Story Brunch
The Story of Dhanush, a Contract Killer in Bihar
Dhanush was just another young man born in the cramped bylanes of a small colony in Bihar. Stray dogs slept by the open drains lining the roads, while rickshaws and totos rattled along carrying morning commuters. His friends—most of whom drove these autos and totos—were content earning a modest income. Their biggest thrills were watching late-night films, sipping on chai in chipped cups at the local tea stall, and sharing dreams that seldom ventured beyond the next day’s meager wages.
But for Dhanush, the world he wanted to inhabit existed well beyond the ordinary. Growing up, he found himself entranced by the ferocity of silver-screen gangsters played by Bollywood megastars like Salman Khan and Sanjay Dutt. Their bold demeanors, the adoration they commanded, and the relentless pursuit of power beckoned him from the neon-lit posters plastered across half the city’s walls. He heard whispered legends of local “Bahubalis”—strongmen who seemed to operate above the law in the narrow alleys of Bihar’s underworld. Their stories were recounted in hushed tones at tea stalls and local gatherings. Little did Dhanush know, these men paid for their fleeting power with a lifetime of fear and, more often than not, a grisly end.
The Charm of the ‘Bahubali’
Every afternoon, Dhanush would take his usual position at a small wooden bench in Salim Miya’s tea shop. The shop itself was a rickety structure, made of corrugated sheets pinned down by large stones, its corners perpetually coated in a film of dust and dried tea spills. Although Salim Miya appeared to be just another chaiwala, local gossip suggested he had shadowy connections spanning the underworld circles. On the surface, he exuded an amiable charm—always ready with a witty story or quick retort to keep patrons engaged. But behind that glint in his eye lay the ability to identify potential recruits for dirty jobs.
Dhanush, with his cocky grin and restless spirit, was an easy mark. Salim Miya recognized the dangerous cocktail of inexperience and ambition. He watched how Dhanush lionized local strongmen, saw the stardust in his eyes when talk turned to gangster flicks. Sensing a ready candidate, Salim Miya dropped casual mentions of “opportunities” that offered more money than any young auto driver could imagine.
At first, Dhanush merely listened to these tidbits with curiosity. But soon, temptation grew stronger. The possibility of making a name for himself—instead of toiling away like his friends—drew him in. After weeks of subtle persuading, Salim Miya proposed an “introductory job” for a prominent local builder. A rival real estate businessman had to be “taken care of”—permanently. The pay was handsome by Dhanush’s standards; it was an alluring prospect for a boy who had never carried more than a couple of hundred rupees in his pocket at a time.
Even in his naïveté, Dhanush sensed danger. His heart pounded as the gravity of taking a life weighed on him. Yet, there was a heady sense of “becoming someone,” just like the antiheroes he admired onscreen. He wrestled with moral dilemmas for about a day, but the illusions of power and quick cash won out, pushing him to take the assignment. It would be his first—and fateful—break into the underworld.
Fast Forward: A Body in the Drain
A few years later, the city woke up to a macabre discovery: a decomposed corpse floating in a filthy drainage canal. Police arrived, sirens blaring, to find onlookers peering from balconies and forming clusters by the roadside. Whispers circulated—there were rumors that it was Dhanush’s body. The remains, battered and bloated, were unrecognizable at first. Yet slowly, word spread that the young man who had once boasted about unstoppable power had met a violent end himself.
The official cause of death was never definitively pinned down. Some speculated a rivalry gone sour; others suspected a staged police encounter. Rumors sometimes pointed to his original “employer” or even an associate-turned-foe. But one thing everyone agreed upon was this: Dhanush’s fate was predictable. He had followed a well-trodden path of men who, blinded by quick money and fantasies of glory, had stumbled into the murkiest corners of Bihar’s underbelly—only to find themselves expendable.
Disposable Soldiers of the Underworld: The Killers
Contract killers occupy the bottommost rung of the criminal hierarchy. Local “dons” and crime lords view them as mere soldiers—expendable pawns who will do the dirty work for a relatively small sum. Their function is straightforward: kill for money. Their shelf life, however, is as short as the next bullet waiting to pierce their chest.
