A 16-year-old Abhimaan gets caught in a crossfire when he ends up at the wrong place at the wrong time. As a key witness to a high-profile murder, he becomes a government priority. The government can go to any length to protect the boy, and Abhimaan...
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In a dimly lit room, a young man circled the punching bag that was suspended from the ceiling. His knuckles, wrapped in black tape, bore the scars of battles. He twisted his neck to flex his aching muscles. He could feel the pain every second. He learned to live with it.
Sweat streamed down his face, tracing rivulets along the sharp angles of his jaw. His biceps bulged as he geared up for the second round. His breaths were ragged, as he delivered the first punch. The bag swayed, absorbing his fury. He moved like a predator—silent, lethal, calculating. His eyes, narrowed to slits, las he unleashed his inner fury. The bag swung wildly and the sound chains clanging filled the dingy room. His breath became labored, but he did not stop. He could not stop. He needed to get rid of the restlessness he felt.
He was a death dealer, there was no place for emotions in his life. The boy was a complication in his life. He could not have complications. His phone beeped again. He closed his eyes, battling the urge to not look at the phone. His resolve faltered, he almost gave in, but then pulled himself together. He was a trained fighter. He knew how to school emotions. He the faces- the lives that were lost forever, the loyal men who were maimed, women who were raped mercilessly. He recalled their cries, their sacrifices- They died to give him life- He could let all their sacrifices go to vain. He needed to focus. The target was close. He could not falter. He would not falter.
Each punch was retribution, a reclaiming of what was lost for ever. The bag bag absorbed his demons, his fears, his lost hopes. Tears mixed with sweat as he landed the last blow. The bag still stood there, battered but steady. It was his only companion. He raised his head and looked at the mirror that hung on the wall nearby. He saw a warrior, bruised but undefeated. He was the phoenix. He had only one goal! Justice. He could not let any one threaten the goal. The boy did not matter!
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Roohi walked into Arjun's room unannounced. He looked up startled. The punching bag hit him head on. He winced as it made impact with his head. He cursed her colorfully in his head. The woman alwyas had wrong timing!
"If you are done playing, can we have dinner?" She folded her arms across her chest and stared him down. Arjun shook his head and unwound the tape from his knuckles. They were throbbing hard. He flexed them and winced again. Roohi marched to him and grabbed his hand. She saw the bloodied knuckles and shook her head. She did not understand his obsession with the punching bag.
