Chapter 4: The Cost of Rage

Bang—

A dull thud.

Even the pigeons outside startled. My fist throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my soul. The sound of flesh meeting bone was oddly satisfying—years of swallowed pain released in a single moment.

This punch carried all the hatred I’d bottled up over the years.

Every insult, every humiliation, every moment of self-doubt—I poured them into that punch. It was the scream I’d never dared to voice, the tears I’d swallowed in darkness.

Priya’s face turned pale. She curled up on the ground, eyes wide with terror.

Her mascara streaked down her cheeks, lips trembling. The proud, untouchable Priya was gone. In her place was a girl who finally understood fear.

I was trembling with rage, questioning her again and again: "Why did you choose me? Why?"

My voice cracked, raw and desperate. "Why me, Priya? What did I ever do to you? Why did you ruin my life?" My fists clenched and unclenched, knuckles white. For a moment, I remembered my father’s silent suffering, Uncle Ramesh’s words—“Is revenge enough?” Doubt flickered, but anger surged back, drowning it.

Her boyfriend’s name was Amit Malhotra.

Amit—son of the great builder Malhotra, who funded half the college’s new wing. Everyone in the city knew the name, even the chaiwala at the gate.

The Malhotra family had donated lakhs to the college.

Their photo hung in the principal’s office, right above the trophy cabinet. No one dared cross them, not even the teachers.

So the college simply turned a blind eye to the two of them bullying other students.

If anyone complained, it was quietly buried. "Beta, don’t mess with such people," parents would whisper. "Hamare bas ka nahi hai."

But I could never understand—with people like Priya and Amit, if they wanted to beat someone up, they could just do it directly. Why bother setting such a complicated trap for me?

I kept asking myself this, over and over. Was my suffering just entertainment for them? Or a rich kid’s game with real stakes?

Priya was terrified by my expression, shaking her head, stammering, unable to speak.

She tried, but only broken syllables and gasps came out. The confidence was gone, replaced by animal fear.

After all, she was just a final-year student.

Stripped of bravado, she looked young, fragile, even pitiable. But my sympathy had died long ago.

This punch had shattered all her pride.

Her posture crumpled, eyes darting for help that wouldn’t come. The roles had reversed, and she knew it.

I was certain Priya knew something, but she just refused to tell the truth.

Her lips quivered, but she clamped them shut. Secrets hidden by fear.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became—rage burning inside me, ready to explode—

A hot, suffocating fury, the kind that makes you want to tear the world apart. My hands shook, vision blurred. For a second, I saw myself as a child again—bullied in the playground, pushed and mocked. That old pain, that helplessness, fused with my rage now. Was I really healing, or just repeating old violence?

Just then, urgent banging sounded at the door.

The door rattled on its hinges, jarring the tense silence. I heard heavy, angry breaths outside.

"Oye Rohit! Bahar nikal, saale!"

It was Amit’s voice, full of bluster and arrogance. He thundered across the room, gold chain bouncing on his chest, shouting like a filmi villain.

Hearing the noise, Priya immediately regained her confidence: "Rohit, you dare hit me? I’ll kill you!"

Her voice was shrill, desperate to regain control. She spat venom, reaching for anything sharp—her pride, her anger, her entitlement.

She snatched a pencil from the floor and tried to stab it straight at my eye.

Her movements were wild, desperate. The pencil flashed in the sunlight, a sudden weapon in a cornered hand.

But I was in a heightened state—my senses and reflexes sharper than ever. I grabbed her wrist and twisted the pencil away.

My grip was iron, her wrist fragile in my hand. The pencil clattered beneath a desk. For a moment, I hesitated—her terror flashing in her eyes. Doubt flickered, but the memory of being bullied as a child—helpless, mocked—fueled my anger. My fists tightened again, rage surging back.

"You still dare to fight back?"

My voice was hoarse, nearly unrecognizable. There was no fear left—only a bitter, relentless rage.

I was already beyond furious.

My breath came in ragged bursts, my body trembling with adrenaline. It was as if a dam had broken, and everything I’d ever suppressed flooded out.

The next second—

"Straight punch!"

