Bala, lying in a pool of his own blood, looked at Nandini, then at Bikram. He didn’t say a word. He just shook his head—once. That silence was heavier than any bullet. Bikram, for the first time, wept. He didn’t weep for the lost empire. He wept because his brother’s trust had died.
By 1985, they were no longer coolies. They were Gunday . Bikram and Bala. The name was spat like a curse and whispered like a prayer. They controlled the coal, the illegal timber, and the desi liquor. Their rule was simple: “Mazdoor ko mazdoori milni chahiye, maalik ko apni jaan ki fikar karni chahiye.” (The worker gets his wage; the owner worries about his life.) gunday