Same Color, Brother
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 17: He fought the man who broke him. Then asked him to join the war.
Hey there! This is Chapter 17 of Karam’s Legacy.
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Four Weeks Earlier
Rashid sat at his desk, waiting for Alex Romano’s weekly report of all the work he’d dictated to him. Alex finally showed up that night.
He began speaking excitedly, “You’re not gonna believe who owns that gym,” he said, voice low.
Rashid didn’t look up right away.
Alex leaned in closer. “Those guys who used to hassle you in high school. They’re running it. Fronting like it’s legit, but it’s dirty as hell. Needles in the trash. Guys coming and going who ain’t there to work out. Money’s moving.”
Rashid exhaled, finally meeting his eyes. “I always knew those idiots would graduate to bigger crimes.”
Alex nodded once. “So, how do you want to do this? Set them up and have Cruz handle it?”
Rashid looked up at Alex and thought about what he said. He smirked and said, “I think I have a better idea.”
The neighborhood seemed busier than usual as people bustled about, but Rashid's focus remained fixed on the task at hand. He positioned himself across the street, his gaze trained on the gym's entrance. Rashid smirked again, reading the gym’s name, “JAG Gym.”
How original, he thought to himself.
Rashid stood his ground, scrutinizing several burly men entering and exiting the building with an air of swagger. Their attire suggested a gym culture focused more on intimidation than fitness. Rashid's eyes narrowed as he recognized the telltale signs of a group accustomed to preying on the vulnerable. They all reminded him of his bullies from high school—the same arrogant confidence, the overpowering cologne, the haircuts that looked ripped from the latest Punjabi music video.
He counted the bodies, estimating around a dozen men milling about.
The number matched what Alex had told him.
Alex had given him the gym's layout earlier that week—entrance, exits, locker rooms, where the cameras were, which ones didn’t work. Alex’s intel was always thorough.
Rashid could feel adrenaline beginning to surge. The anticipation of confrontation sharpened everything—his hearing, his breath, his focus.
He straightened his posture. As he crossed the street, his eyes stayed locked on the gym’s entrance.
The heavy door of the gym swung open just as Rashid reached the opposite sidewalk. A burly man clad in a tank top and shorts stepped out. Rashid's eyes locked onto him, and a glint of resolve flickered in his gaze. He almost didn’t recognize him. He expected someone fit, but Kani had gained at least 50lbs since he last saw him in high school, most of it concentrated on his gut.
Rashid quickened his pace, smirking and staring directly at Kani. Kani caught a glimpse of Rashid approaching him, but Rashid wasted no time. One right hook to the face sent Kani backward into the gym door. The door swung wide open with Kani’s full weight on it. He hit the ground, the sound waves of the thud echoing throughout the gym. The clanging of weights and hum of treadmills came to an end as the entire gym glanced towards the front door.
Rashid stepped inside and over Kani. He smiled brightly, “Good afternoon. I’m looking for Jag. I think his full name is Jagan Singh.”
There was a pause in the air. Nearly all the men in the gym stared at Rashid in the most intimidating expressions they could muster. Rashid glared back at them, moving his eyes from one corner of the gym to the other.
Then he saw it. A man was rushing over. He wasn’t sure if it was Nims or Jag—memory was a tricky thing, especially when faces filled out with age. But before he knew it, the man stopped in front of him. It was Nims, Rashid saw it now. He stood almost as tall as Rashid and looked as though he could stand toe to toe with him in a fight.
“Tainu pata hai tu ki kita?” Nims shouted.
Rashid just shook his head, “English brother, English.”
“English, sala! Do you know what you did? Do you know who I am?” Nims shouted back.
“Yes, man, I know what I did, and I know who you are. But you don’t recognize me, do you?”
Nims furrowed his eyebrows and took a step back, studying Rashid’s face.
“Rashid. From high school. Do you remember?”
Nim's face went flush.
