Parental Caution Note:
This story includes vulgar street slang common in Indian urban language. All profanity is used intentionally and realistically to reflect real environments, not to glorify them. Reader discretion advised.
Monday started slow.
Rain had smeared the streets of Kurla with wet garbage and red paan stains. Nawaz leaned against a wall outside the paan shop, watching the world crawl past. He wasn't waiting for anyone, but sometimes silence had answers talking didn't.
A biker almost crashed into a rickshaw. Horns blared. A drunk man shouted.
"Bhosdiwale chala na theek se!"
(Translation: Motherf*er, drive properly!)
Typical Mumbai soundtrack.
That's when he showed up.
Big guy. Dusty shirt. Long scar from ear to chin. Looked like he'd fought two tigers and told them both to fuck off.
He walked into the paan shop and asked for a cigarette. The shopkeeper said, "No loose here."
The guy didn't argue. He lit a match on the wall, took out his own cigarette, and stared directly at Nawaz.
"You Nawaz?" he asked. Deep voice. No smile.
"Who's asking?"
"Someone who owes your father."
Nawaz stood up straight. "Name?"
"Balraj Singh. Punjab se. Your dad saved my chacha once. Back when he was just 'Sadiq Bhai'… not the Don's shadow."
Nawaz didn't answer. Just offered a hand. Balraj didn't shake it. He pulled out a folded photo from his pocket. A faded image of Nawaz's father, smiling with a younger Balraj in a turban and school uniform.
"You know who killed your dad?" Balraj asked.
Nawaz's fists clenched.
"No."
"Then let me help. I'm not loyal to anyone. But your father gave me life once. I'll repay it with blood if I have to."
Nawaz didn't trust him. Not yet. But trust in his world was a luxury — like clean toilets or honest cops.
They walked to Nawaz's room.
Inside, Balraj scanned the walls. The cracked fan. The broken photo frame. The silence.
He grinned. "You live like a monk but carry rage like Ravana."
"Keep your mythology," Nawaz said. "We deal in reality here."
Balraj chuckled. "Reality? Reality is that the system you're trying to burn is fireproof. You either become smoke… or ash."
Later that night, they sat on the roof, drinking cutting chai from plastic cups.
Balraj lit another cigarette and said, "You know who's next on the list?"
Nawaz nodded. "Inspector Jadhav. The bastard who ignored my mother's murder report."
Balraj spat over the edge. "Woh kutta? Uski toh maa ka bhosda phaad dunga!"
Translation (cleaned for context):
"That dog? I'll tear his mother's [vulgar term] apart!"
"Chill," Nawaz said, smiling for the first time in weeks. "We won't kill him. We'll ruin him."
Balraj looked at him. "Ruin how?"
"Simple. He likes schoolgirls. We send the right video to the right people."
Balraj raised an eyebrow. "Tu toh full Chanakya nikla, bhai."
(You turned out to be a full schemer, bro.)
Then, a silence.
The kind only broken people share — when they realise they're not the only ones carrying ghosts.
Before leaving, Balraj stood by the doorway.
"One condition."
"What?"
"I don't follow boys. I follow warlords. If you want to play hero, I'm out. If you want to own this side of Mumbai, I'm in."
Nawaz nodded once.
"I'm not a hero. I'm just not done losing."
And with that, a crew of two was born.
Not from friendship.
From shared hate.
From blood debts.
From fire.