February 1, 1992
The morning sun filtered through the grimy windows of the small apartment, casting long shadows across the breakfast table. Shiva sat quietly, picking at his idli, his mind a whirlwind of calculations and memories. Across from him, his father, Ramesh, sipped his chai, eyes scanning the headlines of The Hindu. "More layoffs at the textile mills," Ramesh muttered, shaking his head. "This liberalization is supposed to bring prosperity, but all I see is uncertainty."
Lakshmi, his mother, placed a reassuring hand on Ramesh's shoulder. "We'll manage, dear. We always have." She turned to Shiva, her smile warm but tinged with concern. "And you, beta? You've been so quiet lately. Is everything alright?"
Shiva forced a smile, the weight of his secret pressing down on him. "Just thinking about college, Ma. Exams are coming up." It was a lie, but one that came easily. He couldn't tell them the truth—that he was plotting to change their fates, to save them from the tragedy that loomed in his memories.
Meera, his younger sister, bounced into the room, her schoolbag slung over one shoulder. "Shiva bhai, can you help me with my math homework later? I promise I'll finish my chores first!" Her enthusiasm was a stark contrast to the tension Shiva felt, a reminder of the innocence he was desperate to protect.
"Of course, Meera," he replied, ruffling her hair. "We'll tackle those fractions together."
As the family dispersed—Ramesh to the factory, Meera to school, and Lakshmi to her daily chores—Shiva lingered, his gaze fixed on the calendar. February 1, 1992. Time was slipping away, and he needed to act.
He grabbed his bag and headed out, the bustling streets of Bombay a cacophony of sounds and smells. Cycle rickshaws weaved through traffic, hawkers shouted their wares, and the air was thick with the scent of street food and exhaust fumes. Shiva navigated the chaos with purpose, his destination clear: a small, nondescript shop in the back alleys of Dadar, known to locals as a hub for illicit betting.
The shop was dimly lit, the air heavy with cigarette smoke and the murmur of hushed conversations. Behind the counter, a wiry man with a pencil mustache eyed Shiva suspiciously. "What do you want, kid?" he grunted.
Shiva straightened, channeling the confidence of his older self. "I want to place a bet on the cricket match—England versus India, World Cup, February 22nd."
The bookie's eyebrows shot up. "That's three weeks away. You sure about that?"
"Positive," Shiva replied, sliding a wad of notes across the counter—500 rupees, nearly all his savings. "England to win."
The bookie chuckled, taking the money. "Alright, but don't come crying when you lose. India's got Tendulkar, you know."
Shiva nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. He knew the outcome: India would lose by 9 runs, a fact etched in his memory from countless replays in his past life. But as he turned to leave, a burly man blocked his path, his face a mask of menace.
"You're new here," the man growled, his breath reeking of cheap liquor. "This is our territory. You want to play, you pay the fee."
Shiva's heart raced, but he kept his voice steady. "I just placed a bet. That's all."
The man leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. "We'll be watching you, kid. Don't get too clever."
Shiva slipped past him, the encounter leaving a chill down his spine. He recognized the type—foot soldiers for the local gangsters, the same ones who would soon target his family. He had to be careful; his actions were already rippling through the timeline.
Back at college, Shiva found Vikram lounging under a banyan tree, a dog-eared copy of The Fountainhead in his hands. "Shiva! Where've you been? You missed the debate on economic reforms. It was heated!"
"Sorry, had some errands," Shiva replied, sitting beside him. "What did I miss?"
Vikram launched into a spirited recap, but Shiva's mind wandered. He needed to accelerate his plans, to build a financial buffer before the storm hit. The betting was just the first step; next would be the stock market, riding the wave of the Harshad Mehta boom before it crashed in April.
"Shiva, you listening?" Vikram nudged him. "You seem distracted lately. Everything okay?"
Shiva hesitated, then decided to confide, at least partially. "Just worried about my family. There are some… troubles in the neighborhood."
Vikram's expression softened. "Those goons again? My uncle's shop got hit last week. They demanded protection money. It's getting worse."
Shiva nodded grimly. "I know. I wish there was something we could do."
"We could go to the police," Vikram suggested, but Shiva shook his head.
"They're in on it. We need a different approach." His mind raced—perhaps he could use his future knowledge to expose the corruption, but that was a dangerous path, one that required careful planning.
After classes, Shiva headed to the library, determined to uncover more about the Shadow Council. He sifted through newspapers and obscure journals, searching for any mention of the mysterious symbol he'd seen in Chapter 1. Finally, in a dusty tome on Indian mythology, he found a passage: "The All-Seeing Eye, a symbol of ancient wisdom, has been appropriated by secret societies throughout history, believed to wield influence over kings and empires." A chill ran through him. The Council was real, and their reach was vast.
As he left the library, dusk settling over the city, Shiva felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He glanced around, but the street was empty save for a stray dog rummaging through garbage. Yet the feeling persisted—a sense of being watched, of unseen eyes tracking his every move. Was it the gangsters, the Council, or just his imagination? He quickened his pace, the weight of his mission bearing down on him.
That night, as he lay in bed, the sounds of the city muted by the walls, Shiva's thoughts churned. He had taken the first step, but the path ahead was fraught with peril. Every action had consequences, and he was acutely aware that he was not the only player in this game. The shadows were stirring, and he knew that his resolve would soon be tested in ways he could not yet foresee.
Foreshadow & Reflection
Unbeknownst to Shiva, his bet had caught the attention of more than just the local gangsters. In a dimly lit room across the city, a figure studied a list of recent wagers, pausing at Shiva's name. The game was afoot, and the first move had been made.