Rashid nodded his head up and down and smiled, “You remember exactly who I am, and what you guys did to me.”
Nims looked Rashid up and down. He looked down at his friend Kani, lying on the ground.
“Don’t worry, I’m not here for all that. I'm here for something else. You and your troop here have been harassing women in this neighborhood. My neighborhood.” Rashid looked around the gym. “And that’s not good. You shouldn’t have done that.”
As Rashid's words hung in the air, Nims's expression shifted from one of initial hostility to a blend of apprehension and guilt. His gaze shifted to his companion, Kani, who still lay sprawled on the ground, a groan escaping his lips. Nims straightened, his posture tense, and he cast a fleeting glance around them as if seeking an escape route.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Nims responded.
“Too late.” With a sudden lunge, Rashid caught Nims off guard and landed a solid punch that sent Nims staggering back. The gym fell into a stunned silence.
“It’s me you want.” Rashid heard a voice from a distance. The members of the gym appeared to know exactly who had spoken and so made a path for him. Jagan finally entered the fray, looking Rashid up and down.
In high school, Jagan had always been the one to make contact with Rashid, whether it was with a punch, kick, or trip. It was always Jagan. Nims and Kani were just there to laugh as Jagan often manhandled the skinny Rashid, beating him to a pulp.
“I never thought I’d see you again.” Jagan continued walking toward Rashid. “But it feels good to see you.”
Jagan had grown a beard and now wore a navy patka—the snug, athletic-style turban common among Sikh athletes—tied low and tight against his head. His hair was neatly parted beneath it, barely visible. Unlike the rest of the gym members, he avoided the slicked-back gel, the excessive cologne, the obsessively lined beards. His look was simple. Intentional.
“Nice to see you as well, Jag.”
Jag smirked. “I heard what you said earlier, about my boys terrorizing your girls. Looks like you finally grew a backbone. But guess what. I’m going to do the same thing to you that we did to all those other Muslim boys who tried to stand up to us.”
Rashid’s expression didn’t change. “Funny. I don’t remember you being that brave without your crew around.”
Jag took another step forward. “Brave? You know why we picked you? It wasn’t just because you were weak. It was because you were Muslim. You didn’t belong. Not in that school. Not in that neighborhood. Not in this country.”
Rashid didn’t flinch. “Then I guess I should thank you—for teaching me exactly who I was dealing with.”
Jag chuckled. “All this talk. You think growing a beard and learning to punch makes you dangerous?”
“No,” Rashid said, stepping into Jag’s space now. “But burying men like you does.”
Jag’s smirk twisted into something darker. “You think this is a movie? You think you're the avenger now? This is real life. And in real life, men win, boys cry.”
“I agree. Boys cry,” Rashid said in a low voice as he placed his index finger on Jag’s chest and gently pushed him back.
Jag squared his shoulders. “We’ll see who cries today.”
They stood inches apart, tension radiating like heat. The crowd circled tighter. And then.…
Jag swung first. Rashid dodged it. Slip left, slip right. Jag kept coming towards Rashid with full force, but Rashid dodged each attack until suddenly he was on the ground. Jag had tripped him. The memory of Jag tripping him back in high school, then kicking his head while Rashid was on the ground, just a few hours before Rashid had found out about his father’s suicide flooded his mind. It made him angry but also reminded him of Jag's signature move. Before Jag could kick his face, Rashid rolled away and stood back up.
Now Rashid’s turn to dominate. Rashid threw a punch, followed by a quick cross, hook, and another hook. He attacked, overwhelming Jag. Out of every 5 punches that Rashid threw, he landed 3 of them. Out of every 5 punches Jag threw, he landed 1.
Finally, Rashid pinned Jag up against a wall with his left hand around Jag’s throat. Nims had finally gathered up the courage to get into the fight. He crept up behind Rashid with a weight plate in his hand. As he was about to attack Rashid, Jag glared at him and shook his head, signaling to Nims to stay out of the fight.
