Chapter 3: The Outcasts’ Pact

'Now that’s revenge. Feels damn good.'

Ishaan slumped onto the stained mattress in our rented room, the walls marked with old leaks. He took a long swig of Kingfisher, the bottle cold and sweating in his hand. The single bulb overhead flickered, buzzing in the silence.

I stroked my wife’s photo, sat in silence for a while, then replied, 'Next up, something even more thrilling.'

Her picture smiled back at me, a garland of marigold flowers strung around the frame. The sound of distant traffic mixed with the hiss of the pressure cooker from the flat next door.

Ishaan used to be an engineer—a quiet man, not much for words, diligent at work, and kind-hearted.

The kind of fellow who always brought home mithai for colleagues on Diwali, who never said no when someone needed a lift. You’d never imagine him here, plotting revenge in a musty room.

Misfortune struck him half a year ago.

That’s how it is in India—trouble doesn’t knock, it barges in with muddy shoes. One day, you’re planning a future; the next, you’re counting coins at the chemist.

His mother was diagnosed with late-stage cancer and died within days, leaving him an orphan.

He didn’t even have time to light the funeral pyre properly before the hospital started hounding him for unpaid bills. The flat was emptied out, one photo frame at a time.

To make matters worse, Ishaan himself was diagnosed with stomach cancer. He was hospitalised and became my roommate.

We met over shared misery and hospital khichdi, our lives reduced to the rhythm of IV drips, blood tests, and the occasional game of cards. One day, as a nurse gossiped about CID reruns, Ishaan cracked a joke—'If ACP Pradyuman came here, he’d solve all our billing problems in five minutes!' I nearly choked on my hospital chai. For a moment, we laughed together, two strangers finding comfort in the ridiculous.

Treatment drained all his savings. When he hit rock bottom, he decided to leave something behind for the world.

He started writing long posts on Facebook, the kind that made people pause mid-scroll. Some laughed, some cried, some just clicked 'like' and moved on. But the story was out there.

He began documenting his life, obsessively analysing how he’d gotten stomach cancer: chronic stress, irregular meals, years of ordering food from Swiggy, late nights, and so on.

His posts were full of desi details—ranting about hospital chai, complaining about the taste of boiled karela, joking about missing his mother’s homemade dal. The comments section became a community, people offering prayers, remedies, and occasionally, money.

He posted a comparison online between his once-strong physique and his rapid weight loss after falling ill—the contrast was shocking.

There was something raw and honest about those photos—his face growing thinner, his eyes sunken, but always a half-smile for the camera. He didn’t hide the pain, or the fear.

Unexpectedly, his good looks and tragic situation quickly attracted a crowd of followers.

Aunties sent him get-well-soon videos, strangers forwarded his posts on WhatsApp groups like 'Cancer Fighters Mumbai' and 'Desi Warriors.' A small celebrity was born, almost overnight.

Sympathy poured in, and he gradually went viral, drawing attention from all corners.

The local newspaper ran a piece—'Young Engineer’s Fight Against Cancer Inspires City'—complete with a photo of Ishaan waving from his hospital bed. For a brief moment, he was a symbol of hope.

He started livestreaming, sharing his daily fight against cancer. The gifts from his fans began to cover his treatment costs.

People sent him flowers, hand-knitted scarves, even home-cooked food. Some fans from Hyderabad sent biryani. One uncle from Kolkata offered to sponsor his chemotherapy. The power of digital India in action.

That’s when his ex-girlfriend jumped in.

Of course, every Indian story has a twist. Enter the ex—sharp-tongued, never one to miss a chance.

She accused him online, claiming she’d had an abortion for Ishaan and that he’d abandoned her, refusing to take responsibility.

Screenshots of WhatsApp chats, emotional voice notes, the whole circus played out for strangers. People love drama—especially when it’s someone else’s tragedy.

Public opinion flipped overnight. Trolls swarmed in, cursing Ishaan as a scoundrel who deserved his illness as karma.

His inbox flooded with abuse, strangers digging up his college photos, people inventing new insults by the hour. The hospital staff started whispering behind his back. Even his old friends stopped replying to his calls.

His livestream was shut down, his income cut off. The trolls even harassed the hospital.

They called up the hospital reception, demanding he be thrown out. 'Why should we pay for a criminal?' they said. The doctor, worried about the hospital’s reputation, told him to leave.

In the end, I watched as hospital security dragged Ishaan out of the ward.

He didn’t resist, just gathered his meagre belongings—a toothbrush, a half-read paperback, a photo of his mother—and shuffled out, head down.

One rainy night, Ishaan lay by a dumpster, battered and nearly dead.

It was the kind of rain that makes Mumbai roads look like rivers. I found him curled up, shivering, his shirt soaked, his eyes shut tight. I lifted him onto my back and carried him home, ignoring the stares from the night watchman.

I carried him home and nursed him back, wanting him to keep some dignity.

I borrowed a neighbour’s electric kettle, made him Maggi noodles, tucked a faded blanket around his shoulders. Small acts of kindness, the kind that keep a man alive when the world has given up on him.

It was then that I learnt the real story.

He told me the truth, voice barely above a whisper. The words came slowly, as if each one cost him a year of his life.

That ex-girlfriend who accused him? She broke up with Ishaan as soon as she found out he was sick.

She didn’t come to the hospital, didn’t send a single message, just vanished when the world turned dark. That’s how you know who really cares for you—when your name stops trending.

As for the abortion, she’d gotten pregnant during their relationship, but went to the hospital and took care of it herself, never telling Ishaan.

He found out only later, through the grapevine. She never mentioned it, never asked for support. But once his story started spreading, she saw an opportunity.

After Ishaan became popular, she tried to extort money from him. When he refused, she set out to ruin him.

A few threats, a few lies, and the world believed her. That’s how it works here—one accusation, and your reputation is as good as burnt toast.

All of this was orchestrated by the company’s general manager, Kunal Verma.

Kunal—always the puppet master, always two steps ahead. He saw Ishaan as a threat, a distraction from his own dirty secrets. So he pulled the strings, set up the ex, and watched the chaos unfold from his air-conditioned office.

That’s why Ishaan was both my fellow patient and my partner in revenge.

We were two men with nothing left to lose—sick, grieving, and angry. The world had turned its back on us, but we had each other, and we had a plan.

We shared a common enemy: Kunal Verma, a puppet master of internet celebrities who thought he could control everything, playing with the fates of countless young women.

Kunal had his fingers in every pie—handling Instagram influencers, fixing online polls, even bribing journalists to write puff pieces. But his real crime was thinking he could buy silence.

Next, we would make Kunal pay in blood.

This time, there would be no mercy—no hush money, no PR spin. Just the truth, raw and ugly, out in the open for everyone to see.