Prologue: The Seeds of Escape
It started like whispers-
a puff here, a bottle there, a moment of curiosity blooming into routine.
TimeTravel never planned to fall.
But you don't fall all at once. You slide.
---
The First Cigarette (Age 17)
It was outside the coaching center, winter in full swing.
He lit it not to rebel-but to belong.
"Ek try kar," his friend urged, holding out a Gold Flake.
One drag.
His throat burned. He coughed. Eyes watered.
But everyone laughed-"Abe abhi seekh raha hai."
That was enough. Enough to say yes again tomorrow.
It didn't feel like a trap.
It felt like adulthood.
---The First Beer (College Fest, Age 20)
A night full of music, friends, and neon lights.
TimeTravel stood on the hostel rooftop, watching laughter spill over the edge of the building like
waves.
Someone handed him a chilled bottle of Kingfisher.
He took a cautious sip.
Bitter.
Then another.
And somewhere between the fourth sip and the loud music, the numbness started to feel like peace.
That night he danced like no one was watching.
But inside, something else was dancing too-
A new kind of silence. The kind that hides pain.
---
The First Joint (First Job, Age 23)
Stress had crept into his bones.
Work targets, loneliness in a new city, no family nearby.
One evening, a colleague pulled him aside:
"Try this. It helps. Just chill, bhai."
TimeTravel watched the orange ember glow in the dark.Inhaled deeply.
Coughing, laughing, coughing again.
Then-
Stillness.
Like the world finally took a breath for him.
He sat there, silent, thinking about... everything and nothing.
And that's how it began:
Stress + smoke = silence.
Loneliness + weed = calm.
He started calling it a "shortcut to peace."
But peace was charging interest. Compound.
---
Years Later - The Realisation
The shortcuts added up.
His mind slowed. His emotions blurred. His spark dimmed.
His daughter's tiny fingers pulled his thumb one morning, and he couldn't feel joy.
His wife's eyes searched his, and he looked away, ashamed.
He'd lost time.One day, standing in the washroom at the branch, he looked at his reflection.
Eyes yellowish. Face bloated. Hands trembling.
He whispered to himself:
"Enough."
---
And so began the journey to rehab.
Where TimeTravel would finally face what he ran from for years-
Himself.
Day 1: The Craving Begins
He had taken his sleeping pills-four of them. Then the clinic gave their pills too, as part of their
protocol.
Two plans. One body. Zero sleep.
TimeTravel lay in bed, eyes open, ceiling spinning slowly like time mocking him.
His body wanted rest. His mind wanted smoke. His soul wanted silence.
At 2:37 AM, he got up-disoriented but determined.
Walked to the nurses' station like a ghost wrapped in a patient's identity.
A night-duty doctor looked at him, confused."Sir, aapko abhi neend nahi aa rahi?"
He nodded blankly.
The doctor didn't ask too much. Just gave him an injection-something to shut down the overthinking
machine in his skull.
But TimeTravel wasn't done.
He took out his phone, scrolling endlessly, like a man looking for signs from the universe.
Then he read it:
"Combining certain sedatives can lead to coma."
He stared at that sentence. No panic. No alarm. Just... peace?
Maybe, he thought, "If I slip into a coma... I'll finally stop fighting cravings-even in my dreams."
For a moment, the idea felt like freedom.
But fate had other plans.
He didn't fall into a coma.
He just fell asleep. Softly. Quietly. Like a surrender.
He woke up next morning, heavy like a rain-soaked blanket.
Sleepy all day. Silent. Drained.
No weed. No cigarettes. No shortcuts.Just the beginning of something terrifying and beautiful:
Feeling everything. Without escape.
---
Day 2: Nights are the Real Battle
The day passed like a mild fever-restless but manageable.
But the night... That's when the demons clocked in for duty.
Even after the sleeping pills, TimeTravel couldn't stay still.
He stared at the walls. At the fan. At the corners of the ceiling.
Then at his phone-his last connection to the outside world, scrolling, searching, waiting for sleep like
a promised escape.
Finally, his eyes betrayed him. He dozed off.
But the peace didn't last.
Dream 1:
His lungs were burning. He was in his old college canteen, begging a stranger for a drag.
He lit the cigarette, inhaled-and it turned to fire. He woke up gasping.
Ran out of the room in a panic. His hands fumbled around his pajama pocket for cigarettes. None.
He was in a hospital. No escape.He drank water like it was nicotine. Collapsed back into bed.
Dream 2:
He was home-but it wasn't. His wife stared at him through a smoky room,
his daughter coughing in the corner, and he just stood there, lighter in hand, helpless.
He woke again. Sweating. Sat on the edge of the bed. Whispered, "Main kya ban gaya hoon?"
This cycle repeated.
Five times.
Five dreams.
Five breakdowns.
Each one ending the same way:
No escape. No smoke. No silence.
Just water. Guilt. Sleep. Repeat.
By morning, he wasn't tired. He was hollow.
But somewhere in that haunted night, something quietly shifted.
He had survived without running. Without lighting up. Without dying.
And maybe, just maybe, survival was enough for now.
---
Day 3: The Body SpeaksThe doctors were kind. Gentle eyes. Firm hands.
