Legendary Head Shave Tales
Ten years ago, the slum of Block-13 was ruled by a local don named Baby Anna, a loud, drunk brute who controlled the people with fear and a rusted iron rod. No one dared to question him. That’s when Manja entered — a fat, silent stranger with a stitched eyebrow, a burnt arm, and madness in his eyes. Within a week, he stabbed Baby Anna in the chest in front of the whole slum, slit his wife’s throat, and dragged their daughter out by her hair. “Ab se main raja hoon,” he shouted, holding a bloodied knife in one hand.
The girl — young, shaken, helpless — tried to run. But Manja kept her under watch. That girl was later known as Deadly Mona. At first, she resisted. But slowly, hate turned into survival, and survival into love and lust. Together, they built an empire of fear. Drugs, weapons, blackmail, gangs — one by one, the whole slum fell into their control. And those who didn’t, disappeared. Today, Manja’s slum looks less like a neighborhood and more like a breeding ground for chaos. The lanes stink of sweat, smoke, and suspicion. His gang boys roam shirtless or in tight, torn vests.
Chests tattooed, hair dyed red, green, blue. Some have only the top hair left, the rest clean-shaved with zig-zag lines carved into their scalp. One even had “Manja” inked above his ear. Cigarette packs peep from every pocket, and rusted chains hang from their pants. The girls? No different. Weird chappri haircuts — side shaved, back buzzed, top left long and curled. Some with pink or orange streaks, some with half eyebrows. Nose rings, torn jeans, crop tops with “savage” written on them — they walked like queens of hell.
“Ae item, idhar dekh ke chal,” one girl barked at an old lady once. Most of them carried small blades and lighters, like toys. This wasn’t a gang — this was a circus of broken youth, turned into weapons by Dragon Manja and Deadly Mona. In Manja’s kingdom, the newest recruits were always the easiest prey — broke boys looking for power and angry girls wanting escape. The gang never forced anyone at first; they offered temptation. A packet to deliver, a thousand rupees in return. A puff of weed, a fake compliment, and slowly the trap closed. The first thing that changed was their look.
Boys had their heads half-shaved, spikes dyed neon, some with stars or flames etched on one side. Girls too weren’t spared — Mona made sure they looked “different.” She’d force them to chop their hair weirdly — side buzzed, rat tails, undercuts, even full top shaved except a ponytail hanging at the back. “Style banayegi toh power milega,” Mona would smirk. One girl cried while losing her waist-length hair, but Mona laughed and said, “Ab tu asli queen banegi.” All new members had to keep cigarettes, blades, and cheap chains on them.
If someone resisted, they’d be beaten, their heads shaved fully in front of others, and left to sweep the alley as punishment. On the other side, Bheema and Ashwini weren’t just husband and wife — they were partners in every fight, every dream. Bheema, a sharp-tongued lawyer with a fire in his heart, had taken up cases no one dared to touch. Ashwini, a soft-spoken but fearless doctor, ran a tiny health clinic near the slum border, treating women and children for free. At home, they were pure warmth — late night chai on the balcony, quiet forehead kisses.
“Ek din hum badlenge sab kuch,” Bheema would whisper, and Ashwini would just smile, resting her head on his shoulder. They often spoke about the slum — its condition haunted them — but work, time, and system pressure kept them away from direct action. Until it hit home. Priya, Ashwini’s younger sister, was bold, chirpy, and just entering college. She stayed with them, idolizing their bond and wanting to make her own mark in life. One afternoon, while returning from college, she took a shortcut through the edge of the slum.
That’s when they spotted her — three girls and two boys from Dragon Manja’s gang, all in torn jeans, colored spiked hair, and tattoos that screamed rebellion. “Oye madam, kya hairstyle hai? School se bhaag ke aayi kya?” one girl laughed, her own hair half-shaved and dyed pink. Another girl came close, flicked Priya’s braid and said, “Chal, makeover karte hain… chappri queen banayenge tujhe.” The boys hooted, one even tried to snatch her sling bag. When Priya panicked and turned back, one girl grabbed her dupatta and pulled it loose.
“Sharma gayi? Aaj kal ke item log bold nahi hote kya?” The girls laughed, mocking her. Shaken and humiliated, Priya ran, her hair messed up, tears mixing with rage. Back home, she broke down in Ashwini’s arms. Ashwini held her tightly, her own eyes burning with quiet fury. Bheema didn’t speak a word at first — just clenched his fists and looked out the window. That night, no one laughed at the dinner table. The next morning, Priya’s boyfriend Vedanth, a sharp, no-nonsense police officer, came to check on her.
When he heard what happened, he slammed his fist on the table. “That’s it. I’m in. We’re not waiting for the system anymore. We’re cleaning that filth ourselves.” And just like that, the team was born — Bheema, Ashwini, Priya, and Vedanth — each with a reason, each with fire. It was past midnight, the slum silent except Inside the upper floor of a crumbling building, lit only by a flickering bulb and the orange glow of his cigarette, Dragon Manja sat shirtless on a plastic chair, legs wide, eyes fixed on Mona as she stood near the mirror, combing.
“Saala, ladkiyaan mil hi nahi rahi,” she muttered, slapping the cloth onto the table. “Sab dar ke bhaag rahe hain ya to zyada shareef ban gaye hain.” Manja didn’t respond, still puffing smoke, eyes trailing the curve of her back. “Suna kya?” she snapped. “Mere paas sirf teen nayi girls bachi hain. Gang ka haal kharaab hai.” He stood up, walked behind her, slid his hands over her waist and whispered, “Kya tension leti hai meri rani… agle hafte sau dilaunga tujhe.” She tried to resist, half turning away, but he pulled her close, kissed her neck.
Then her lips — rough, deep, full of heat. Her anger began to dissolve in his touch. “Jhoot toh nahi bol raha?” she murmured. “Kasam se… tere liye kuch bhi,” he breathed, tossing his cigarette to the floor. Moments later, he lifted her in his arms, dropping her on the thin mattress like he owned both her and the night. Mona smirked, her eyes still burning with ambition, but her body surrendering to his hands. Clothes came off like war, breath tangled with curses and moans. They didn’t make love — they claimed each other, over and over.
The walls bearing witness to every slap, bite, and gasp. Outside, the slum slept under fear. But inside, the king and queen of chaos ignited their own fire — not out of love, but out of the twisted thrill of control. And as Mona curled beside him, spent yet satisfied, she whispered, “Kal se naya plan start karte hain.” Manja just grinned, pulling her closer. He had already decided — next week, 100 girls.
