The Hunt Begins 3
638 Words
Wednesday, 11 P.M.
Tangra, East Kolkata.
The streets on the east side of town smelled of stale beer, wet tobacco and the faint, sour sweetness of rotting fruit. Neon signs flickered. A stray dog padded past a pile of plastic bags.
Chhotu moved through it all like he owned the gutter, short, thick-necked, face swollen from a life of punches and cheap liquor. His laugh was a bark. His hands had forgotten gentleness.
He kicked a bottle out of his path and laughed when it shattered. “Move, you bastards!” he shouted at no one in particular. A pair of ragpickers scurried aside. Chhotu chuckled. “That’s right. Remember the name.”
He lived with his widow mother in a half-broken house behind the cable shop. She worked at other people's houses, earned enough to keep them both fed and cursed him every night before sleep.
“Ekdin jokhon police dhore niye jaabe tokhon bujhbi!,” she used to say. One day when the police will take you, then you’ll understand!
And Chhotu would laugh, “Ma, the police drinks from my bottle now.”
He had come up from nowhere, as most thugs did.One small robbery, one lucky fight, a few favors to the right men, until he tasted power. It fed him and he fed it.
Now, he had a girl on his mind.
Rima. College girl. Clean eyes, soft voice. The kind that made him feel he could own the world if she just said his name right.
He remembered the way she looked this morning, walking with her boyfriend. That polished clown from the photo studio. The way she smiled at him made something boil in Chhotu’s chest.
“She thinks I’m dirt,” he muttered, taking another swig from the bottle in his hand. “One day she’ll see who runs this street.”
He walked past the betel shop. The shopkeeper nodded nervously.
“Bhai, not too much tonight?”
Chhotu grinned, showing teeth stained red from paan. “I’ll stop when the city stops breathing dada.”
He stopped outside a shuttered stall, the streetlight flickering above. His head buzzed. The world tilted.
He thought of Rima again, of her eyes when he grabbed her wrist the last time. She had pulled away, saying, “Stay away from me, you freak!”
And he had smiled, leaning close, breath heavy with rum. “You’ll come around, Rima. They all do.”
He laughed at the memory. “Who she think she is? College girl, haan? I’ll buy her dreams and burn them.”
He took another swig. The liquid burned down his throat. His mind drifted to tomorrow, meet Raju da, maybe collect the protection money from the fruit market. He liked that part. The fear in people’s eyes was better than any drink.
“Raju da said I’m going up next year,” he muttered to himself, wiping his mouth. “Real work. No more street dog life.”
A gust of wind swept through the narrow lane, carrying the faint smell of wet iron. The streetlight blinked once, twice.
He stumbled, chuckling, “Even the light’s scared of me.”
A shadow moved behind him.
He turned, sluggish. “Who’s there?”
Nothing. Just the sound of a loose shutter tapping in the wind.
He smirked. “Cowards. Can’t even face Chhotu head-on.”
Then he felt it. A hand. Soft cloth pressing over his mouth and nose.
“What the...”
The world spun. The smell hit him hard, sweet, chemical, choking.
He tried to grab the arm, to shout, to fight, but his limbs went heavy. His vision blurred; the lane twisted like smoke.
His last thought before everything went black was:
What’s this? Chintu gang? Raju da’s enemies? Or Rima's boyfriend?
Darkness folded around him.
- Writer
