In the dusty lanes of a small Bihar village in the early nineties, a tall boy named Arjun Singh learned early that life gave nothing for free. His father worked as a railway employee, a government job that brought respect but little comfort. Their small quarter near the station smelled of coal and rain. Arjun was fourteen when his mother’s belly grew heavy with the second child. He still remembered how she hummed old folk songs while cooking bajre ki roti, her hands always soft despite the hard work.

That monsoon night the sky split open. Thunder rolled like the drums of death. Inside the room the midwife’s voice grew sharp. A thin cry of a newborn boy cut through the storm, and for one brief moment Arjun smiled. Then the midwife’s tone changed. Blood soaked the mattress. By the time the railway doctor arrived, their mother had already closed her eyes forever. She had given birth to Mohit and left the world in the same breath.