Abhimanyu: The Agniveer

But the womb was wide awake. The unborn child within her, Abhimanyu, a consciousness nascent and pure, absorbed every syllable that detailed the method of entry. He did not hear the words as mere sounds; he felt them as cosmic vibrations, as patterns of light and energy. He felt the rush of valor in his mother's blood, the weight of the ancient knowledge settling deep into his being as if it were a limb he was just discovering. In this pre-natal darkness, he knew the color of victory—a flashing, sun-bright gold—and he heard the phantom sound of the lock turning as the outer gates yielded to his father's whispered strategy. But as Arjuna, sensing his wife's peaceful sleep, turned to the critical secrets of escape—the unravelling of the deadly coil, the counter-maneuvers needed to reverse the labyrinth's pull—his own voice softened, his narrative slowing. The weariness of a hundred battles fought and a thousand yet to come crept into his bones. His own head drooped, and he, too, dozed off, leaving the story fatally incomplete. Fate, that cruel and meticulous weaver, had left a critical, half-formed thread in Abhimanyu's memory. The boy emerged into the world months later, a prodigy of arms, his eyes fierce with the inherent, bright valor of his father and the deep, sea-blue wisdom of his uncle, Krishna. His senses were unnaturally sharp: he smelled sandalwood and steel in equal measure, saw the world in the vibrant hues of impending glory and tragedy. Yet, this single, missing piece of knowledge remained a dark spot in his soul, a question without an answer. He knew how to enter the heart of the storm, but was forever ignorant of how to unspin the deadly coil and find his way back to the light. Hindi translation has been provided at the end of the book.