Chapter 2: Blood on the Rooftop

By then, I was already waiting downstairs at the company.

Outside the office building, the air was thick with exhaust fumes and chaiwallahs calling out for customers. The security guard at the gate nodded at me, not suspecting a thing. Mumbai never stops—rickshaws weaving through traffic, people hurrying to catch the Metro, the hum of ambition everywhere.

The street was bustling. Soon, a man stepped out of an auto-rickshaw.

He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, glancing nervously at his watch. His shoes were scuffed, his shirt slightly wrinkled, but his eyes were sharp, flickering with a resolve I recognised.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his face was deathly pale. When he saw me, he greeted me: 'Bhaiya Rohan.'

There was awkward warmth in his voice—the kind men share when they’ve suffered together. I nodded, giving him a quick half-hug. Just a slap on the back, nothing more.

His name was Ishaan—my fellow patient and my partner in revenge.

We had met in the cancer ward, two strangers thrown together by fate and hospital food. But in that sterile, whitewashed world, our shared silences meant more than any friendship I’d ever known. Today, that bond was our only weapon.

We entered the glass office tower together and soon reached the rooftop.

Inside, the air-conditioning hummed, and the receptionist barely looked up as we passed. The elevator ride was silent, broken only by the occasional ping of each floor. As the doors opened onto the rooftop, the wind whipped my hair, the city sprawling beneath us—a living, breathing beast.

About ten minutes later, the rooftop door swung open. A man in a suit with a greasy, centre-parted hairstyle walked in.

He strode in as if he owned the place, a faint whiff of cheap cologne trailing behind. His eyes scanned the empty rooftop, already calculating, already on the hunt.

I recognised him at once: Amit Sinha. This narcissistic, slimy man was always posting selfies on his Instagram stories.

His Insta was full of motivational quotes and gym selfies, but everyone in the office knew he couldn’t do a single proper push-up. Today, the mask was slipping. His confidence was just a coat of paint over something rotten.

He looked around, disappointment flashing across his face, then cursed under his breath: 'That witch, you dare mess with me.'

The word ‘witch’ stung—an old insult men like him used when a woman dared to say no. He turned, probably thinking of whom to threaten next, his shoes scraping against the cement. For a moment, he looked almost small.

Just as he turned to leave, Ishaan sprang from behind and slapped a strip of heavy-duty tape straight across his mouth.

The tape made a sharp sound—like tearing a sticker off a new book. Amit’s eyes bulged, hands flew up in shock. Ishaan’s movements were smooth, practiced, the kind you learn when you’ve spent too long thinking about revenge.

Amit Sinha froze, hands clawing desperately at his face. I rushed forward, working with Ishaan to tie his hands behind his back and drag him to the edge of the rooftop.

The rooftop gravel crunched under our feet as we hauled him. Amit tried to twist free, but the knot was tight—tied the way my uncle used to tie sacks of onions at his kirana store, impossible to undo without a knife.

Amit kicked and thrashed wildly, twisting his body with ferocious strength.

He let out muffled cries, the kind you hear from stray dogs caught in a street fight. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his glasses askew. But neither Ishaan nor I flinched. We’d seen real pain; this was nothing.

Growing impatient, I stomped hard on his left calf. He went rigid with pain, veins bulging in his neck.

There was a sickening crunch, and Amit’s breath came in gasps. The kind of pain that leaves you gasping, unable to even form a proper curse. For a second, I almost pitied him. Almost.

We lashed him to an iron pole, taping his forehead and neck to hold his head firmly in place.

The pole was cold against his cheek, the tape rough and unyielding. Ishaan’s hands were steady, his jaw set. Amit whimpered, his bravado melting away in the chilly morning breeze.

Ishaan pulled a device from his bag, quickly assembled it, and a sharp needle extended from a black base, pressing right up under Amit’s chin.

I had seen this device only in Ishaan’s sketches—a crude, jugaad version of a torture tool, assembled from spare parts and held together with hope and rage. The needle gleamed in the morning sun, threatening and silent.

A microphone jutted from the base, and Ishaan stuck it to Amit’s cheek.

