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Patience, Resilience, and Prayers-three silent shields. Have the patience to let time heal what is broken, the resilience to rise above every failure, and prayers to protect the gentle soul hidden behind your bravest smile.

A few hours later, the entire class was seated inside the heavy, stifling atmosphere of the lecture hall. The Compiler Design (CD) professor was in the middle of delivering a highly serious, complex lecture, his voice booming as he scrawled massive equations on the blackboard.

Suddenly, the professor stopped writing, turned around with the piece of chalk in his hand, and adjusted his glasses, scanning the room. "Alright, let's see who is paying attention. Can anyone explain the fundamental difference between a Top-Down parser and a Bottom-Up parser in terms of handles and reductions?"

The moment the question hung in the silent air, the entire backbench boys' gang, led by a mischievous spark, started chanting in a loud, perfectly synchronized, rhythmic whisper from the back of the room:
"Akshatttttt... Akshatttttt... Akshatttttt..."

The CD sir paused, his brow furrowing in complete confusion as the sudden collective chant echoed through his serious lecture. He locked his eyes onto Akshat, who was sitting on the middle bench, his entire face turning a deep, burning shade of red in pure, agonizing embarrassment.

"Why is everyone calling Akshat?" the CD sir asked, tapping his chalk against the podium. "Akshat, do you want to stand up and answer the question?"
Akshat felt the weight of fifty pairs of eyes locking onto him.

He awkwardly slid down in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice small. "No, sir... I don't know the answer."

The minute the word 'No' escaped his lips, the backbench gang took it as their ultimate cue. They unleashed absolute, roaring chaos, shouting at the top of their lungs with full, high-energy vibes:
"Akshattttt! Akshattttt! Akshattttt!"

"Quiet! Class, quiet right now!" the CD sir barked, slamming his register down on the table. The shouting instantly died down into muffled snickers. The professor shook his head in irritation and continued his lecture, writing on the board.

In the side row, Riya's inner investigative journalist was completely reawakened. She leaned across her desk, her eyes wide with immense curiosity, whispering to the girls. "Why on earth is the entire boys' gang calling Akshat's name like that in the middle of a serious class? What is the inside joke?"

Purvi, who had been silently watching Akshat's visibly uncomfortable and dejected posture, felt a deep, protective urge pull at her heart.

She honestly wanted to know the root of the mystery. She nodded softly, whispering, "Yeah... sabhi log Akshat ka jaap kyun kar rahe hain? (Why is everyone chanting Akshat's name like a prayer?)"

Isha sighed gently, turning a page in her notebook. "Kya karenge jaan kar? (What will we gain by knowing?) Leave them, it's just boys being boys."

Riya flipped her hair back dramatically, whispering with full authority, "Mein CR hoon, mujhe jaan na padega! (I am the CR, I need to know!)" She then slyly shifted her gaze to Purvi, a teasing smile touching her lips.

"And anyway, Purvi... haa haa, Akshat ke baare mein ho, toh tumhara toh jaan ne ka haq banta haiiiii! (If it's about Akshat, then you definitely have the full right to know!)"

Purvi's cheeks instantly blushed a bright crimson, and she quickly looked away, her heart beating a little faster but she covered up her expressions as if nothing happened..

The moment the loud bell signaled the afternoon break, Riya and Purvi wasted no time. They tracked Akshat down near the quiet corridor corner near the water cooler.

Purvi stepped forward, her eyes soft but filled with genuine concern. "Akshat... why was everyone suddenly chanting your name like that in class today? What happened?"

Akshat let out a long, weary sigh, leaning his back against the cool concrete wall. He offered a small, highly reluctant smile as he realized he couldn't escape their questions.

"It's... it's a stupid backup story from my school days," he began, his voice dropping into a quiet, hesitant tone.

"I was actually a proper singer-cum-guitarist earlier," Akshat said, his eyes distant as a memory flashed across his mind.

"I used to perform in almost every school event. I spent years learning the guitar, putting in hours of hard work. But then... one day, during a massive, high-stakes inter-school competition, I walked onto the stage.

The crowd was huge. Right in the middle of my performance, my mind went completely blank. I forgot the lyrics entirely. I just stood there on stage, frozen, in dead silence, unable to sing a single word. I had to walk off."
Akshat swallowed hard, the old disappointment clear in his eyes.

"From that exact day onwards, my school boys' gang started teasing me relentlessly with my name. For any question asked by any teacher in school, they would just shout my name because I had messed up so badly that day on stage.

They find it highly entertaining... but honestly, it makes me feel deeply sad and disappointed because they are constantly celebrating and teasing me based on my biggest failure.

The words passed down from school to college because a few of the same boys joined this branch. So yeah... from there it started. Now, even if a professor asks who the President of China is, they will just vibe together and chant 'Akshattt... Akshattt...' like a ritual." And the same ritual got continued here as few boys have joined the same college.

