January 15, 1992
Shiva awoke with a jolt, his breath ragged, as if he'd been pulled from the jaws of death itself. The room was cloaked in the soft gray of dawn, light seeping through threadbare curtains. He lay motionless, his chest heaving, trying to anchor himself. The mattress beneath him was thin and lumpy, not the plush comfort of his 2025 apartment. A faint whiff of sandalwood incense mingled with the distant aroma of frying onions—his mother's cooking. His mother? His heart stuttered. That couldn't be right.
He sat up, the wooden bedframe creaking under his weight, and surveyed the space. A cluttered desk stood in one corner, stacked with dog-eared textbooks—Physics, Mathematics—their spines worn from his teenage diligence. Faded posters of Kapil Dev and Sachin Tendulkar adorned the walls, curling at the edges. Through the small window, the chaotic hum of Bombay's streets filtered in: honking rickshaws, vendors hawking their wares, the clatter of life in 1992. This was his childhood bedroom, untouched by the decades he'd lived through.
But how? His mind reeled, grasping at the last memory he held: 2025, a darkened room, the glint of a blade, and the Shadow Council's final betrayal. He'd died—hadn't he? His hands flew to his chest, expecting the phantom sting of steel, but found only the steady thump of a younger heart. He stumbled to the mirror, legs unsteady, and froze. Staring back was an eighteen-year-old Shiva: lean, sharp-jawed, with dark hair falling into eyes that carried a weight no teenager should bear. The reflection was a ghost of his past, yet here he stood, alive.
A tidal wave of realization crashed over him. He hadn't just survived—he'd been reborn, thrust back to January 15, 1992, with every memory of his future intact. The stock market crashes, the tech booms, the wars, the betrayals—all of it burned into his mind like a photographic negative. He could rewrite it all, save those he'd lost, and fulfill his dream: to forge India into a global superpower, a titan to rival the USA and China combined. But the cost of that dream loomed in his thoughts, a shadow he couldn't yet face.
A soft knock shattered his reverie. "Shiva, beta, are you up? Breakfast is ready," came his mother's voice, warm and alive. Lakshmi. He hadn't heard her in thirty-three years, not since the gangsters had silenced her in a petty extortion gone wrong.
"Yes, Ma. Coming," he called back, his voice cracking slightly. He dressed in a hurry—cotton shirt, worn trousers—and stepped into the living room. The sight hit him like a punch: his family, whole and breathing. Ramesh, his father, sat hunched over The Times of India, muttering about factory layoffs. Lakshmi set a plate of steaming dosas on the table, her sari swaying as she moved. Meera, his twelve-year-old sister, chattered about a school play, her laughter a melody he'd forgotten.
Shiva slid into his chair, forcing a smile as he ate. Every bite was laced with dread—he knew their fates. The gangsters would come for Ramesh's savings, Lakshmi would resist, and Meera… He clenched his jaw. Not this time. He had the knowledge to stop it, but doubt gnawed at him. Could he outmaneuver fate itself?
Ramesh folded the paper, frowning. "Heard those thugs roughed up Gupta-ji last week. Demanded protection money. Bombay's getting worse."
Lakshmi's hands stilled. "We should tell someone—maybe the police?"
"The police?" Ramesh scoffed. "They're as crooked as the goons. Best we stay quiet."
Shiva's grip tightened on his glass. He remembered the gang—lowlife enforcers tied to corrupt politicians. In his past life, they'd been the spark that ignited his family's ruin. Now, he saw the threads: the economic liberalization of '91 was stirring unrest, empowering criminals as much as capitalists (The Hindu, 1991). He could use that chaos, turn it to his advantage.
Breakfast ended, and Shiva grabbed his bag for college. The walk through Bombay was a sensory flood: diesel fumes, street hawkers shouting over traffic, posters heralding P.V. Narasimha Rao's reforms. India stood at a crossroads, its economy cracking open to the world. Shiva knew what lay ahead—Infosys's IPO in '93, the internet's rise, the Harshad Mehta scam (Moneycontrol, 1993; India Today, 1992). Opportunities glittered like shards of glass, sharp and waiting.
At Wilson College, he found Vikram lounging by the library, all easy grins and tousled hair. "Shiva! You look like hell. Bad night?"
"Something like that," Shiva replied, masking his turmoil. Vikram—his moral compass, his tether—had been a casualty of Shiva's ambition in the old timeline. Not again.
"Dreams again?" Vikram teased, falling into step. "Let's survive Professor Rao's lecture first. He's obsessed with these new policies."
Class was a blur. Rao droned about liberalization's promise—foreign investment, industrial growth—but Shiva's mind churned with plans. He could bet on cricket matches (Cricinfo, 1992), play the stock market, anything to build capital fast. But every move had to be precise; one slip could draw the wrong eyes.
At lunch, a flyer caught his attention: "Lecture on Ancient Indian Mysticism, Jan 20th." Below the text, a symbol—an eye within a triangle. His blood ran cold. The Shadow Council. In 2025, they'd been his end, a cabal wielding power through secrets and blood. Were they here already, in '92? He turned away, pulse hammering, and headed to the library.
There, he tested his memory. A newspaper confirmed the date—January 15, 1992—its headlines buzzing with reform optimism. He recalled India's '92 Australia tour, a losing streak with fleeting heroics (Cricinfo, 1992). A betting scheme flickered in his mind, but caution stayed his hand. Then he spotted a book: Mysteries of Ancient India. That damned symbol again. A passage read, "The Shadow Council's influence spans centuries, their All-Seeing Eye a mark of dominion." He snapped it shut. They were real, and they were close.
That night, in his room, Shiva mapped his future. Notebook pages filled with dates: Mumbai blasts '93, Pokhran tests '98, the 2008 crash. Companies like Infosys, political shifts like the BJP's rise—all tools for his empire. But the Council's shadow loomed, and with it, the fragility of his family's lives.
He clenched his fists, resolve hardening. He'd save them, build India into a colossus, and crush anyone in his path. Doubt whispered—could he bear the cost?—but he shoved it aside. Sleep came fitfully, the weight of two lifetimes pressing down.
Foreshadow & Reflection: Unbeknownst to Shiva, his rebirth had rippled through unseen realms, alerting forces that thrived on chaos. The game had begun, and the price of victory would soon demand its first payment.