Mumbai Underdog

By Gaurav Garg

From the depths of Mumbai's slums, a boy named Arjun dared to dream. He wouldn't just survive; he would rise. Cunning would be his weapon, the city's corrupt heart his battlefield. He vowed to shatter the old order, to become the master, not the pawn.

Yet, the path to power is paved with ambition's ashes. Alliances twist and betrayals bloom amidst the chaos. Arjun's enemies multiply: ruthless gangsters, the remnants of a shattered Syndicate, and a cold-blooded Russian mafia seeking to sink its claws into the city's misery.

Blood will flow. Ideals will crumble. In this desperate underworld war, Arjun will become the monster he once despised, or a forgotten corpse in the gutter. Mumbai demands a ruler, be it a tyrant or a tombstone. One question burns: Will Arjun ignite the city in his relentless climb, or will the flames of his ambition consume him entirely?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gaurav Garg
• Release date: Feb 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224989690

Book preview

Chapter 1: Boy of the Gutter

Arjun had learned to weave like a cobra through the heaving maze of Dharavi. Bodies – bony children scavenging in gutters, weary women bartering for fish with eyes older than time, young men strutting with false bravado – parted under his scrawny frame. The crush was worst near the market, the air thick with the sizzle of frying samosas and the acrid bite of discarded mango peels. It was both exhilarating and suffocating, a tide of humanity he never fully felt a part of.

Home was no respite. A single room, a cracked concrete box he shared with his mother, two sisters, and an uncle who muttered in his sleep, the stink of cheap liquor staining his breath. Their mattress was a burlap sack, and the night’s arguments filtered through paper-thin walls like a soundtrack to nightmares – a neighbor’s drunken shouts, a woman’s sobs answered by a stinging slap. Lying still, he’d focus on the sliver of a moon through the grimy window, and whisper promises to that cold, distant light: This wouldn’t be his life forever.

There were worse fates in Dharavi – legless beggars thrusting out mangled stumps, orphans scavenging from dustbins with haunted eyes. Yet, Arjun felt that same gnawing desperation. It wasn’t just the near-constant hunger, or the sting of his uncle’s insult when Arjun was sent home from school again, fees unpaid. No, the worst was the feeling of being unseen, another fly buzzing in the endless swarm of the slum. He wanted a name carved out, not just swallowed by the gutter.

It was that restless hum in his veins that made him eye the bangle stall. Shiny baubles meant for wrists draped in silk, not cracked and calloused like his own. The stall owner, a woman with gold rings crusted on each finger, was haggling with a bored housewife dripping in gaudy jewelry. Too easy. In the chaos of bartering, Arjun slid behind the stall, crouched like a spider in the shadows. His heart hammered like a war drum. Not fear, but an unfamiliar kind of thrilling dread. His gaze snagged on a viper-green bangle, smooth and heavy. Perfect.

In a practiced motion he swiped it, stuffing it up his ragged sleeve. It was bolder than his usual snatches, usually coins clinking at the bottom of an empty chai cup, left seemingly forgotten. Today, the hunger for something bigger had overridden caution. As he edged away, his victory curdled to ash. The bangle wasn’t simple glass. Carved into it, crude but unmistakable, was a serpent’s head emblem. Fear prickled his skin – this wasn’t any bangle, it was a mark, an ownership stamp. Some local goon’s tribute to his woman, not to be pilfered by the likes of him.

Running was useless in the throng. And then, like a predator drawn to the scent of fear, an arm like a rusted pipe clamped down on Arjun’s shoulder. He was jerked around to face a young man, barely into manhood, who sneered with a crooked grin.

Thief, the enforcer hissed, the stench of paan lingering on his breath.

No point in denial. Arjun jutted out his chin, hoping a show of defiance might mask the tremble in his bones. The enforcer chuckled, a raspy sound. Think you’re something brave, gutter spawn? His other hand snaked out, seizing the bangle from Arjun’s sleeve. He tossed it to his companion, a hulking boy with vacant eyes. Look at our brave little rat, he mocked, Thought you could touch what’s not yours?