Rashid smiled and slightly cocked his head, “Good, take it like a man.”
Jag countered with a swift kick to Rashid’s side, trying to break free. Rashid held firm, so Jag twisted his body, swinging his left arm across in a tight arc to shove Rashid’s grip loose. It worked. Rashid’s hold broke, and Jag struck fast. A flurry of punches landed clean, driving Rashid back into a weight bench.
The gym erupted. Finally, the intruder was on the ropes. Order would soon be restored…or so they thought.
But Rashid wasn’t finished.
He wiped the blood from his lip, let out a low snicker, and sprang back into the fight. His movements were sharp, and deliberate. A blend of grit and control. He slipped past Jag’s next swing and snapped a jab straight into his opponent’s jaw.
The crowd’s mood shifted with every blow. Cheers exploded whenever Jag landed a punch. But when Rashid connected, the air filled with jeers and curses.
Jag, fueled by the crowd’s support, pressed harder, his fists flying in a blur of rage. But Rashid stood his ground. He wasn’t here to survive. He was here to end it.
A sudden surge of adrenaline pulsed through Rashid's veins. With a swift feint to the left, he baited Jag into an overextended lunge. Seizing the opportunity, Rashid pivoted on his heel, delivering a powerful uppercut that sent Jag reeling backward.
The resounding impact echoed through the gym, momentarily silencing the rowdy crowd. Rashid seized the momentum, driving Jag back with a flurry of blows that found their mark. Jag staggered, and tried to find his footing, but instead collapsed on the ground.
Rashid flexed his hands, shaking off the tension in his knuckles. The crowd’s eyes were fixed on Jag. They all wanted him to stand back on his feet and continue to fight.
In a sudden surge of desperation, Jag launched one final, reckless assault—a last-ditch effort. Rashid braced himself. As Jag pushed himself to his feet and lunged forward, Rashid slipped to the side and drove a clean jab into Jag’s chin. Jag’s momentum carried him straight into the blow.
And then it was over.
Jag crumpled to the floor, his breath ragged, his pride fractured. Rashid stood tall as the gym fell into stunned silence.
With a final glance at the defeated Jag, Rashid said, “Thank you, Jag. For this. You made my day.”
He turned and strode out of the gym, satisfied.
Two weeks after the fight, bruises still lingered on Jagan’s skin, a faint yellow shadow beneath his jaw. But the memory of the beating was far fresher than the wounds. He sat hunched on a bench in the darkened gym, one hand rubbing his sore jaw absentmindedly, as if trying to erase what Rashid had left behind.
Somewhere in the distance, the clang of iron plates rang out from the weight room, but here, by the ring, the air felt close and heavy.
The silence pressed in around Jagan, pulling his mind backward—back to the night it all began. When three white men jumped his uncle.
The parking lot behind the Punjabi grocery was nearly deserted, lit only by a flickering streetlamp and the tired glow of a red neon OPEN sign. A light rain had just passed through, leaving the asphalt slick and dark, with puddles reflecting warped patches of sky. A shopping cart stood abandoned near a curb, one wheel tilted at an angle, as if it too had given up.
Jaspreet Singh stepped out of the store, clutching a bag of basmati rice in one hand and a plastic bag full of vegetables and spices swinging gently in his other hand. He pulled his jacket tighter against the autumn chill. The lot was quiet, save for the hum of a distant engine and the faint buzz of insects near the streetlight.
He was halfway to his car when he noticed them. Three white men emerged as silhouettes against the faint light. One man was leaning against Jaspreet’s car, and the other two were glancing at him, eyes glassy with rage, and a bottle of some sort of alcohol wrapped in a brown paper bag in each of their hands.
Their faces were red and glistening as they stepped closer under the neon. One of them grinned, baring yellowed teeth.
“Where are you going, Taliban?” the leader sneered, his voice slurred.
Jaspreet froze. The parking lot suddenly felt smaller. He clutched the grocery bag tighter, fear hammering in his ears.