One might wonder why someone would willingly sign up for such a life. The answer lies in a stark combination of poverty, lack of education, and often, the seductive promise of instant power. Movies and local tales of “Bahubalis” magnify this allure, presenting a distorted view of gangster life that seems glamorous to an impressionable mind. In reality, these illusions crack swiftly under the harsh glare of the real underworld.
Low Morality, High Stakes
With the ability to take a life for cash, contract killers are neither trusted nor admired—even within their own circles. Their moral standing sits on shifting sands, and this makes them easy to manipulate. If a contractor needs a problem “disposed of,” they hire a hitman. Once the job is done, there is an advantage to disposing of the very person who carried out the murder. It effectively erases one of the most direct links to the crime.
Typical Endings: Police or “Close Associates”
Contract killers are forever walking a tightrope, with two principal threats on either side. The police see them as prime suspects whenever they need to solve or wrap up a high-profile murder case. Encounters—some staged, some genuine—frequently result in the killer’s demise. On the other side, the people who hired these assassins often find it more convenient to eliminate them rather than risk blackmail or arrest. The transaction ends with a bullet.
In many documented cases, the contract killers who became problematic were found dead under suspicious circumstances—unclaimed bodies in drainpipes or discovered floating in rivers. Such endings serve as warnings to others who might consider revealing the identity of their employers. As a result, the underworld cycle continues with frightening regularity.
The Short-Lived Notoriety
Hopeful recruits imagine they’ll one day be the next big “Don.” They dream of evading the law, building an empire, and being feared. In truth, a few might briefly touch that elusive high. But the fleeting nature of the job means that these mercenaries find themselves jobless not long after they’re labeled by the authorities.
Once a contract killer’s photograph circulates in police stations, or once their name features in official records, it’s dangerous for any future client to hire them. The risk is simply too high. With no legitimate job skills and a police record, they’re left with the murkiest options for survival—pickpocketing, extortion, or small-scale robberies. Even these petty crimes multiply their enemies and further entrench them in legal battles, ensuring an endless cycle of bails, courtrooms, and dreaded jail terms. The psychological toll can be as devastating as the fear of daily violence.
Family and Social Ostracization
For every Dhanush, there are families who bear the quiet shame. Parents, siblings, or spouses often distance themselves, fearing retribution. Sometimes, families are forced to flee their neighborhoods for safety. In the end, these contract killers die alone. Even their last rites become complicated; people avoid being seen attending a criminal’s funeral to sidestep trouble with both rival gangs and law enforcement.
It’s a tragedy of society that the wave of initial hero-worship—fueled by Bollywood illusions—turns into swift neglect. Their glorious illusions perish with their first crime, and they effectively sign their own death warrant the moment they accept that first lethal assignment.
Reflecting on a Lost Life
Dhanush’s story, while gruesome, is no outlier. Countless young men, fueled by tales of invincibility, fall into the same trap. The underworld dangles immediate rewards in front of those blinded by poverty and a grandiose sense of ambition. But the irony is that contract killers never truly “rise.” They remain the foot soldiers—faceless, nameless, and eventually reduced to cautionary tales or gruesome obituaries.
In the end, no one truly wins in this scenario. The clients move on, the underworld thrives on fresh recruits, and the police continue their cat-and-mouse game. Meanwhile, the life of a once-hopeful youth ends in a grimy gutter, news of his death met with little more than somber head-shaking and whispered speculation.
For many readers, this is a reminder: behind every sensational crime headline lies a distorted dream of glory—and a harsh reality that leaves almost nothing but a lifeless body in a forgotten place.
Dhanush wanted to be known, to stand out from the crowd, and to carve his own name in the annals of local legend. Instead, he joined the ranks of countless young men who only garnered headlines once they were gone. His story, though brief and brutish, speaks volumes about the underbelly of Bihar’s criminal world—and the steep cost of chasing that illusory dream of underworld power.