The mic made a soft click as it stuck, its red light blinking like a warning. I could see Amit’s eyes flickering between the needle and our faces, panic setting in.

'Listen, this mic is voice-activated. The louder you scream, the higher the needle rises.'

Ishaan’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. There was something terrifying in the calmness of it—like the silence before a thunderstorm.

'If you don’t want your chin pierced through, you’d better keep quiet.'

He paused, letting the words sink in. Even the crows circling above seemed to hush for a moment.

Ishaan’s tone was cold and unyielding.

You could tell he was no stranger to suffering. His eyes were sunken, his skin stretched thin over bone. But his will—unbreakable.

Amit’s eyes bulged, defiant, glaring at us.

He tried to muster a last bit of courage, maybe thinking he could stare us down. But he only looked like a cornered rat, trapped and desperate.

I didn’t indulge him. I clapped my hands right next to the mic. The needle responded instantly, rising slowly—then suddenly piercing into Amit’s chin.

The sound of my clap echoed against the water tanks. The needle made a soft, chilling hiss as it moved. I watched, unblinking, as it broke the skin. Amit’s body jerked, but he couldn’t scream—not if he wanted to keep his face intact.

A few drops of blood slid down the needle.

The blood was bright against his fair skin. It dripped, slow and thick, leaving a trail down to his collar. The wind carried the smell of rust and fear.

He struggled to lift his head, but it was useless. The pain made his nose twitch uncontrollably.

His lips trembled, eyes watering, but still he refused to look away. Somewhere, deep inside, he still believed he could buy his way out.

When I stopped clapping, the needle slowly descended. Seizing the moment, I searched Amit’s phone.

The phone vibrated in my hand, the PayTM app lighting up with its signature chime. A notification from Amit himself: '1 lakh PayTM transfer ready.' The audacity made my skin crawl—how transactional everything had become, even at a time like this. Ishaan kept a firm grip on Amit’s shoulders, making sure he didn’t try anything stupid.

Ishaan ripped the tape from Amit’s mouth.

Amit’s scream came out as a hoarse croak, barely audible. He spat out a string of curses, then quickly changed his tone when he saw we weren’t joking.

Amit trembled, not daring to raise his voice. In a hoarse whisper, he asked, 'Bhai, who the hell are you?'

His voice cracked, the arrogance gone. The wind carried away his words before they could reach the city below.

I ignored him, letting the silence grow thick and suffocating.

The city’s noise faded into the background. All that remained was Amit’s ragged breathing, the distant temple bells, a train horn wailing across the tracks, and the heavy silence between us. Sometimes, silence is the loudest sound.

On his phone, I found the video from that night.

There it was—a grainy video, timestamped and unfiltered. My wife’s voice, barely audible above the drunken jeers. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the play button, but I had to see. I owed her that much.

My wife’s hands were tied behind her back. She cowered on the sofa, her face etched with helplessness.

She wore the same navy blue kurta she’d chosen with such care that morning, her bindi slightly askew. The fear in her eyes was something I would never forget. No one should ever have to look that way.

They kept pouring beer over her, jeering and shouting like animals.

Their laughter was harsh, the words slurred and cruel. She flinched with every splash, her hair clinging to her cheeks, but not once did she cry out. The strength it must have taken to stay silent…

'Haha, let’s play something even more exciting later! Record it all! If she doesn’t cooperate next time, we’ll upload it to those sleazy sites for everyone to see!'

The words echoed in my head, mixing with the dull ache behind my eyes. I wanted to throw the phone off the roof, to erase every trace of their filth, but I needed proof. For her.

My temples throbbed. I clenched my teeth so hard they nearly cracked, then silently pocketed the phone.

For a moment, I thought I might black out. The world shrank to the memory of her voice, her eyes pleading for help. I forced myself to stay standing.

Seeing my face turn ashen, Amit grew even more frantic. His lips quivered as he begged, 'Bhai, who are you? What do you want?'

He sounded almost childlike, his fear naked and real. It was the first honest emotion I’d seen on his face.

I spat out coldly, 'You might as well know before you die. I’m Neha’s husband.'

The name hung in the air, heavy with the weight of everything they had done. Amit’s jaw dropped, his bravado vanishing like mist.