Each insult carved into Arjun. Worthless. Weak. This was more than a petty theft, it was the confirmation of everything he hated about Dharavi, the unspoken rules that caged him down. A wave of blinding, reckless anger surged through him. He lunged forward, fists flailing. They connected not with his tormentor, but with empty air as the enforcer danced aside, laughing.

Feisty, the younger one said, but there was disappointment in his tone. You ain’t worth breaking, are ya? A shove knocked Arjun off-balance. He scrambled back, knowing full well the fight was futile. Yet, surrender grated worse than a beating. The hulking companion grinned, cracking his knuckles.

And then, something unexpected: Hold off, Bhika. The enforcer eyed Arjun, not with disgust, but a sliver of cold calculation. What’s your name, boy?

Arjun. His voice came out a ragged squeak.

Arjun. The enforcer tasted the name as if it held some hidden flavor. Hungry, Arjun? Tired of getting stepped on?

The questions weren’t about mockery, but something more dangerous: opportunity. Arjun's mind raced. A beating from these two had been inevitable. But now, an open door glimmered in the alley's foul shadows. You saw that lady last week, Arjun blurted out, The one with the purse overflowing...

The enforcer grinned, revealing teeth stained brown. Smart boy, aren't you? Think you can do better than snatching baubles?

In that moment, Arjun's fate tilted on a razor's edge. Say no, and his world shrunk back to the familiar shape of fear, hunger, and insignificance. Or he could gamble his skin for a shot at the one thing Dharavi didn't offer: A way out.

Yeah, he rasped, Better.

The Target

Her again, Arjun mumbled, a cold knot forming in his gut. He remembered the woman: draped in silks the color of peacocks, a bored scowl beneath jewels glittering like a hundred resentful eyes. Too rich, too entitled – easy to hate, just like every outsider who ventured into Dharavi for poverty tourism. And she'd be on guard now; no way that clumsy bangle snatch had gone unnoticed.

Shiv eyed him, amusement twitching at the corner of his thin lips. Scared, boy?

Nah, Arjun forced a swagger into his voice, but he hated the tremor in his hand. Just don't like sloppy work.

This drew a genuine laugh from Shiv. Sloppy's how we survive down here. Now watch and learn. He gestured to Bhika, whose dull gaze focused on the approaching woman. You draw her eye, cause a ruckus. Keep her busy for what, two heartbeats? That's your job. Fail, and I'll teach you a whole new definition of sloppy.

Arjun swallowed, the taste of bile in his throat. But the alternative–begging Shiv for one more chance, being branded 'gutter rat' forever – was unthinkable. The woman and her gaggle of chattering friends drew closer, a wave of expensive perfumes temporarily masking the market stench. It was now or never.

The Distraction

He shoved his way past a vegetable vendor, a calculated accident sending a tower of bright green chilies tumbling to the ground. The man let out a bellow of rage, and the rich ladies scattered with little shrieks. Perfect chaos. His heart thrummed a panicked beat in his ears, and then he was weaving amongst the startled women. In that split second, instinct sharpened. Their silks fluttered like butterfly wings, the plump one carried her purse low and loose – easy. Her sharp voice raised in indignation over the spilled produce was another gift. Just two heartbeats...

A flicker of movement under his shirt, the cold bangle like a serpent’s bite, snapped him back. No time for admiring his potential loot. Thief! The cry wasn't for him, but for someone darting across the market. The perfect escape. Bhika stumbled backwards, clutching at his shirt. Shiv stood behind him, his smile predatory.

What was that? The plump woman barked, eyes darting with paranoia. Her hand tightened on her purse. Her friend pointed to the fleeing figure, their voices a shrill duet. It was all the accusation Shiv needed.

The Price

Thief’s your boy, madam, we caught him red-handed! Shiv shouted, mock righteousness dripping from his words. Bhika gaped, bewildered protest drowned out as Shiv slapped him. Arjun watched, a strange chill spreading through him.

