Chapter 26: Operation Gutter
The bus ride back to Bangalore was a long, suffocating affair. The triumphant energy that had carried them out of the city for the industrial trip had evaporated, replaced by a tense, heavy silence. The memory of the day's events played on a loop in everyone's mind: the sudden, aggressive shove from a "stranger" in the crowd that sent Ayushi stumbling, the way Aarav had moved like lightning to catch her, and the insidious whispers that followed, twisting an act of protection into something sordid. The air in the bus was thick with unspoken anger and the bitter taste of a victory poisoned at its root.
As they disembarked into the familiar glow of the city lights, the group fractured. Pooja, her face a thundercloud of protective fury, wrapped Ayushi in a fierce hug. "Call me the second you get home," she commanded, her eyes briefly flicking to Aarav with a look that was equal parts gratitude and warning. Ayushi, looking pale and emotionally drained, offered Aarav a small, tired smile—a silent acknowledgment of their shared ordeal, a fragile bond forged in the crucible of a targeted attack—before she and Pooja disappeared into the Bangalore evening.
That left Aarav and Akash to make the familiar trek back to their dorm room. The silence that fell between them was profound and unsettling. Aarav's mind was a maelstrom of strategic calculations. He was deconstructing the day's "accident," analyzing the timing, the location, the immediate aftermath of whispers. It was clumsy in its execution but surgically precise in its intent. It wasn't just about intimidation; it was a character assassination, designed to isolate Ayushi and frame him as a predator. Every instinct screamed that Rajat was the architect behind the curtain, but proving it was another matter entirely. He walked on, oblivious to the storm brewing beside him.
Akash, for the first time in as long as Aarav could remember, was utterly silent. His usual stream of consciousness about girls, gadgets, and get-rich-quick schemes had dried up. His hands, shoved deep into his pockets, were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists. His carefree, devil-may-care grin was gone, replaced by a taut line of cold fury. He kept replaying the scene in his head: Ayushi's momentary terror, the gasps from the crowd, and the smug, knowing smirk he'd caught on the face of one of Rajat's lackeys moments after.
He did this, Akash thought, his blood boiling with a righteous fire he rarely allowed himself to feel. That cowardly, silver-spooned son of a bitch. He couldn't win on merit, so he tried to break her spirit. He tried to ruin her reputation. He glanced at Aarav's preoccupied profile. He knew his friend's methods. Aarav was the grandmaster, the long-term player who would construct a brilliant, intricate plan for retaliation that would checkmate Rajat in a month's time.
But Akash wasn't a grandmaster. He was a force of nature. And the storm inside him demanded immediate, catastrophic landfall.
He decided then and there. Aarav could build the guillotine. Akash was going to throw the first punch. He held his silence, letting the rage simmer and solidify into a concrete, and frankly, ridiculous plan.
The next morning, the sun had barely bled its first pale, grey light over the horizon. On a quiet, tree-lined service road that Rajat was known to use as a daily shortcut to the university, a strange congregation had gathered. Hidden behind the sprawling canopy of a banyan tree, Akash, almost unrecognizable in an old, oversized hoodie and a cheap face mask, addressed his small, motley crew. They were a handful of junior students, all similarly disguised, who owed Akash various favors—from getting them notes to saving them from a disastrous date.
"Alright, gentlemen, listen up!" Akash whispered, his voice a dramatic, gravelly imitation of a movie general. He paced before them, exuding an aura of comical gravity. "Welcome to the inaugural mission of the... uh... 'Righteous Vengeance Squad.' Today's objective is codenamed: Operation Gutter."
He paused, letting the ridiculous name hang in the cool morning air. "Our target is a Class-A Pompous Prick, identifiable by a face you'll instantly want to punch. He will be approaching in a black Mercedes, a vehicle that costs more than all of our collective student loans. That is your cue."
He picked up a twig, using it as a makeshift pointer to gesture at the empty road. "Phase one: The Interception. In the distance, I see a car coming... that's our guy! Get ready!" he hissed, though the road was still deserted. "As soon as he gets close, you will form a human chain of beautiful, synchronized chaos. Block the road. No violence yet. Just be confusing. Look like you're part of a weird, experimental street play. Baffle him with your ambiguity!"
"Phase two: The Extraction," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Once he is forced to stop his chariot of arrogance, we surround him. We will pull him out—gently, of course, like a rotten tooth—then tie his hands and legs with this premium-quality, nylon-blend rope I borrowed from the university gym. He will then be lovingly placed into this... designer laundry bag." He held up a large, sturdy sack with a flourish.
