The Proving Part

1982,

"Why choose a 22-year-old? Why not Shetty? " Rashmi's curiosity burned bright as she questioned

Jai. "Shetty may have ruled Mumbai, but under whose shadow? That of CGM's ruler, Aka," Jai responded, his voice carrying the weight of revelation. "Shetty's power lay in his network, not his individual prowess. They needed a lone wolf, a warrior unbound by chains of command. They needed Vazeer." "But wasn't Vazeer too young for such a role?" Rashmi persisted.

"Indeed," Jai affirmed. "Daniel shared your concern until a single incident dispelled his doubts."

1966,

Bombay In the heart of Dharavi's bustling slum, Shetty and his associates convened within the shadows of his towering building.

"If Abdul Azeez Gaza's boats reach Mumbai's shores, we're finished. We'll lose our grip on the city's gold smuggling network," Pathan voiced the looming threat.

"Have they captured Vazeer?" Shetty's voice held a note of urgency.

"Not yet," Pathan replied, a hint of apprehension in his tone.

"Until Vazeer is apprehended, everything remains uncertain. He's a wildcard that could change the game," Shetty declared, his resolve unwavering.

Meanwhile, near the coast...

"We've got Vazeer! Send the boats!" Gaza's henchman barked orders, a triumphant gleam in his eye.

Vazeer, clad in a torn shirt and black pants, was dragged by Gaza's goons. His long hair obscured his eyes, and his beard was smeared with blood. He hung by a hot metal chain, his strong hands leaking blood captured in a dark room in the market near the coastline.

"The boats have started their movement. They'll reach here within 20 minutes," Pathan announced.

"It means they've got Vazeer, right? Everything is over, it's all over!!" Shetty's voice carried a note of despair.

"Don't worry. It's time for a party," Rahman interjected with an air of nonchalance.

"A party? Your son alike Vazeer is gonna die, and you want to party!" Shetty's anger flared.

"Every single dog who used to bark that Bombay is theirs is now all in one place in front of my Vazeer. He's gonna make them run on the streets of Bombay and kill all of them, one by... one... by... one," Rahman declared with grim determination.

Meanwhile, near the coast...

"Hey, it's my birthday! And as a gift, I want his (Vazeer's) heart in my hand. Go get it for me," barked Gaza's henchman.

Following the henchman's orders, one of his goons approached Vazeer, who hung on a metal chain, awaiting his grim fate. As the goon approached Vazeer, the tension in the air thickened. Vazeer, though battered and bloodied, exuded a quiet strength that unnerved his assailant. With a swift movement, Vazeer lifted his head, his eyes gleaming with defiance despite the blood obscuring his vision.

The goon, emboldened by the darkness of the night and the weight of his mission, drew closer, a cruel grin etching his features. He reached for the hilt of his knife, his fingers curling around the cold steel with a sense of anticipation. With a menacing chuckle, he raised the blade, ready to deliver the final blow.

But Vazeer was not one to go down without a fight. With a sudden surge of energy, fueled by desperation and determination, he lashed out. Despite his restraints, he swung his body with surprising agility, aiming a powerful kick at his assailant's midsection.

Caught off guard by Vazeer's unexpected resistance, the goon stumbled backward, momentarily losing his grip on his weapon. Seizing the opportunity, Vazeer lunged forward, his chains rattling as he fought to break free from his bonds.

In the next instance, Vazeer used the same chain that bound him to strike down three other goons, their bodies falling lifeless to the ground. "Fuck! the red blood," Vazeer exclaimed, a cruel smile spreading across his face as blood dripped from his thick beard.

The frightened henchman watched in horror as only five other goons remained, realizing they were no match for Vazeer's ferocity. "What do you think of yourself? You alone will rule? Bombay is not your dad's," he stammered in fear.

"Correct!" Vazeer retorted with chilling calmness. "Bombay belongs to your father, baby, and your father is right in front of you."

As Vazeer, fueled by adrenaline and a thirst for vengeance, battered the remaining five goons as if they were mere prey, the henchman's panicked footsteps echoed through the narrow alleys of the market. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a drumming reminder of the imminent danger lurking behind him.