Bhika was dragged off, curses mixing with his whimpers as the ladies showered their 'savior' with relieved gratitude. Arjun edged around to where Shiv waited, a smug glint in his eyes.

He reached into his pocket with a flourish, revealing the green bangle. One thin eyebrow rose. Found this beauty dropped nearby, wouldn’t want something so valuable to go missing. His heart stuttered with fear, waiting for the blow. None came.

Not bad, slum-rat. Shiv finally pocketed the bangle. Not bad at all. But what I like... He jabbed a finger against Arjun's ribs, making him wince, ...is you don't got a single shred of loyalty in you.

The blow had landed, not with his fist, but cut deeper. Was it an insult, or a twisted kind of praise?

Now scram, before the ladies remember they shoulda had Bhika whipped right here. Shiv shoved him aside, the purse now tucked safely in his own waistband. As Arjun retreated, he turned the word over in his mind: loyalty. Perhaps there was another kind of currency besides stolen bangles, a currency that bought you power in the world Shiv inhabited. Tonight's success felt far smaller than he'd hoped, but a cold flicker of possibility kindled within him – he'd passed the test. That made him dangerous. Maybe it was time Dharavi learned this about him too.

Rina

The alleyway pulsed with the desperate rhythms of Dharavi: the hunched bargaining of scavengers, the clatter of discarded metal, the stench of waste no tannery could salvage. Young Arjun, sent on an urgent errand, pressed against a crumbling wall, acutely aware that his cleaner clothes made him a mark.

Movement caught his eye – not a scavenging rival, but two hulking figures cornering a girl his own age. She fought back – not with violence, but stubborn defiance. It wasn't the unfairness that angered him, it was recognizing the calculated desperation in her eyes, a warped mirror of his own cautious movements through the city. With a rashness he'd later regret, he intervened. Not with heroics, but a distraction – a flung stone, a feigned shout to draw their attention. It was enough. She vanished into the labyrinth with a skill that spoke of long practice, leaving him facing down the thugs' confusion and then their rage.

The aftermath wasn't gratitude, but a grudging truce. Rina reappeared from the shadows, not with thanks, but her eyes still sparking with defiant anger. He wasn't her hero. They were simply two predators momentarily circling the same prey, their paths intersecting out of necessity, not kindness. Yet, as she melted back into the alleyways, Arjun couldn't deny the strange sense of responsibility. She'd been a flicker of defiant light in the oppressive grime, and now, however unwittingly, he had become tied to her survival.

Chapter 2: Slumland Code

The stink of betrayal lingered on Arjun long after Shiv swaggered away, his pockets jingling with stolen coin. He found himself not at 'home', but back in the heart of the market, an ache mirroring the dull throb of yesterday's beating. Yet, a new thrill buzzed in his veins. He wasn't broken; he was something Shiv found useful. More than a gutter rat, less than one of them. His existence had a precarious new shape.

A ragged child approached, eyes gleaming with curiosity and greed. You Shiv-bhai's new chotu, ain't ya? The word chotu – literally 'little one' – burned hot with its implied subservience. Yet, to refuse association with Shiv was to invite ridicule, or worse, beatings from aspiring rivals. It was a brutal, unspoken lesson – you were either with someone or ripe to be trampled over.

He gave the boy a handful of scavenged peanuts, a bribe to buy temporary company instead of bullying. He needs eyes on the ground, Arjun said, the lie tasting surprisingly well. Pride mixed with shame. He'd played his part, and Shiv had rewarded him with an undefined role. Was this really progress?

The rhythm of the slum played out around them: the haggling, the squawking chickens, the veiled glances of young women carrying water back to their shacks. But now a sharper undercurrent snaked through it all. He saw who loitered too close to Shiv's usual 'territory' – an open stall peddling dubious liquor - with wary respect. These were men like Bhika, replaceable by someone like him, always needing to prove their worth to the leader.

