Chapter 17: The Gates of Hell
The jeep stopped, the engine sputtering and dying into silence.
Arjun stepped out onto the hot asphalt. He looked up, and for the first time in four years, the scale of his world shifted violently.
The Rajahmundry Central Prison was not merely a building; it was a fortress. Built by the British in the 19th century, it was a sprawling monster of black stone and red brick, surrounded by walls that rose thirty feet into the sky. Watchtowers stood at the corners like silent sentinels, the silhouettes of armed guards visible against the harsh glare of the sun. The air here smelled different than the Juvenile Home. It didn't smell of dust and sweat; it smelled of the river Godavari—damp and heavy—mixed with the metallic tang of old iron and the sour stench of despair.
"Move," the escort officer grunted, uncuffing him.
Arjun rubbed his wrists, red from the metal. He stood before the massive main gate—a small, human-sized door cut into a larger iron slab meant for trucks. Above it, the emblem of the State Prison Department looked down judgmentally.
Arjun didn't look down. He adjusted his collar, took a deep breath of the humid air, and walked through the small door.
Click. Clang.
The door locked behind him. He was inside the belly of the beast.
The intake room was a cavernous hall with high ceilings and barred windows that let in shafts of dusty light. It was quiet, disturbingly so. A Jailor sat behind a high wooden desk. He was a man in his fifties, with a thick mustache and eyes that had seen every kind of sin a human could commit. He didn't look at Arjun; he kept his eyes fixed on the transfer file.
"Name?" the Jailor asked, his voice echoing in the hall.
"Arjun."
"Father's name?"
"Deceased."
"Crime?"
"Attempt to Murder. Section 307."
The Jailor finally looked up. He scanned Arjun—the branded jeans, the clean shirt, the calm face, the sharp eyes. He didn't look like a Section 307 case. He looked like a university student who had lost his way after a late-night party.
"You look soft, boy," the Jailor said, closing the file with a thud. "Central is not a place for soft things. Soft things get eaten here."
Arjun offered a faint, polite smile. "Digestion takes time, Sir. I might give the stomach an ache."
The Jailor narrowed his eyes. He wasn't used to wit. He was used to begging or terrified silence. "Strip," he ordered coldly.
Arjun didn't hesitate. He had done this before. He removed his civilian clothes—the last remnants of his freedom—and placed them in a bag. He stood naked, his body lean and scarred from years of juvenile yard fights. The Jailor noticed the scars and paused. Not so soft, he thought.
They threw him a bundle. White shirt. White trousers. The uniform of a convict. It was coarse, rough cotton that scratched the skin.
"Number," the Jailor announced, stamping a card. "Qaidi 509."
Arjun put on the whites. He looked at the number tag. 509. He pinned it to his chest.
"Welcome to hell, 509," the Jailor muttered. "Take him to the Quarantine Block."
Central Jail was a city within a city. As the guards marched him through the internal gates, Arjun analyzed the layout. It was organized chaos. Workshops on the left for carpentry and weaving; massive kitchens on the right bellowing steam. Ahead lay the Barracks—long, single-story buildings with iron bar fronts, looking like cages in a zoo.
The inmates here were different. In the Juvenile Home, boys postured to look tough. Here, the men were tough. He saw men with grey beards and dead eyes. He saw men with muscles built over twenty years of lifting stones. He saw gang tattoos, religious marks, and scars that looked like maps of violence.
They watched him pass, their voices drifting through the bars.
"Fresh meat," someone whistled.
"Pretty boy," another laughed darkly.
"White chicken for the pot."
Arjun walked with his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He didn't speed up. He didn't slow down. He walked with the lazy, arrogant stride of a man inspecting a property he intended to buy.
They reached the Quarantine Block, the holding pen where new prisoners stayed for a week before being assigned a permanent barrack. It was a shark tank where the new fish were tested.
The guard unlocked the cell door. "In."
Arjun stepped inside. The cell was large, housing about twenty men. It smelled of unwashed bodies and damp limestone. The door clanged shut, sealing him in.