“I—I’m just trying to get home,” he said quietly, not meeting their eyes.
The men didn’t move. For a moment, there was only the sound of rain dripping from a gutter, the hum of a distant engine.
Then the leader stepped closer, too close.
“Home?” he echoed, tilting his head. “Let me help you with that.”
He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Jaspreet’s beard, yanking so hard that tears sprang to Jaspreet’s eyes.
“Please, brother—” Jaspreet gasped, trying to pull away.
A fist crashed into his stomach like a hammer. Air whooshed from his lungs. He doubled over, dropping the grocery bag. Rice spilled across the wet asphalt like pale sand.
“Nah, you’re not goin’ anywhere,” another voice said.
They dragged him deeper into the shadows, out of sight from the street. The air felt cold and damp against his back as they forced him down to his knees.
The largest man stepped forward—a broad-shouldered brute with red hair and a patchy goatee. His name was Frank Coltrane. His eyes glinted with a cruel light as he reached into his coat and pulled out a hunting knife.
The blade caught the neon glow, flashing silver and pink as Frank flipped it open.
“Gonna make you look American, asshole,” Frank hissed.
Jaspreet tried to shrink away, but rough hands pinned his shoulders. Frank grabbed a fistful of his beard, yanking his chin upward. The knife touched his skin, cold as ice.
Then Frank began sawing.
Laughter echoed off the walls as black strands fell to the filthy ground. The blade nicked the skin. Blood welled in thin red lines, trickling down Jaspreet’s throat and soaking into his shirt. His vision blurred with tears.
“Don’t move,” one of them whispered, breath hot and reeking of beer. “Or we’ll cut your throat.”
They left him crumpled across the far wall, beside the filth of a dumpster, gasping and trembling. He slowly pressed a shaking hand to his bleeding chin. His beard lay in a dark, tangled heap beside him. His chin was raw and bleeding, and his face was wet with tears.
He lay there for nearly an hour, blood drying on his chin, too stunned to move. It wasn’t until a shop owner spotted him crumpled near the curb and called the police that help finally arrived. An ambulance took him to the hospital, where nurses cleaned his wounds in silence and asked questions he barely heard.
After that night, Jag’s uncle rarely left the house alone again.
But the damage didn’t end there.
The cops had picked up Frank Coltrane the same night he and his friends jumped Jaspreet Singh behind the Punjabi grocery. But Frank was back on the streets forty-eight hours later, grinning like he owned Queens. Jagan remembered every detail of the arrest report—the ugly mugshot, the name printed in block letters beneath his photograph.
Frank made sure they didn’t forget him. Weeks later, he swaggered past the temple, red hair bright as rust under the streetlights, spitting on the sidewalk and calling them Taliban lovers.
The memory of that sound—the wet slap of spit hitting concrete—stayed with Jagan like a brand. The laugh. The contempt burning in Frank’s eyes.
Jagan had been just twelve years old when it happened.
He knew it had been white men who’d dragged his uncle into that alley and sliced away his beard. But in the months that followed, all he heard on TV was how Muslims were misunderstood. How they were the real victims.
Meanwhile, his uncle—once a man with a booming voice who’d carried Jagan on his shoulders as a child—hadn’t set foot outside without someone by his side in over twenty years. His songs had vanished. His laughter had turned to whispers.
Jagan grew up hearing his father speak of Partition riots, neighbors turning on neighbors with knives and fire. After 9/11, those stories felt alive again, thrumming in the air, scratching under his skin. To him, it was simple: If the Muslims hadn’t brought this heat, his uncle would never have been hurt. Somebody had to pay.
And unfortunately for Rashid, he became Jagan’s victim. The stand-in. The face Jagan could punch instead of choking on helpless rage. Every Muslim Jagan encountered, he tormented, driven by the memory of his uncle’s blood stained chin and humiliation.