"Phase three: The Percussion Session," Akash declared, his eyes glinting mischievously above his mask. "Once he is comfortably ensconced in his new fabric home, we will... tenderize the meat. We will start the beat. A few good, rhythmic thumps to remind him of his manners and the importance of respecting women. And for the grand finale, the crescendo of our symphony of justice," he announced, pointing the twig at a particularly slimy-looking open drain nearby, "we throw him into that beautiful, aromatic gutter right over there."
A distant, low hum began to grow louder. The purr of a high-performance engine.
"Showtime!" Akash hissed, pulling his mask up.
Rajat's black Mercedes cruised down the empty road. He was alone today, having arrogantly decided that since he was on campus territory, he didn't need his bodyguards. He believed his identity and social prestige were an impenetrable shield. Nobody would dare to touch him.
This belief was shattered when a group of masked figures suddenly spilled onto the road, forcing him to slam on the brakes with a furious screech. He was utterly confused. What was happening? He laid on the horn, a long, indignant blare.
Before he could even roll down the window to shout an insult, his doors were pulled open. Rajat scoffed, his arrogance still his primary defense. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
Akash, his voice muffled and distorted by the mask, leaned into the car. "Yeah. Just a guy who's about to get a lesson in karma."
The boys, fueled by Akash's theatrical briefing, moved with surprising, albeit clumsy, efficiency. Rajat's shocked protests were quickly silenced as he was hauled from the driver's seat. His struggles were useless. He was bound, and with a final, undignified grunt, unceremoniously shoved into the laundry bag. A few muffled thuds echoed from within the sack as the "percussion session" commenced, followed by a coordinated swing. He was launched through the air in a short, pathetic arc before landing with a loud, squelching splash in the murky, stagnant water of the gutter. The boys didn't linger. They scattered like ghosts, melting back into the dawn before a single witness could register what had just transpired.
By the time the third lecture of the day was underway, Aarav was on high alert. Two classes had passed, and there was no sign of Rajat, which was unusual and unnerving. He had initially thought that today Akash would not come to college either, which worried him even more. But just as the professor started the lecture, his friend sauntered into the classroom, looking as breezy and carefree as if he'd just woken up from a refreshing nap. He slid into the seat next to Aarav and offered a lazy grin. The nonchalance only made Aarav more vigilant.
An hour later, the classroom door slammed open with a deafening bang.
Every head turned. Rajat stood framed in the doorway, a truly apocalyptic sight. He was fuming, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He was drenched from head to toe in slimy, black liquid. Bits of unidentifiable filth clung to his designer clothes, which were now just ruined, stinking rags. The smell that wafted from him—a potent cocktail of sewage and stagnant water—hit the front rows like a physical blow. He scanned the room, his eyes promising a slow, painful death to every single person present. But he had no idea who had ambushed him. He didn't know who to blame for the ultimate humiliation of being thrown inside a gutter.
The classroom was plunged into a stunned silence for a full five seconds. Then, a single snort broke the tension, followed by a stifled giggle, and then the entire class erupted into a wave of suppressed, choking laughter.
Later that afternoon, the team was gathered at their usual table in the canteen, ostensibly to discuss their project, but the air was electric with a single topic of conversation. The campus network had exploded. Someone had filmed a short, shaky video of a furious, drenched Rajat struggling to climb out of the gutter, like some B-movie monster emerging from a swamp.
The video, now titled "Millionaire's Gutter Experience," had gone viral. Pooja was playing it on a loop on her phone.
"Oh my god, look at his face!" she shrieked, howling with laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks. "He looks like he's going to spontaneously combust!"
The rest of the team was in a similar state, laughing so hard they could barely breathe. The whole campus was shaken, with students everywhere huddled over their phones, whispering and laughing at the downfall of the university's resident tyrant.
Amidst the joyful chaos, Aarav watched Akash. His friend was sipping his coffee with an air of profound, almost saintly innocence, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips as he watched the video. The timing was too perfect. The execution was too theatrical. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of it all had Akash's fingerprints all over it.
Aarav felt a slow smile spread across his own face. He didn't need to ask. He knew.
He would get the full, glorious, undoubtedly embellished story tonight, back in the privacy of their room. For now, he just leaned back and enjoyed the show. The first counter-punch of this war had been thrown—not with a calculated strategy, but with a perfect, gut-busting punchline. And it was absolutely beautiful.