They say the wind changes before a storm. In Bhairavpur, it changed when the first police jeep didn't stop at the chowk — it passed through. No bribes. No threats. Just silence. They feared what waited in the village center.
Me.
I wasn't a Don. Not yet. But I was no street dog either. My name — Bhutta — had become a threat. Mothers used it to scare crying children. Men whispered it before sleeping. No one smiled at me anymore. That was good. I wasn't born for smiles.
The sugarcane fields near the broken Dargah were my throne. Me and my dogs — not friends, not brothers. Just obedient filth who knew how to bow. Maula stood behind me, silent, crowbar always ready. Golu counted stolen ration like he was born with greed stitched into his palms. And Sameer, the rat with a brain — he watched everything. They didn't follow me out of love. They followed me because I could rip them open and they knew it.
One day, Maula came running, out of breath.
> "Bhai… Patil ka aadmi aaya. Teen log. Naye chappal. Gaadi se utre."
I didn't flinch.
Patil was no MLA. He was a local fixer. Ran half the black market between our village and two others. He didn't care who lived or died — he only cared who paid.
So he sent his dogs to meet mine.
They came to the Dargah ruins like they owned it. One lit a beedi, the other kicked a can near me. The third looked me up and down like I was trash.
> "Suna hai Bhutta bhai ban gaya hai," he smirked. "Bhai banna aasaan hai. Lekin zameen pe rehna seekha hai?"
I stood slowly.
> "Tu kaun hai?" I asked, eyes locked.
> "Patil ka banda. Bola hai agar tere paas guts hai, aake mil."
> "Tere jaise gutter ke keede ko bhej ke guts test karta hai?"
I didn't wait.
My hand went through his face — not a punch, not a slap — just destruction. His nose crumbled. Blood sprayed on his men's shirts.
Maula was already moving. One with a beedi? Smashed. Golu dragged the last one by the neck to me.
> "Wapas ja," I said, breathing heavy. "Patil ko bol… Bhutta zameen pe nahi rehta. Zameen uske neeche hoti hai."
We dumped their broken bodies in a bullock cart and pushed it toward the highway.
That night, I stood near the pond.
Sameer said, "Bhai… Patil reply karega."
I stared at the moon.
> "Toh kare. Mein sirf maar nahi sakta… mein barbaad bhi kar sakta hoon."
The boys looked scared. That was good. Fear is better than faith.
In the distance, I saw a woman walking alone by the old school. Hair open, notebook in hand. Didn't look like a local.
Sameer noticed me watching.
> "Bhai… Metro se hai Journalist gunda garfi pe kitaab likh rahi hai"
I didn't answer. Just smiled.
Not because I liked her.
But because she didn't know what kind of story she was walking into.
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Next: Chapter 4 – The Journalist, The Godman, and the First Massacre