Shiv's Law

It was late afternoon when Shiv found him, the last rays of sun catching the silver hoop in his ear, making him seem almost majestic. This was no petty enforcer, Arjun sensed that now, but something older and craftier. Not the biggest dog in Dharavi, but with a pack loyal enough to tear rivals apart.

Got work for you, boy. Shiv's voice cut through the market din. Not a question, an expectation. He led Arjun deeper into the slum's maze, towards an area Arjun usually avoided – narrow alleys with suspicious men lurking in doorways, women disappearing indoors at their approach. He knew the whispers about what businesses thrived in these shadows.

They stopped outside a grimy shack, an older man slumping on a stool outside. His weary eyes flicked in appraisal over Arjun. Who's the youngling? he croaked, the smell of cheap toddy lingering around him.

New eyes, Shiv said simply, then looked at Arjun. This is Dinesh-kaka. You watch, you listen, you don't speak unless spoken to. Understand?

The warning prickled. This wasn't about snatching purses anymore. Dinesh led them inside the shack, where the only light filtered through cracks in the tin roof. Squinting, Arjun made out men hunched around a wooden table, cards limp in their greasy hands. The shack reeked of sweat and something sharper, perhaps the homebrewed alcohol they were passing around. The stakes of this game seemed higher than a few crumpled rupees.

So, Dinesh, Shiv began, voice deceptively casual, Seems you've forgotten who blesses your little card games, eh? Dinesh bristled, but something in his defiance seemed forced. It was Shiv's calm that was truly menacing.

Fear as Currency

A tense silence stretched, broken only by the buzzing of cicadas outside. Finally, Dinesh mumbled a curse and slid a wad of notes across the table. Not much, not yet anyway. The men around the table looked away, but Arjun watched Shiv rake the money up, counting it with deliberate disdain.

Seemed a gamble you shouldn't have taken, kaka, Shiv chided, but there was no humor in it. Maybe if that son of yours was worth a damn, things might be different.

Something ignited in Dinesh's eyes – wounded pride, desperation. He half-rose from his chair, Don't speak of my–

He collapsed with a sickening thud. Blood welled up from a fresh gash above his eye. In Shiv's hand was a chipped chai glass, still wet with crimson. The other men in the room had become statues, a tableau of frozen fear. Arjun's guts churned, but fascination kept him rooted in place. He'd witnessed beatings before, but never with such chilling finality.

Loyalty keeps you standing, old man, Shiv snarled, kicking Dinesh's unmoving form. Get him outta here, he barked at the others, And clean this mess. There's work to be done tonight, and I won't tolerate stragglers.

It was on the way back through the darkening slum that Shiv finally turned to Arjun. That's how it goes, boy. Respect earns you coin. Fear keeps it flowing.

Arjun remembered the glint in Dinesh's eyes, the way the other men had averted their gaze from his fallen body. And for those who disrespect you? The words came out before he could stifle them. A flicker of surprise crossed Shiv's face, then a smirk.

Now there's the smart rat I like, he said, and something within Arjun twisted – both revulsion and a flicker of dark possibility. This wasn't about hunger anymore, but about a different kind of survival. Let's just say... disrespect brings consequences.

The Job

Work. What's mine? Arjun kept his voice steady, despite the tremor in his stomach. Dinesh's fate churned in his mind, making him long for the simplicity of snatched purses.

Shiv grinned, wolfish in the twilight. Word spreads fast, eh? Don't worry, your turn to spill blood will come. He paused, letting the implied promise sink in. Tonight, it's less... dramatic. There's a shipment headed from the docks up to one of those fancy towers where the rich pigs feast. Some fool thinks he can skim a slice unnoticed. A disgusted snort. Our job is to remind him who really owns Mumbai.

The plan laid out before him was deceptively simple, yet undeniably thrilling. They'd operate under cover of darkness. Bhika, strangely subdued after yesterday, and two others they only knew