ye haseen raat ho na ho
Shayad phir is janam mein
Mulaaqat ho na ho
Lag ja gale
Ae...ae...♪

Lata didi's mellifluous voice reverberated in Abhimanyu's ears, and he gained his composure back. The song continued playing as Abhimanyu pulled his knees to his chest and rested his head on them. He took in the melody and tried emptying his mind of all thoughts, the music gradually pacifying him.

♪ Hum ko mili hai aaj
Ye ghadiya naseeb se,
Hum ko mili hai aaj
Ye ghadiya naseeb se,
Ji bhar ke dekh leejiye
Humko kareeb se,
Phir apke naseeb mein
Ye baat ho na ho
Shayad phir is janam mein
Mulaqat ho na ho
Lag jaa gale
Ae...ae...♪

The song played on as Abhimanyu drifted off to sleep. Another one of the countless nights that he spent under the study table.

Like his namesake, the warrior Abhimanyu from Mahabharata, Abhimanyu Birla was caught in a chakravyuh of strained relationships and a dysfunctional family.