The Index had no names. It had numbers.

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.

And somewhere, in a parallel Part 1 that never made it to the screen, a young man with hollow eyes closed the ledger, lit a cigarette, and smiled.

The index had found its new index finger.

Faizal understood. The Index wasn’t a history. It was a recipe.

He took a burnt matchstick and, under the flicker of a kerosene lamp, added a new line.

“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.

Page 1: A single bullet. The killing of a Pathan miner by Shahid Khan. The index began not with ink, but with a blood debt.

He wrote only one name: Ramadhir Singh . Beside it, a small drawing—a throne made of skulls.

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.

That night, Faizal gathered his two idiot brothers and the local gunsmith. He didn’t say “revenge.” He said, “Let’s balance the Index.”

The first bullet would be for 1943. The last bullet… there was no last bullet. In Wasseypur, the Index never ends. It just changes hands.