Chapter 1 :- Local Cop And Powers
This story takes place in Chandpur, a town so ordinary it became special.
Two highways run around Chandpur like an oval-shaped noose. One on the outside, one on the inside. The outer highway is for the trucks and the factories; the inner one cuts through the town like a lazy scar. Between the two, people live, steal, die, love, and sometimes, they just exist.
The town wasn't always like this.
Back in the day, before the Industrial Revolution hit Chandpur, it was just farms and rivers and the smell of wet earth after rain. Then came the factories. Coal, steel, limestone, and iron. Then came the mines—dark holes in the earth promising jobs and taking lungs in return.
With the jobs came the immigrants.
The West slum became home to South Indians, mostly from Telangana. Their leader is called Anna. Nobody remembers his real name anymore.
The East slum belongs to Biharis and Madhya Pradeshis, ruled by a man called Chindi. Some say his name is because he used to steal rags as a kid. Others say it's because he wears cheap clothes but runs expensive crimes.
Between these two men, the geography of Chandpur changed.
Anna became the coal and steel mafia. Chindi took over organized crime—pickpocketing, theft, protection rackets, and the grey areas where crime becomes business.
One night, a gang war almost broke out. People say the town would've burned if it weren't for what happened next.
Anna and Chindi met under the temple tree at 3 AM.
Nobody knows what they talked about. Maybe it was peace. Maybe it was business.
But one thing is certain—a rickshaw driver saw them sharing a cigarette that night.
And the poor bastard?
He pissed his pants right there.
Next morning, his wife found him washing his lungi in the courtyard, bright pink underwear flapping in the wind.
He told her,
"I don't want to drive night shifts anymore."
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I'm Champak. But people call me Champu.
Not because I'm stupid, but because that's how things work here.
I never wanted to be a cop.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a scientist.
I used to look at the sky and think,
"Maybe I'll invent something, or discover something."
Turns out, I discovered I didn't have the brains for it.
I failed 9th standard.
My father—a government school teacher—almost broke his own face out of shame.
Our family friend suggested,
"Let him try for the police academy."
I failed once. Then I tried again.
On the second try, I got in.
That's how I became a hawaldar.
Not a hero. Just a local cop.
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About my father?
He still tells people he's proud of me. But I know the truth.
When relatives ask what I do, he says,
"Bas theek-thaak naukri hai. Samjho police mein naukar hai."
(It's just an okay job. Basically a servant in uniform.)
We don't talk much anymore.
But he still keeps my old science fair project in his cupboard.
A cardboard volcano that never erupted properly.
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The Police Force of Chandpur
There are two police stations—one in the North, one in the South.
Each has 12 men on paper, 6 men in reality, and 3 who actually work.
Most of us just fill forms, eat samosas, and tell people to come tomorrow.
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Me? I'm not a hero.
I wear my uniform every morning. I do the paperwork.
I ask the right questions, check lies in statements, and try to keep the peace between the big fish.
And yeah, sometimes I take small bribes.
But I don't let the big things slide.
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My first day as hawaldar?
I wore a new khaki uniform, shiny shoes, and under it all—bright pink underwear.
My mother bought it from the Bazaar Sale, said it was 80% off.
I didn't have the heart to tell her.
So, I adjusted my belt and thought,
"Champu, you're not a hero. You're just a local cop in pink chaddis."
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That's where this story begins.
In a town surrounded by highways, greed, and legends—
Where two slum kings smoke cigarettes under temple trees,
And a small cop with a belly and a badge tries to keep things from falling apart.
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END OF CHAPTER