Chapter 2: Beat Him to Death

Thief.

With a dull thud, the back of my head slammed hard against the tiles. The sharp, mocking laughter of those bullies echoed in my ears.

The faint smell of jasmine hair oil mixed with the harshness of Dettol, and someone’s half-eaten samosa lay forgotten by the sink. From above, I could see the flickering tube light, a fly circling it aimlessly. My heart pounded, not just from fear, but from the sting of humiliation. It was the same bloody corner, behind the third stall, where the tap was always leaking. My school shirt was already torn at the sleeve, a brown stain from yesterday’s sambhar dabba refusing to come off.

“Doesn’t he look just like a cockroach?”

A pair of spotless white sneakers pressed down on my hand.

I curled up in the damp, filthy corner, the pain at the back of my head throbbing in waves, like a tiny hammer pounding over and over. My eyes darted around, desperate for help—just for a second, I caught the eye of a girl by the door. She looked away quickly, pretending not to see, and slipped out, leaving me utterly alone. That helplessness stung more than any slap.

The agony from my previous life overlapped perfectly with the pain of this moment.

Only then did I realise I wasn’t dreaming.

Right then, a bar of soap was shoved in front of my face.

I slowly looked up and saw those faces I hated to the core.

Their eyes glittered with cruel excitement. I could see Priya, with her thick braid swinging, and Meenal, the one who always wore kajal even in school, smirking as if this was all a game. They were the kind who would copy your homework with a smile, then gossip about you behind your back during tiffin.

In my last life, I’d dreamt of tearing them apart.

They used the excuse of “upholding justice,” but all they really wanted was the twisted thrill of beating someone up.

Arrey—

My long-suppressed rage exploded. With a roar, I hurled the soap straight at the ringleader’s face.

For a second, I remembered Amma scrubbing my mouth with soap after I lied. Today, I was the one doing the scrubbing. The bar of soap—a green Lifebuoy, always used in our school—slipped from my hand, but this time I was not scared. The memory of so many humiliations burned in my chest. I thought of all those evenings spent hiding from colony uncles, all those times Amma looked at me with silent questions in her eyes. Not today, I told myself.

Thwack! The bar hit her hard, and she staggered back, the corner of her eye instantly swelling black and blue.

Before she could react, I lunged at her like a madman.

Her name was Ritika.

Don’t be fooled by the fact that she’s a girl—she’s a real goonda, worshipping local rowdies outside school and playing queen bee on campus.

Outside school, they called her Ritika Dhoop—because she always burned anyone who crossed her.

In the past, we were all scared of her. Now? I couldn’t care less.

I raised my fist high and smashed it into her face.

Everyone else in the washroom was a girl.

But in my fury, three or five of them together couldn’t hold me back.

When students fight, it’s all about the ringleader. The rest are just there for the show, to get some experience.

At this moment, Ritika was all I could see. No matter how the others tried to drag me off, I just kept pounding her.

One hand gripped Ritika’s collar, the other kept raining blows down on her head.

Punch after punch, like pounding dough for samosas.

My knuckles hurt, but I didn’t stop. The anger from my past life—every snide remark, every sly elbow, every time my name was whispered like some dirty word—had all congealed in this moment. The sound of my fist hitting her jaw was more satisfying than the sound of rain on our old tin roof at home. Somewhere, I heard a tap drip steadily, counting the seconds I was finally taking back control.

Years of pent-up resentment finally found an outlet.

The girls around me were all stunned.

They’d been in plenty of fights, often dragging other students into the washroom for a beating.

But they’d never seen anyone go at it as desperately as I did.

“Go get the teacher!”

One of them shouted, panicked.

A few of them scrambled out.

Only Ritika and I were left in the washroom.

Ritika’s eyes were full of venom, her nails digging into my wrist, drawing blood as she tried to force me to let go.

But I ignored her. There was only one thought in my mind: keep hitting.

My dadi used to say, “When in doubt, let your fists do the talking.”

Now, I was going to use these fists to get justice for myself.

Dadi’s stories about not crossing certain lines flickered in my mind—I hesitated for a split second, her voice warning me to be careful. But the memory of all those slights, all that pain, pushed me past it. I went on.

The pain in my wrist didn’t make me back down—instead, it was like pouring fuel on a fire, making me even more energised.

The harder I hit, the harder she grabbed.

The harder she grabbed, the more excited I got.

A perfect vicious cycle.

When I was being beaten just now, I’d even thought about recording the sounds as evidence to prove my innocence.

But that idea lasted only a second before I tossed it aside.

Prove my innocence? Impossible.

I was innocent to begin with—why should I have to prove it?

That’s the kind of plot you only see in sappy web series or daily soaps.

Now, I only believed in my fists.

I was bullied in my last life. If I let myself get bullied again after being reborn, wouldn’t that mean this second chance was all for nothing?

As I kept pounding away, I noticed Ritika’s expression change.

From the initial malice, to resentment, then gradually to something softer, and finally, through her swollen eyes, I even saw pleading and fear.

From now on, if anyone tells me violence can’t solve problems, I’ll show them Ritika’s eyes.

Isn’t this effective?