Amit’s face went white as a sheet. He stammered, pleading, 'B-bhai, it was all a misunderstanding, I swear!'

He tried to shuffle backwards, but the rope held firm. His voice cracked, his palms open in a silent plea.

He lowered his voice, grovelling like a beaten dog. Seeing I didn’t respond, he tried again: 'Bhai, I know I was wrong. I’ll send you a 1 lakh PayTM transfer as compensation for your wife.'

As if a bit of money would wash away his sins. The way he said it—so matter-of-fact, as if this was just another office deal gone wrong. In India, people like him thought money was a shield. I let out a dry laugh.

Ha! Compensation? How ridiculous. Is there anything in this world that can’t be solved with money?

His offer was an insult, not just to her, but to every woman who’d been told to move on. For a moment, I wanted to scream at him, but my anger was too cold for words.

I sneered, clapping my hands near the mic. The sharp needle shot up, stabbing deep into Amit’s chin again.

This time, the blood spattered across his collar. He bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out. The wind picked up, whipping his hair into his eyes.

He howled in pain, but the louder he screamed, the deeper the needle drove. He showed astonishing endurance, gritting his teeth, sweat pouring from his forehead.

The sweat dripped down his jaw, mixing with the blood. The city below was oblivious, the world moving on while we stood suspended in our own hell.

I slowed my clapping, making the needle rise and fall, in and out, over and over.

Each time the needle moved, Amit’s body jerked. Ishaan stood guard, face set in stone, not a hint of mercy in his eyes.

After tormenting him enough, Ishaan dismantled the device, untied him, and slapped the tape back over his mouth.

Amit slumped forward, exhausted. The tape muffled his sobs, his shoulders shaking with each breath. Ishaan worked quickly, efficient and silent.

I fixed a long blade to the edge of the rooftop, then forced Amit to stand right at the brink.

The blade glinted in the sunlight, its edge sharp enough to cut through rope—and perhaps through the last of Amit’s hope. I grabbed him by the collar, pushing him forward until his toes curled over the concrete edge.

The howling wind battered him, and soon the fellow pissed himself, sobbing and begging for mercy.

The smell was sharp and bitter, but neither of us flinched. Down below, tiny figures moved in and out of buildings, unaware of what was unfolding above their heads.

Ishaan glanced at me, his pale face set with grim resolve.

His eyes met mine—a silent question. Was this enough? Did I want to stop? I shook my head. We both knew there was no turning back.

I picked up a medium-sized stone, aimed, and smashed it into Amit’s head.

The sound was sickening—a dull thud followed by a gasp. Blood trickled from his temple, mixing with the sweat and tears.

He lost his balance, tumbling off the rooftop. The rope tied around him went taut in an instant.

The rope groaned under his weight, swaying in the wind. He dangled there, suspended between sky and earth, a grotesque reminder of everything he had done.

Just like that, he dangled in midair, swinging back and forth as the thick rope scraped against the blade.

With each swing, the rope frayed a little more. I wondered if he had time to regret, to pray, to realise there are some things money can’t fix.

It wouldn’t be long before it snapped completely.

Soon, a commotion erupted inside the building.

The shouts echoed up the stairwell, footsteps pounding on the stairs. Someone must have seen something from another rooftop, or maybe heard the scream carried by the wind.

Ishaan and I slipped away quickly. The elevator descended slowly, the glass walls reflecting the silhouette of the neighbouring office tower.

We kept our heads down, blending into the crowd of office workers. In Mumbai, two men in plain shirts and tired faces attract no attention.

Before long, a black object plummeted past the window, followed by screams from the crowd below.

The sound of bodies hitting pavement is not something you forget. But we didn’t look back. We kept moving, past the paan stalls and fruit vendors, into the anonymity of the city.

We walked away without a backward glance.

For a moment, I thought of my wife—how she had always wanted to visit Marine Drive one more time. The city was full of unfinished stories.

In the lift, I wiped blood off my hands with an old handkerchief. As I stuffed it into my pocket, I noticed the faded initials—stitched there years ago by my wife. The sight made my throat close up, grief and vengeance tangled in my chest.