Chapter 7 The Human Textbook
The second day didn't begin with the sun. It began with a whistle that sounded like a scream.
Arjun opened his eyes. For a split second, his brain reached for the memory of his soft mattress in the New York penthouse, but the cold hardness of the concrete floor slapped him back to reality. The air in the barrack was heavy, recycled, and thick with the tension of forty boys who were all dreaming of violence.
Up! Line up!
The reaction in the cell was instant. The other boys didn't just wake up; they activated. Muscles tensed, eyes cleared instantly, feet hit the floor in a synchronized shuffle. It was the instinct of prey animals knowing the predator was watching.
Arjun stood up slowly. He didn't rush. He didn't scramble like the others. He stretched his neck, feeling the stiffness in his bruised ribs.
Move, 1179!
A baton slammed against the iron bars near his head. The guard glared at him, waiting for the new kid to flinch.
Arjun turned his head slowly and looked at the guard. He didn't apologize. He didn't hurry. He just stared with eyes that were too dead for a fourteen-year-old. The guard, unsettled by the lack of fear, grunted and moved to the next cell.
Ismail, the thin boy who slept next to him, whispered without moving his lips.
Don't look at them like that. They will break you.
Arjun looked at Ismail. You think looking down saves you? It just tells them where to hit.
He walked into the corridor. The atmosphere in the Juvenile Home had shifted since yesterday. The Jug Incident—where he had cracked the skull of the block leader, Shankar—had changed the air pressure.
When Arjun walked to the wash area, boys stepped aside. They didn't look at him with respect; they looked at him with confusion. They were used to hierarchy. Big eats small. Old eats new. But Arjun was small, new, and he had attacked the biggest dog in the yard without hesitation. That made him unpredictable. And in prison, unpredictable meant dangerous.
Arjun splashed water on his face, washing away the sleep. He looked at his reflection in the steel mirror. The bruise on his jaw from Shankar's punch was turning purple.
Good, he thought. Let it leave a mark. It's a reminder.
He wasn't in prison. He was in a university.
He spent the next few hours doing something the others didn't. He didn't try to make friends. He didn't try to find a protector. He sat in the corner of the yard and watched.
He watched the guards. He noticed that the one with the mustache only hit boys when the Warden was watching—performative cruelty. When he was alone, he was lazy.
He watched the gangs. There were three groups. The Thieves (loud, bragging, weak). The Drug Runners (paranoid, twitchy). And the Murderers (quiet, still).
He saw the invisible threads connecting them. Who owed tobacco to whom. Who was protecting whom. Who was waiting for the right moment to stab whom. It was an economy. The currency wasn't money; it was fear.
Ismail sat down next to him, holding a plate of watery dal.
Shankar is back from the infirmary, Ismail whispered, looking terrified. He has stitches on his head. He's telling everyone he's going to kill you during lunch.
Arjun didn't look up from his study of the yard.
Let him come.
Arjun, listen to me. Shankar is stupid, but he has friends. Rakesh and the East Block boys are with him. You need to ask the Warden for protection.
Arjun finally turned to Ismail. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Protection is for victims, Ismail. If I ask the Warden for help, I admit I'm weak. Then everyone will attack me.
But three against one...
Numbers don't matter, Arjun interrupted, his voice cold. Will matters.
He stood up. The lunch bell rang.
The mess hall was a long, cavernous room filled with the clatter of metal plates. As Arjun walked in, the noise dipped. Eyes followed him.
He got his food and walked to the center table—Shankar's table.
Shankar was sitting there, a white bandage wrapped around his head. He was surrounded by four other boys, including Rakesh, the heavy lifter. When they saw Arjun approaching, they stopped eating.
Shankar stood up. His face was twisted with humiliation and rage.
You have a death wish, English? Shankar spat.
Arjun didn't stop. He walked right up to the table. He placed his plate down calmly, right in front of Shankar.
Sit down, Shankar, Arjun said. His voice was conversational, bored.
The entire hall went silent. The guards by the door watched, betting on how long the new kid would last.
Shankar laughed, looking at his crew. You hear this? He cracks my head with a cheap shot and thinks he's a don.
Shankar pulled a sharpened spoon—a shiv—from his waistband. The metal glinted under the tube lights.
I'm going to carve you up, kid.
Arjun didn't back away. He didn't raise his hands in defense. He took a step closer, pressing his chest almost against the shiv.
Do it.
Shankar froze. He expected the kid to run. He expected fear. He didn't expect the kid to offer his throat.
Stick it in, Arjun whispered, locking eyes with him. But make sure you kill me. Because if I survive, I won't use a jug next time. I'll wait until you're asleep, and I'll use a rock. I'll take your eyes out, Shankar. Both of them.
Arjun's voice was devoid of emotion. He wasn't bluffing. He was stating a fact, like he was reading a weather report.
You have three years left in here, Arjun continued, leaning in. Do you want to spend every single night wondering if I'm standing over your bed? Do you want to sleep with one eye open for a thousand nights?
Shankar's hand trembled. The adrenaline of the fight was fading, replaced by a cold dread. He looked at Arjun's eyes and saw the abyss. This kid didn't care if he lived or died. And you can't fight a man who doesn't care about dying.
Shankar looked at the shiv, then at his friends. They looked uncertain. They were bullies, not killers.
Drop it, Arjun commanded.
Shankar hesitated. His reputation was crumbling. But the fear of the "Psycho" was stronger.
Slowly, Shankar lowered the shiv.
Arjun didn't smile in triumph. He simply sat down on the bench, right next to Shankar. He broke a piece of roti and dipped it in the dal.
Eat, Arjun said without looking at him. You need strength to heal that head.
Shankar sat down slowly, defeated. The other boys at the table looked at Arjun with a mixture of terror and awe. He hadn't thrown a punch. He had dismantled the alpha with pure psychological pressure.
Ismail, who had been watching from the door with his mouth open, hurried over and sat opposite Arjun.
You're crazy, Ismail whispered, his hands shaking as he held his plate. He had a weapon.
Arjun chewed his food slowly.
He had a weapon, but he had doubt. I had neither.
Arjun looked around the mess hall. He saw the way the other boys were looking at him now. Not as a target. As a leader.
Books lied to me, Ismail, Arjun said softly. School books said if you are good, good happens to you. They said the law protects the innocent.
He looked at his hands. Rough. Calloused.
That's a fairytale for sheep. The world is just a market. People are variables. Fear. Greed. Ego. If you know the variable, you control the person. Shankar runs on Ego. I attacked his Fear. Now I own him.
Ismail shivered slightly. You talk like an old man.
No, Arjun wiped his mouth. I talk like a businessman.
He looked at the high barred windows. Somewhere out there, Virendar Rao was giving a speech, thinking he had won. Somewhere out there, people were forgetting the name Vikram.
Arjun smiled. It was a cold, sharp smile.
Let them forget. Let them think it's over.
He had eight years. Eight years to turn this prison into his training ground. Eight years to learn every variable of the human animal.
When he walked out of these gates, he wouldn't be a boy seeking justice. He would be a disaster looking for a place to happen.
Eat your food, Ismail, Arjun said, taking another bite. We have a lot to learn.