Riya, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere, let out a soft chuckle. "Well... look at the bright side, at least it feels like you have a massive fan club following you around!"

Akshat let out a sad smile, his eyes filled with a quiet, lingering disappointment. "Yeah... some fan club."

Purvi felt a sharp, empathetic pang in her chest hearing his story. She took a step closer into his personal space, her eyes looking deeply into his. "Are you... are you still continuing your music now, Akshat?"

"No, not at all," Akshat answered instantly, shaking his head firmly, a definitive wall rising in his voice. "After that incident and the non-stop mocking that followed, I completely stopped music. I haven't touched my guitar in years."

"But Akshat, that's completely unfair to yourself!" Purvi insisted, her voice filled with a beautiful, urgent sincerity. "If you have spent years learning something and put so much genuine effort into it, a single bad incident on a stage shouldn't be stopping you from pursuing your true passion! You shouldn't let their teasing define your talent."

Akshat looked down at his shoes, his jaw clenching slightly as his severe self-doubt completely took over his thoughts. "But that incident is hooked deep inside me, Purvi. The fear of failing again, of freezing up... I just don't want to deal with that humiliation ever again."

Purvi deeply understood his hesitation and his fear. She opened her mouth to try and persuade him further, wanting to pull him out of his shell, but Akshat offered a gentle, final look. "Not anymore, Purvi. Please."

Before she could say another word, the loud warning bell rang across the campus, signaling the end of the break. Akshat picked up his bag, and the group silently walked back to their respective lecture halls.

Later that evening, the sky had turned a deep, dusky shade of indigo as Riya sat at the dining table at her home. Her father was calmly sipping his evening tea, reading through some legal briefs.
Riya set her cup down, unable to keep the question bottled up any longer.

"Papa... you never told me. How exactly do you know Yash from my college?"

Raghav closed his folder, setting it aside as his expression turned deeply serious, filled with a professional yet gentle solemnity. "Yash's mother, Sunandha ji, is one of my long-term clients, Riya. I am the advocate who personally fought her divorce case."

Riya froze, her breath catching in her throat.

"It was a highly toxic, brutal marriage," Raghav explained quietly, his voice laced with immense sympathy. "Sunandha ji endured a shocking amount of emotional and mental suffering for years.

Finally, late last year, we managed to secure the divorce. She is finally free now. Throughout that entire traumatic legal battle, that little boy, Yash, used to constantly accompany his mother to my office for every single court proceeding.

He would sit by her side, hold her hand, and talk to me with so much maturity about the technicalities of the case just to shield his mother. A young boy had to witness and endure so much pain at such a tender, fragile age."

A profound, staggering shock rippled through Riya's entire system. She sat there in absolute silence, her heart aching heavily.

She never, in her wildest dreams, could have imagined that the boy who spent every single day cracking loud roasts, teasing her endlessly, and filling the campus with pure chaos was carrying such a deeply fractured, painful reality inside his home.

She felt a deep wave of immense sadness and respect wash over her for Yash. Beneath his masked smile lay the heart of a true survivor.

At that exact same hour, back at his own quiet home, Yash was sitting on the window sill of his room, looking out at the distant city lights. His mind automatically drifted back to the afternoon encounter with Raghav uncle.

He vividly remembered the dark, terrifying days of the court proceedings a year ago. He remembered walking into Advocate Raghav's chamber, his hands trembling as he and his weeping mother narrated the horrific stories of domestic turmoil to the lawyer.

On that very first day, seeing Yash's breaking spirit, Raghav had walked over, placed his hands on the young boy's shoulders, and looked straight into his eyes with an unshakeable, solid authority.

"Beta, yeh kaanta chubha hai... aur isko hum jad se nikal denge. Be strong," Raghav had told him firmly.
("Son, this thorn has pierced you... and we will pull it out from the roots. Be strong.")

Yash had always held an immense, boundless amount of admiration for Raghav. Because during those dark, cold months, Raghav had handed him a golden rule that became Yash's ultimate survival manual.

"Whatever happens in life, Yash," Raghav had told him with a warm smile, "your core motto should always be PRP."

Yash remembered being entirely confused, looking up at him. "PRP, Uncle? What does that mean?"

Raghav had smiled gently, patting his head. "Patience, Resilience, and Prayers. This should be your ultimate motto, beta. Have the patience to endure the dark days, the resilience to fight back without breaking, and prayers to keep your soul pure."

Somehow, Yash-a boy who had never felt a single ounce of warmth, protection, or love from his biological father-had felt a profound, fatherly presence in Raghav.

Raghav hadn't just won their legal freedom; he had silently saved a young boy's breaking heart, giving him the strength to face the world with a smile.
Yash took a deep breath, a soft, genuinely grateful smile touching his lips in the quiet room as he clutched the golden motto close to his heart.

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