Chapter 6 The University of Hell
The police van rattled over a pothole, the metal frame shuddering violently. Inside, it was dark, save for a thin strip of light filtering through the mesh window. Arjun sat alone on the cold steel bench, his body swaying with the motion of the vehicle.
He wasn't crying. The tears had dried up days ago, back in the empty ancestral house. The boy who cried for his parents was gone. The boy who pleaded with the Superintendent of Police was gone. What remained was something hollowed out, stripped of hope, and filled with a cold, quiet rage.
He looked at his hands. They were the same hands that had held a Game Boy controller a month ago. They were the same hands that had held his mother's hand on the boat in Kerala. Now, they were the hands of a convict. A generic criminal number in the state's registry.
The judge had called him a danger to society.
Arjun leaned his head against the vibrating metal wall and closed his eyes. The judge was wrong. He wasn't a danger to society. Society was the danger. It was a machine designed to crush the weak and elevate the monsters. Virendar Rao was the pillar of society, and Arjun was the disease.
If that is the rule of the world, Arjun thought, the darkness in his mind settling like concrete, then I will burn the rulebook.
The van screeched to a halt. The back doors groaned open, flooding the compartment with harsh, dusty sunlight.
Get out, a constable barked, rapping his baton against the doorframe.
Arjun stepped out. He blinked against the glare.
He stood in front of a massive iron gate topped with rusted barbed wire. The sign above the archway read: 'State Juvenile Observation Home'. It sounded clinical, almost educational. But looking at the peeling yellow paint and the high walls that blocked out the horizon, Arjun knew what it really was.
It was a cage.
The constable shoved him forward. Move.
They processed him in a small, cramped office. A warden with yellow teeth and a uniform that was two sizes too tight sat behind a desk, flipping through Arjun's file. He looked at the paperwork, then at Arjun, then back at the paperwork.
Attempted murder of an MLA, the warden whistled low. You have big balls for a skinny kid. Or maybe just a small brain.
Arjun didn't answer. He stood straight, staring at the wall behind the warden's head.
The warden stood up and walked around the desk. He circled Arjun, looking him up and down.
Shoes, the warden said, pointing to Arjun's sneakers.
They were expensive Nikes, bought in New York. The last remnant of his old life.
Take them off.
Arjun kicked them off without hesitation.
Watch.
Arjun unclasped the digital watch and placed it on the desk.
The warden smirked, slipping the watch into his own pocket.
Here, you own nothing. You are nothing. You eat when I say, you sleep when I say, and if you cause trouble, you bleed when I say. Do you understand?
Arjun finally looked at him. His eyes were devoid of fear. They were flat, like the surface of a deep well.
I understand, Arjun said. His voice was calm. Too calm.
The warden frowned. He expected tears. He expected begging. He didn't like the way this rich kid looked at him—like he was looking through him.
Take him to Barrack 4, the warden snapped at the guard.
Barrack 4 was a long, rectangular hall with a concrete floor and barred windows that let in no breeze, only the stifling heat of the afternoon. There were no beds, just straw mats rolled up against the wall.
When Arjun walked in, the noise stopped.
There were about thirty boys in the room, ranging from twelve to eighteen years old. They were the unwanted debris of the city—pickpockets, drug runners, thieves, and gang members. They sat in clusters, playing cards or just staring at the ceiling.
As the guard locked the heavy iron door behind Arjun, thirty pairs of eyes turned to him.
Fresh meat, someone whispered.
Arjun didn't flinch. He walked to the nearest empty spot by the wall and sat down. He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his head against the wall. He didn't want to talk. He wanted to think. He needed to plan.
But the world doesn't let you think when you look like a victim.
Hey, hero.
Arjun didn't look up.
A shadow fell over him. Arjun opened his eyes. Standing in front of him was a boy who looked at least seventeen. He was broad-shouldered, with a scar running through his eyebrow and a look of pure malice. This was the alpha. The king of the trash heap.
I'm talking to you, English, the boy said. He kicked Arjun's foot.
Arjun looked up slowly.
What? Arjun asked.
The boy grinned, looking back at his gang.
He speaks! The MLA killer speaks.
The room erupted in laughter. The boy turned back to Arjun, his face hardening.
My name is Shankar. In here, you pay rent. And since the warden took your watch, you pay with service.
Shankar pointed to his legs.
My feet hurt. Massage them.
Arjun looked at Shankar's dirty feet, then up at his face. The old Arjun, the one who lived in the penthouse, would have been terrified. He would have looked for a teacher. He would have tried to reason.
But the new Arjun realized something profound in that moment.
In the outside world, money was power. In here, fear was power. If he massaged this boy's feet today, he would be a slave for the next eight years.
Arjun stood up. He was inches shorter than Shankar and half his weight.
No, Arjun said.
The room went deadly silent. The other boys sat up, sensing violence.
Shankar's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, invading Arjun's personal space.
What did you say?
I said no, Arjun repeated. I'm not your servant.
Shankar didn't waste words. He swung his fist.
It was a heavy, clumsy blow, but it had weight behind it. It connected with Arjun's jaw, knocking him back against the wall. Arjun tasted blood instantly. His head spun.
Shankar laughed. One punch and the rich kid goes down.
He turned his back, expecting Arjun to stay down.
That was his mistake.
Arjun didn't stay down. The pain in his jaw felt distant, irrelevant. He looked around. There was a metal water jug in the corner.
Arjun lunged.
He didn't scream. He didn't warn him. He moved with the silent, desperate speed of a cornered animal.
He grabbed the heavy steel jug and swung it with every ounce of strength he had.
CLANG.
The metal connected with the back of Shankar's head.
Shankar crumbled to his knees, groaning, clutching his skull.
Arjun didn't stop. He kicked Shankar in the chest, knocking him onto his back. Then Arjun straddled him, raising the jug again.
The other boys jumped up, rushing forward to pull him off, but Arjun stopped them with a look.
He held the jug high, ready to bring it down on Shankar's face. He looked at the circle of boys. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and terrifying.
I stabbed a Minister in front of five thousand people! Arjun shouted, his voice cracking but filled with a raw, maniacal intensity. I put a knife in his gut and twisted it! Do you think I care about cracking this idiot's skull? Do you?!
He screamed the last words, swinging the jug down but stopping an inch from Shankar's nose.
Shankar flinched, terrified, shielding his face. The alpha was broken. Not by strength, but by madness.
Arjun stood up slowly, breathing hard. He looked at the boys surrounding him. They weren't looking at him with mockery anymore. They were looking at him with fear. They saw the blood on his lip and the insanity in his eyes.
They realized this wasn't just a rich kid. This was someone who had nothing left to lose. And a man with nothing to lose is the most dangerous thing on earth.
Arjun dropped the jug. It clattered loudly on the concrete floor.
He walked back to his spot by the wall and sat down. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
No one moved. No one spoke. Shankar crawled away, nursing his head, refusing to make eye contact.
Arjun leaned his head back against the cold stone. His jaw throbbed, but he felt a strange, cold satisfaction.
He had learned his first lesson in the University of Hell.
Power isn't given, Arjun thought, staring at the ceiling. It's taken.
He closed his eyes. He wasn't afraid of the dark anymore. He was becoming part of it. The naivety was gone, burned away in the fire of the cremation ground and the violence of the barrack.