A faint shuffle of footsteps cut through his thoughts. Rashid stepped out from the shadows by the ring ropes, moving like a ghost, eyes locked on Jagan. For a moment, he stood there in silence, arms folded across his chest, studying the man he’d beaten bloody days before.
“How’s the jaw?” Rashid asked, his voice low, deceptively calm.
Jagan slowly stood up, bruises still painting the side of his face. His knuckles flexed as he stepped closer, eyes blazing.
“You’ve got some nerve showing your face here,” he growled. “You think you can beat the hell out of me and stroll in like we’re old war buddies?”
Rashid gave a small shrug. “Pain has a way of clearing out the bullshit. I had to know if you’d hold up.”
Jagan barked out a bitter laugh. “Hold up? You think I’m ever gonna trust you, Muslim? After everything?”
The word shot out like a bullet, hard and sharp.
Rashid didn’t blink. His voice stayed even, edged with a note of something almost sympathetic. “That’s fair. You’ve got your reasons. After what happened to your uncle… how could you not hate me?”
Jagan rushed up against Rashid, fury blazing like a lit fuse. “Don’t you dare talk about my uncle. Don’t you fucking dare.”
Rashid held up a hand. “I’m not here to disrespect him. Or you. I’m here because we’ve both got enemies. And because I’ve got something I think you want.”
Jagan glared at him, chest heaving. Behind his eyes, memories flashed like lightning: his uncle on his knees in that filthy alley, beard hacked away, blood soaking through his clothes. The silence that had swallowed their house ever since. The way his uncle shrank from sunlight, afraid to meet neighbors’ eyes.
Jagan had spent years punching walls, men, anything that got close. Trying to bleed out the helplessness twisting in his gut like wire.
And he hated Rashid for reminding him that no matter how loudly he insisted he wasn’t Muslim, the world still spat at him, called him Taliban, looked at his turban and saw an enemy.
“I don’t want shit from you,” Jagan growled. “All I trust is my fists.”
Rashid tilted his head slightly. “And how far have your fists gotten you so far? Your uncle’s still a prisoner in his own house. The man who did that to him? Still breathing. Still laughing out there.”
Jagan opened his mouth to spit back a retort, but the words knotted in his throat.
Rashid stepped closer, voice dropping lower, almost intimate. “I know his name, Jagan. I know where he is. And I can help you reach him.”
Jagan’s face twisted, suspicion warring with something rawer—a glimmer of possibility, of hope as sharp as a blade.
“Why would you help me?” he demanded.
Rashid’s eyes darkened. “Because I don’t just want revenge for myself. I want it for every man who’s been beaten bloody because he wore a turban, or prayed the wrong way, or spoke the wrong language. You think I beat you because I hate you? No, Jagan. I beat you because I needed to know if you were strong enough to finish this with me.”
Jagan clenched his fists, muscles trembling. Part of him still wanted to swing on Rashid, to drive his fists into his ribs until he hit the floor. But another part—the part that woke up at night remembering his uncle’s hollow eyes—couldn’t ignore the door Rashid was opening.
And for the first time in years, Jagan realized that maybe his fists alone weren’t enough.
Rashid held his gaze, unwavering. “We both bleed the same color, brother. And we both deserve to see the men who hurt our families pay.”
Jagan looked away. For a long moment, he said nothing. His fists, still curled, trembled slightly at his sides. He wasn’t used to standing still. He wasn’t used to thinking before striking.
The old instinct screamed at him to reject this—to throw a punch, to spit in Rashid’s face, to protect what little pride he had left. But behind his ribs, something cracked open.
He saw his uncle again. Not the bloodied man in the alley, but the man who used to sing in the kitchen, loud and off-key. The man who used to lift him onto his shoulders during festivals.
That man was gone.
Jagan swallowed hard, the heat of rage cooling into something colder, sharper.
“Which one? There were three. Which one can you help me get.” he asked.
Rashid allowed the faintest of smiles. “Frank Coltrane. And he’s in Rikers. Where nobody will hear him scream.”
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