The moment the guard left, the atmosphere in the cell shifted. The chatter stopped. Twenty pairs of eyes turned to Arjun.
Arjun ignored them. He found an empty spot near the wall, dusted the floor with his foot, and sat down, leaning his back against the cool stone. He closed his eyes, looking like he was about to take a nap.
"Oy," a voice grumbled.
Arjun didn't open his eyes.
"Oy! White Chicken!"
Arjun opened one eye. Standing over him was a man. He was short but wide, with a shaved head and teeth stained red from gutka. His name was Sultan. A petty thug, but in this cell, he was the king of the pile.
"You deaf?" Sultan asked, spitting a stream of red juice near Arjun's foot.
Arjun pulled his leg back slightly to avoid the stain. He looked at Sultan with a look of mild annoyance, like a man disturbed by a fly. "I'm not deaf," Arjun said calmly. "I'm just selective."
The cell went silent. The other prisoners leaned in. Fresh meat usually cried or begged. This one was talking back.
Sultan grinned, showing his red teeth. "Selective? You think this is a hotel? You think you have a menu?" He kicked Arjun's leg. Not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to hurt. "Stand up when a senior speaks to you."
Arjun sighed. He stood up slowly, dusting off his white trousers. He towered over Sultan by half a head. "I stood up," Arjun said softly. "Now what?"
"Now you pay the tax," Sultan said, rubbing his thumb and finger together. "New entry tax. What do you have? Money? Gold chain? Or maybe..." Sultan looked him up and down with a lewd sneer. "...maybe you pay with service."
The men in the back laughed.
Arjun's expression didn't change. He looked bored. He took a step closer to Sultan. "I don't have money," Arjun said. "And I don't do service."
Sultan's face hardened. He grabbed Arjun's collar, bunching the fabric tight. "Then you bleed."
Sultan raised his fist.
Arjun didn't block. He didn't punch. He did something stranger. He laughed.
It was a soft, chilling chuckle that echoed off the stone walls. It stopped Sultan's fist in mid-air.
"Why are you laughing?" Sultan growled, confused.
"I'm laughing because you're holding my collar," Arjun whispered, his eyes locking onto Sultan's with a terrifying, eagle-like intensity. "But your hand is shaking."
Sultan blinked. "What?"
"You're a short-timer," Arjun analyzed, his voice rapid and low, meant only for Sultan. "You're in here for assault or theft. Maybe two years? You want to go home. You don't want a new case."
Arjun leaned in, his face inches from Sultan's. "I am a 307. Attempted Murder. I have eight years. I have nothing to lose. If you hit me, I won't hit you back. I will wait until you fall asleep tonight. And I will take that spoon in your pocket, sharpen it on the floor, and push it into your eye."
Arjun smiled—the devilish smile. It reached his eyes, making them cold and dead. "Do you want to risk your eye for a tax, Sultan? Or do you want to let go of my collar?"
Sultan froze. He looked at Arjun's eyes and saw the madness there. Not the loud madness of a drunk, but the calculated, cold madness of a lifer. Sultan wasn't a killer. He was a bully. And bullies fear psychopaths.
Slowly, Sultan's grip loosened. He stepped back, trying to save face. "You... you're crazy," Sultan muttered, turning away. "Stay in your corner. Don't cause trouble."
Sultan walked away, pushing through the crowd to the other side of the cell.
Arjun watched him go. He adjusted his collar, smoothing out the wrinkles. He looked around the cell. The other nineteen men were staring at him. They weren't looking at him like fresh meat anymore. They were looking at him like a problem.
Arjun sat back down against the wall and closed his eyes again.
Lesson One complete, he thought. In the juvenile home, you fight to prove strength. In Central Jail, you feign madness to prove danger.
He listened to the sounds of the prison—the clanging gates, the distant shouting, the heavy thud of boots. He was alone. No Shiva. No Velu. Just him and a thousand wolves.
Arjun smiled in the darkness. Good, he thought. I was getting tired of sheep.