That night, Faizal gathered his two idiot brothers and the local gunsmith. He didn’t say “revenge.” He said, “Let’s balance the Index.”
Faizal ran his finger down the columns. Page 18: Three of his own uncles, burned inside a coal truck. Ramadhir’s reply. The Index did not discriminate—it recorded both sides. That was its terrible poetry.
“Page 12,” Faizal whispered, his breath smelling of gutka. Nine men killed in a single ambush on the Ramgarh road. Ramadhir Singh’s men. The page was smeared with what looked like tea stains but felt like rust. Index Of Gangs Of Wasseypur Part 1
Decades later, Faizal Khan—the youngest, the most overlooked son of the Khan clan—found a photocopy of the Index wrapped in an oilcloth. His father, Sardar Khan, had kept it like a holy scripture. Each number was a vengeance owed, each tick mark a soul sent to hell.
In the bowels of the Wasseypur police station, buried under case files thick with coal dust and spiderwebs, lay a ledger. It wasn't a register of stolen goats or petty brawls. The old-timers called it Sardar’s Index . That night, Faizal gathered his two idiot brothers
He took a burnt matchstick and, under the flicker of a kerosene lamp, added a new line.
Faizal understood. The Index wasn’t a history. It was a recipe. Ramadhir’s reply
The last entry, in Sardar’s own jagged handwriting: Dated the morning Sardar was blown apart by a bomb in a cinema hall. A zero. Meaning: Debt still open. Interest compounding.