And the medicines-they worked, somewhat. They softened the panic, kept the anxiety under control,
like warm hands pressing gently on a trembling heart.
But withdrawal doesn't ask for permission.
That morning, while brushing his teeth, it hit him-hard and raw.
A cough erupted from his chest like an explosion. Deep, choking. Violent.
He spat into the sink-mucus. Yellow. Thick. Endless.
It poured out like his lungs were bleeding out the past.
Another wave came. Then dizziness. Blackness at the edges.
He gripped the wall, the tap, anything.
The hospital spun around him like a carousel of punishment. He thought he'd fall.
And in that moment-through the blur, a single image rose in his mind:
His daughter.
Tiny hands. Innocent eyes. That shy smile that only came when she saw him after a long day.
"No... not now," he whispered to no one. "She's waiting for a better version of me."He took a deep breath. Another. The room stopped spinning.
He didn't call for help. He didn't cry out.
He just wiped his mouth. Splashed water on his face.
And stood up-a father in the body of an addict, fighting like hell to become whole again.
He kept going. Because now it wasn't just about surviving.
It was about showing up for someone who deserved a clean, conscious, present father.
---
Day 4: Body in Control, Heart in Chaos
All the reports came in. One by one, truth on paper.
Triglycerides: 905 (should be under 150).
Fatty liver: Grade 2.
ECG and lungs: stable, but strained.
The only good news? "You're just 31," the doctor said. "We can reverse this. If you fight for it."
So TimeTravel decided to fight.
The dietitian made a chart. Measured meals. No sugar. No oil.
Fruit twice a day, not as a treat-but as medicine."You need to lose 10% of your weight." That's not just numbers. That's war.
Physiotherapy began. Step counter set to 12,000. That's 7.5 kilometers a day, inside a hospital.
He walked the corridors like a man escaping his old life.
Each step: a cigarette unlit, a bottle left behind, a craving burned into sweat.
He added cycling to the routine. Spinning the pedals, spinning away his thoughts.
The cravings, once monsters, were now manageable.
And when they weren't-the doctors helped. The medicines worked.
He started putting faith in the system. Not in magic. Not in shortcuts.
But in science, support, and slow change.
But there was one enemy left-anger.
Irritability. Bursts of rage.
Sharp words thrown at the people he loved the most.
His father would say something simple-TimeTravel would snap.
His mother would ask gently-TimeTravel would shut down.
His wife... she stayed. She took the heat. Then quietly disconnected-hurt, but still loving.
And that night, alone in his room, he broke down.
No noise. Just tears. His pillow caught the guilt.He whispered like a broken prayer:
"My wife... my baby... my love...
Please don't give up on me.
This storm will pass.
I'm coming back to you."
And somewhere outside that sterile rehab room,
the world kept turning.
And inside it-
a man was slowly becoming whole again.Day 11: The Cancelled Celebration
It was Day 11. The number felt sacred.
The doctor had told him--tomorrow, you'll be sent out for an hour again to test your triggers. TimeTravel had
passed ten days, and his wife wanted to celebrate.
She arranged everything.
Lunch at Indo-Arabian Restaurant. A cake to be brought at the end. A bouquet. A moment of normalcy after
the storm.
TimeTravel got ready, showered, dressed. The nurses completed the paperwork. He asked them to give him
his medicines so he could carry them in case of cravings.
Meanwhile, his wife stepped out--to buy the bouquet, to add a special touch.
But she took time.
Too much time.
Fifteen minutes. Then thirty.
No contact.
No sign.
Panic mixed with irritation. Then turned to rage.
The clock ticked louder than his heartbeat.
"What is she thinking?"He called his doctor in a tight voice, "If I go out right now, I will smoke."
"Then cancel the program," she said gently.
And he did.
And her plans--her excitement--shattered.
The cake was never eaten. The bouquet returned. The outing cancelled.
He took his medicine, paced the room, read every sticky note on his wall.
Fought the war inside, tooth and nail.
But the miracle?
He didn't smoke.
He lost the moment.
But he won the day.
Day 12: The Mission - A Father's Test
This wasn't about cravings anymore. This was about control, about love.
TimeTravel wanted to test himself.
He decided to get his daughter's ears pierced again. The last attempt months ago had failed--swelling,
infection, trauma.
But this time would be different.This time, he would be strong.
He carried his daughter in his baby bag. His wife walked beside him. They didn't even have cash.
His wife went to a lahiya chana vendor to request UPI in exchange for cash.
Behind him--pan shop.
Smoke.
Two men lit cigarettes just inches from him.
He smelled it.
He remembered it.
But he didn't budge.
He looked down at his daughter and whispered internally:
"Nothing matters more than this moment."
At the jewelry shop, the technician used a gun, not a needle.
Click. Click.
His daughter cried--but it was fear, not pain.
And she calmed in his arms.
Success.They went to the mall, bought her a McSwirl, bought six awakening books, and had lunch at the food court.
After food, the cravings returned.
But he delayed. Five minutes.
Craving passed.
They returned. Peacefully.
He took his medicine--not out of fear, but discipline.
Called his mom.
"Mission successful, Maa."
And that night, the golden earrings in his daughter's ears shone like tiny medals.
Proof of victory.
Proof of change.
Proof that love was stronger than habit.