Uncle Ramesh’s voice echoed in my memory—“Keep your stance, beta, hit straight, no drama!” I followed his teaching—shoulders square, hips twisting, all my power in one clean blow.

My fists rained down on Priya’s face like a machine gun.

The sounds filled the room—the clatter of wooden desks, the metallic clang of a tiffin box hitting the floor, the distant voice of a peon yelling from downstairs. Years of humiliation fuelled every blow.

"Ah—!"

Priya’s shrill screams echoed, mingling with the chaos.

I wanted to keep hitting her until she stopped screaming.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Her screams drowned out the teachers’ scoldings, the neighbours’ taunts, the painful silence at home.

But the more I hit, the more she screamed.

Her voice rose, shrill and piercing, almost inhuman. The sound grated on my nerves, pushing me further over the edge.

The more she screamed, the more irritated I became, and the harder I hit.

It became a vicious circle, feeding itself. But somewhere, I hesitated—her terror flashed in her eyes, and for a moment I faltered. Then the old rage returned, and I couldn’t stop.

After a short while, Priya was beaten beyond recognition.

Her face was swollen, blood trickling from her nose, her eyes glassy. She whimpered, trying to shield herself, but there was no escape.

Bang—

Amit kicked open the door and burst in.

The door crashed against the wall, old hinges groaning. Amit stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, gold chain swinging. The scent of cheap aftershave followed him like a cloud.

I grabbed Priya by the hair, slowly turned my head, and flashed a chilling smile: "You finally came."

I lifted Priya by her tangled hair, facing Amit with a cold, triumphant grin. My voice was low, almost a growl. "Arrey Amit, kitni der laga di, bhai? Welcome to the party."

Outside, a group of students had gathered, some recording on their phones, others whispering in shock—just like any college corridor after a scandal. Their presence only sharpened the tension, the weight of every eye and every future rumour.

I had thought about secretly recording everything, then throwing the evidence in the discipline in-charge’s face to prove my innocence.

In my mind, I saw myself holding up a phone, the whole ugly truth caught on camera. Marching into the principal’s office, tossing the evidence down like a trump card. The fantasy felt hollow.

But when I thought about it, in the face of money, the truth didn’t matter much.

The Malhotras would make the videos vanish. The principal would look away, mumbling about discipline and reputation. I’d still be the villain.

Even if I presented evidence of Priya and Amit bullying classmates to the college authorities, the two of them might never receive the punishment they deserved.

In India, truth and justice often depend on the size of your wallet. I knew that now. The world wasn’t fair. It never was.

After all, with their family backgrounds, it didn’t matter whether they studied or not—their families had already arranged for them to go abroad for a shiny CV.

The rich always had a backup plan. If not here, then London or New York. Their Instagram stories were full of airport selfies and new lives, far from the consequences of their actions.

With the Malhotra family’s influence, if I missed this opportunity, I might never get revenge.

This was my one shot—no second chances. Either I made them pay today, or I would regret it for another lifetime.

There was only one chance.

A truth as old as the Mahabharata—sometimes, dharma means fighting back, no matter the cost.

Thinking of this, I felt a surge of energy, as if I’d been reignited.

My chest expanded, blood roaring in my ears. For once, I felt alive, powerful. I would not be their victim anymore.

"Help me—"

Priya struggled to get the words out, voice hoarse, broken by sobs. The mighty queen bee of the college, now begging for mercy.

Amit gritted his teeth and charged at me like a mad bull.

He thundered across the room, gold chain bouncing on his chest, shouting like a filmi villain. His shoes squeaked, echoing off the tiles.

But his physical strength wasn’t impressive. When he bullied others, it was only because of his family’s power—others were too scared to fight back.

Amit charged. I sidestepped, and he crashed into a desk with a loud bang, knocking over a pile of desks. The clatter of wooden benches and the clang of a tiffin box filled the air, adding chaos to the fight.

I seized the moment, lunged forward, and kicked him in the back.

My shoe thudded against his spine, sending him sprawling. His groan was music to my ears—a small taste of justice.

Amit cried out and fell. Before he could get up, I kicked him again, hard, right on the backside.

He yelped, clutching his rear, dignity shattered. For once, Amit Malhotra was the one on the receiving end. And for a fleeting second, I almost felt sorry for him—almost.