I could almost hear the whispers already—those same girls who’d once called me names would soon say, “Arrey, you know what Amit did? Mad fellow!” Somewhere in the corridor, someone would probably be already updating their WhatsApp group, even though phones weren’t allowed in school. This moment, this fear—I wanted it seared into their memories.

“Stop hitting me!”

“I know I was wrong!”

Ritika’s mouth was full of blood, her words slurred.

But I’m a mental patient—how could I stop now?

I grabbed her hair and slammed her head against the toilet tiles.

Crack! The sound was crisp and clear.

It was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.

Ritika’s face was streaked with tears, several front teeth knocked out.

She instinctively tried to spit them out.

I clamped her mouth shut, my eyes bloodshot: “Swallow it! Didn’t you love making others eat things? Swallow it!”

For a second, I almost felt sick at what I’d become, but then I remembered all the times I’d begged for mercy. My voice was hoarse, every word laced with old anger. The irony didn’t escape me: all those sick punishments she’d meted out, all those times I saw her force some poor kid to eat chalk or mud, and now she was choking on her own broken teeth. Let the memory stay with her—let her taste what she gave to others.

Ritika was notorious for her bullying.

She’d forced students to eat hair, drink soapy water, lick mud off shoes…

Just this term alone, two students had been driven to drop out because of her.

There was even a history teacher who, just for scolding them a few times, had three ribs broken after school.

After that, no one dared interfere in their evil business.

The discipline in-charge just turned a blind eye.

As long as they didn’t mess with the “good” students, it was as if nothing happened.

After all, if the so-called problem students dropped out, it only improved the school’s board results.

The staffroom walls were paper thin. I had overheard teachers mutter over tea and glucose biscuits, “Bas, Ritika se mat uljho. She’s from a strong family, tum log chhodo.” The principal’s only concern was the board results and school ranking. As long as the ‘good’ kids did well, what happened to the rest of us was just background noise.

“Stop!”

A sudden shout rang out.

I turned and saw the class teacher.

She’d arrived at exactly the same moment as in my last life.

But this time, I was the one doing the beating.

“Amit, what are you doing?!”

The class teacher strode in on block heels, looking all self-righteous, as if she was going to deliver justice.

Her sari was perfectly pleated, her lipstick never smudged—a stark contrast to the chaos she’d just walked into. She looked at me as if I was a wild animal let loose from the zoo. The janitor, who’d been mopping near the entrance, peered in, eyes wide as saucers.

“Why are you yelling?”

“Can’t you see I’m busy beating someone up?”

I shot back impatiently. Seeing Ritika still hadn’t swallowed her teeth, my anger flared again.

Gulp—

Ritika’s throat moved.

Only then did I let go, satisfied.

Ritika’s head was covered in blood, her consciousness already fading.

The class teacher was so frightened by the scene that she shrieked and hurried to call an ambulance.

Her shriek echoed down the corridor, making even the 8th standard boys peek out of their classroom. Some of the girls from the next class craned their necks, one already whispering into her friend’s ear. I could see the telltale flicker of a teacher’s WhatsApp notification light up under the desk—word would spread fast, like monsoon rain on red mud.

With her performance, anyone who didn’t know better would really think she was a good teacher.

At this same time and place in my previous life, Ritika and her gang broke my leg, stuffed half a bar of soap in my mouth, and I limped out of the girls’ washroom.

When she saw me, the teacher didn’t even ask what happened—she just pinned everything on me.

I told her I’d been beaten.

She insisted it must be because I was hiding in there peeping and got what I deserved.

Only now do I get it.

Turns out the class teacher wasn’t incapable of handling emergencies.

She just didn’t want to bother with my problems.

Soon, the ambulance arrived.

The ambulance’s siren wailed, cutting through the afternoon heat, and a stray dog barked at the commotion near the school gate. Ritika was carried out on a stretcher, drawing a crowd of students.

“What happened? What happened?”

“Isn’t that Ritika?”

“Whoever beat her up like that is my hero! I want to call him my elder brother!”

“Serves her right! I always said someone like her would get what’s coming!”

…

Some kids even started singing that old Bollywood tune, "Dushman ka dushman dost hota hai," nudging each other and smirking. I caught the eyes of a few juniors who had suffered under Ritika. They gave me that half-smile, half-awe look—the one you give to someone who has finally done the impossible.

Hearing those voices, I finally smiled.

“Bade aaram se muskura raha hai, haan?”

The class teacher shot me a look of utter contempt. “Go stand in the corridor as punishment. When the next period ends, during assembly, I’ll call you up.”

My face instantly went cold.

Last time, after I was bullied, she dragged me by the ear onto the assembly stage.

Now, after I fought back, she still wanted to parade me in front of everyone.

“Fine.”

I clenched my jaw and agreed.

If I don’t wait for the assembly, how will the whole school hear about my glorious achievement?

Especially that discipline in-charge.

He used to drag me up every week to criticise me.

I’d dreamt of beating him up on the assembly platform.

Before, I could only imagine it.

But now, things are different.

I have over ten years of experience as a certified mental patient.

What is there left for me to fear?

My hands shook, not from fear, but from a rush of adrenaline. The cool breeze from the corridor brushed against my sweat-soaked back. A crow cawed loudly from the neem tree near the staff room, almost as if mocking the drama. I let the moment settle, bracing myself for what was to come.