Chapter 8: The Law of the Jungle
Six months had passed since the gates of the Juvenile Observation Home closed behind Arjun.
In the outside world, six months was a semester of school, a season of cricket, a summer holiday. Inside, time didn't move in straight lines. It moved in circles. The same wake-up whistle. The same watery dal. The same violent boredom.
But Arjun didn't find it boring. He found it educational.
While the other boys spent their free time sharpening spoons or gambling with cigarettes, Arjun was in the one place no one else visited: the library.
It was a small, dusty room with peeling blue paint and a single flickering tubelight. The books were old, donated by charities that wanted to feel good about themselves. Most were torn comics or religious texts.
But in the corner, covered in a layer of grime, was a shelf of legal text. The Indian Penal Code. The Code of Criminal Procedure. The Constitution of India.
Arjun sat at the wobbly wooden table, turning the yellowed pages of the IPC.
"You planning to become a lawyer, 1179?"
The voice was rough. It belonged to Warden Patil, a man who believed rehabilitation was a waste of taxpayer money. He stood in the doorway, swinging his baton.
Arjun didn't look up from Section 302.
"No, Sir. Lawyers argue the law. I want to own it."
Patil scoffed, walking into the room. "You're a convict. You don't own anything. You're here because you broke the law."
Arjun finally looked up. His face had lost the last traces of baby fat. His jawline was sharper, his gaze steady and unblinking.
"I'm here because I didn't know the law, Sir. If I knew it, I wouldn't have used a knife in public. I would have done it differently. A mistake is only a mistake if you don't learn from it."
Patil frowned. He hated talking to this kid. It felt like talking to a snake that was waiting for you to blink.
"Don't get too smart. Books don't stop a beating."
"True," Arjun agreed, closing the heavy book. "But books tell me that under the Juvenile Justice Act, Section 23, any cruelty by a staff member against a juvenile is punishable by six months imprisonment. And since you sold the milk meant for the boys to the tea stall outside yesterday, that counts as cruelty through deprivation."
The room went deadly silent. The fan overhead clicked rhythmically.
Patil griped his baton tighter. His face flushed red. "You accusing me?"
"I'm not accusing," Arjun said calmly, leaning back in his chair. "I'm just stating a variable. If the Superintendent finds out about the milk, you lose your pension. If you let me read in peace, the milk stays our secret."
Patil stared at him. He wanted to hit the kid. He really wanted to. But he saw the look in Arjun's eyes. It wasn't defiance. It was a transaction. Business.
Patil gritted his teeth, turned around, and walked out.
"Freak," Patil muttered as he left.
Arjun opened the book again. He didn't care about the insult. He had just negotiated a deal. Power wasn't about muscles; it was about leverage.
"You have a big mouth."
Arjun didn't turn around. He knew who was standing behind him in the shadow of the bookshelf.
It was the new transfer from Block C. Shiva.
Arjun had watched him in the yard. Shiva was fifteen, built like a tank, with dark skin and eyes that looked like they had seen too much blood. He didn't speak to anyone. Yesterday, three boys from the East Block tried to jump him. Shiva didn't even drop his plate. He broke one boy's nose and threw the other into the drainage ditch without saying a word.
Arjun turned his chair around.
"And you have heavy hands," Arjun replied. "I saw the fight yesterday. Efficient."
Shiva walked into the light. He was wearing the same drab uniform, but on him, it looked like it was struggling to contain his shoulders.
"Why do you read this garbage?" Shiva asked, pointing to the law book. "Paper doesn't help when they come for you at night."
"Paper runs the world, Shiva," Arjun said. "The MLA who killed my parents didn't use a gun. He used a signature. He used the system. If you fight with your fists, you can beat ten men. If you fight with the system, you can crush a million."
Shiva stared at him. He was used to gang leaders who talked about territory and respect. He had never heard anyone talk about systems.
"My step-father," Shiva said, his voice low and gravelly. "He beat my mother every night. The police did nothing because he paid them. The system didn't help."
"Because you were playing by their rules," Arjun said. "What did you do?"
"I waited until he passed out," Shiva said flatly. "And I set the bed on fire."
Arjun didn't flinch. He didn't show disgust. He nodded, impressed.
"Fire cleans everything," Arjun said. "But now you're here. You traded one prison for another."
"It was worth it."
"Maybe," Arjun stood up. He was shorter than Shiva, but his presence filled the room. "But I don't plan on rotting here. And I don't plan on being a small-time thug when I get out. I'm going to take the city that sent me here, and I'm going to make it beg."
Shiva looked at Arjun. For the first time, he saw something other than weakness in another person. He saw ambition that was darker than his own anger.
"You need muscle," Shiva stated. It wasn't a question.
"I need loyalty," Arjun corrected. "Muscle I can buy. Brains I can hire. Loyalty... that's rare."
"Why should I follow you?" Shiva crossed his arms. "You're just a rich kid who got lucky with a knife."
Arjun smiled. It was the smile of the businessman.
"Because everyone else in here wants to be a Don. They want fear. I don't want to be a Don, Shiva. I want to be the System. Follow me, and you won't just burn beds. You'll burn cities."
Shiva looked at Arjun for a long minute. He saw the cold calculation. He saw the fire that wasn't wild like his, but controlled, like a laser.
Shiva extended his hand. It was rough, scarred.
"I don't talk much," Shiva said.
"Good," Arjun shook his hand. The grip was iron. "Words are cheap. We have work to do."
With Shiva at his side, the dynamic of the Juvenile Home changed overnight.
Arjun provided the brain; Shiva provided the brute force.
When the older boys from the Kitchen Gang tried to cut the rations for Barrack 4, Arjun didn't complain. He sent Shiva.
Five minutes later, the Kitchen Gang leader walked out with a limp, delivering extra chapatis to Arjun's mat.
But Arjun didn't stop there. He started a market.
He realized that the guards were lazy and underpaid. He used his knowledge of the accounts—which he stole from the Warden's office during cleaning duty—to help a senior guard hide his gambling debts.
In exchange, the guard brought in things. Not drugs—Arjun forbade drugs in his block. He brought in newspapers. Economic Times. Business Standard.
The other boys laughed. "Why do you pay for paper?"
Arjun ignored them. He read the stock markets. He read about the rise of the IT sector in Hyderabad. He read about real estate booms.
"What are you looking for?" Shiva asked one night, watching Arjun circle names in the newspaper.
"Targets," Arjun whispered. "When we get out, we need capital. I'm tracking where the money is flowing. See this company? Satya Constructions. They are buying land near the new airport proposal."
"So?"
"So, the land belongs to farmers. They are buying it cheap by scaring them. When we get out, we aren't going to scare the farmers. We are going to scare Satya Constructions."
Shiva grinned in the darkness. "I like that."
Arjun lay back on his mat, hands behind his head.
He was fourteen. He was a convict. But in his mind, he was already building an empire.
He learned the most important lesson of the prison that year:
In the jungle, the lion isn't the king because he is the biggest. He is the king because he believes he is.
Arjun closed his eyes.
"Four years here," he whispered to the darkness. "Then the real game starts."
The foundation was laid. The brain and the brawn had met. Surya Bhai had found his shadow.