Fear, a palpable entity, clung to the panicking leader who had fled the chamber. He weaved through the throngs of people, his frantic steps echoing on the cobblestone streets. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging him to escape the wrath he knew followed close behind.

Then, he saw him. Vazeer, a specter amidst the vibrant chaos of the market, his bloodstained form a stark contrast to the colorful fabrics and exotic wares on display. Terror choked the leader's voice as Vazeer's relentless pursuit became a horrifying reality.

Desperation lent wings to his feet as he raced toward the docks, the vast expanse of the sea offering a false hope of escape. But the distance between them dwindled with a terrifying inevitability.

A misplaced step on the slick cobblestones sent the leader sprawling onto the damp ground. Vazeer loomed over him, a cruel smile twisting his battered features. The leader, his voice choked with fear, whimpered a pathetic plea for forgiveness.

Vazeer's gaze was cold, devoid of any semblance of mercy. "Don't you see, baby," he rasped, his voice hoarse, "that's the whole point. Today's task demands a payment."

He gestured to the chain that still bound him. "You strung me up with this," he said, his voice laced with a chilling amusement. "Now, it's your turn for a little swing... this time, a permanent one."

The salty spray of the Arabian Sea stung Captain Malik's eyes as he bellowed orders, his voice hoarse with terror. "Turn this damn tub around! Now!" Panic clawed at his throat, a cold, constricting serpent squeezing the air from his lungs.

In the distance, a solitary figure perched on the jagged rocks like a monstrous gargoyle sent a tremor through Malik's soul. Vazeer. The very name sent shivers down the spines of even the toughest Bombay sailors. But it wasn't Vazeer's bloodstained clothes or the feral glint in his eyes that sent a wave of nausea crashing over Malik. It was the grotesque tableau playing out just a few feet from the shore.

The lifeless body of the henchman hung suspended in a macabre ballet. One leg, grotesquely contorted, was clamped in the iron jaws of a chain. The other leg, a sickening parody of a ballerina's pointe, dangled uselessly over the churning water. The chain, stained a sickening crimson, plunged into the depths, its metallic glint disappearing into the inky abyss. Malik's mind recoiled, conjuring horrifying images of what monstrosity lurked beneath the waves, its hunger finally satiated.

A strangled cry ripped from one of the younger crew members, his face pale as a ghost. The stench of blood and decay, carried on the salty breeze, did little to quell the rising tide of panic. Fear, a primal scream, echoed in Malik's own heart. He knew what awaited them if they didn't get this cursed boat turned around. The image of Vazeer, a whirlwind of rage and violence, tearing through his crew like a starving tiger, was a vision too horrifying to contemplate.

"Row, you sons of jackals!" he roared, his voice cracking with desperation. Muscles screamed in protest as the crew heaved on the oars, their faces contorted in a grotesque mask of exertion. The groan of timbers as the boat sluggishly changed course was a symphony of sweet salvation to Malik's ears.

Every creak of the boat, every splash of the waves, seemed amplified in the tense silence. They could almost feel Vazeer's gaze burning into their backs, willing them to falter. Malik stole a glance back at the shore, his heart hammering a frantic tattoo against his ribs. Vazeer remained a menacing silhouette, a silent promise of a gruesome demise should they dare to hesitate.

But with each labored stroke of the oars, the distance between them and the nightmare on the shore grew. A sliver of hope, fragile as a spider's web, began to bloom in Malik's chest. They might just make it. They might just escape the clutches of the monster they had so foolishly underestimated.

As the Bombay skyline rose on the horizon, a beacon of safety against the vast emptiness of the sea, Malik allowed himself a single, shaky breath of relief. The ordeal had etched itself onto his soul, a permanent reminder of the monstrous savagery that lurked in the shadows. The name Vazeer would forever be a chilling whisper on the wind, a harbinger of a fate worse than death.

In The slum,

Pathan announced with urgency, "Abdul Gaza's boats are returning! Vazeer might be out and about."

Rahman interjected with a hint of sarcasm, "Oh, I'm sure he's just lounging around, enjoying the sea breeze, as per usual, Sir Ji.