February 22, 1992
The air in the small living room was thick with anticipation as the family gathered around the old black-and-white television. The screen flickered, casting a ghostly glow on their faces. It was the day of the cricket match—India versus England in the World Cup—and Shiva's bet hung in the balance. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his fingers drumming nervously on his knee, while Meera bounced beside him, her excitement palpable.
"Come on, India! We can do it!" she cheered, her eyes glued to the screen.
Ramesh, his father, leaned back in his chair, a rare smile playing on his lips. "Tendulkar's in form. Maybe we'll pull off a win."
Lakshmi, his mother, bustled in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "I made some chai. Who wants a cup?"
Shiva accepted the steaming mug, the warmth a small comfort against the tension coiling in his gut. He knew the outcome—India would lose by 9 runs—but the knowledge did little to ease his nerves. This was his first test, a gamble not just on the match but on his ability to navigate the future.
As the game progressed, the room filled with cheers and groans. India's batting collapsed, and England's bowlers dominated. Meera's enthusiasm waned, her shoulders slumping with each wicket. Ramesh muttered under his breath, while Lakshmi tried to keep spirits high with encouraging words.
Finally, the match ended, and the television announcer confirmed England's victory. Meera pouted, but Shiva exhaled slowly, a mix of relief and dread washing over him. He'd won the bet, but the real challenge was yet to come.
The next day, Shiva returned to the betting shop, his heart pounding as he approached the counter. The wiry bookie eyed him with a mix of surprise and grudging respect. "Well, kid, you called it. England won."
Shiva nodded, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'd like to collect my winnings."
The bookie counted out the notes—1,500 rupees, triple his original stake. As Shiva pocketed the money, the burly man from before stepped forward, his shadow looming over the counter.
"Not bad, kid. But remember, we take a cut. Twenty percent."
Shiva's jaw tightened. He'd anticipated this, but the reality of dealing with these thugs was still jarring. "Fine," he said, handing over 300 rupees.
The man pocketed the cash with a smirk. "Smart move. We'll be keeping an eye on you."
As Shiva left the shop, the weight of the remaining 1,200 rupees felt heavy in his pocket. It was a start, but he needed more—much more—to protect his family and build his empire. His next move was the stock market, riding the Harshad Mehta boom before it crashed in April.
Back at college, Shiva found Vikram in the library, poring over a stack of books. "Shiva! Where've you been? You missed the economics lecture."
"Had some business to take care of," Shiva replied, sliding into the seat beside him.
Vikram raised an eyebrow. "Business? What kind of business?"
Shiva hesitated, then decided to share a sliver of the truth. "I placed a bet on the cricket match. Won some money."
Vikram's eyes widened. "You're kidding! How much?"
"Enough to start investing," Shiva said, keeping his tone casual. "I'm thinking of buying some stocks."
Vikram leaned forward, intrigued. "Stocks? Like, in the market? Do you even know how that works?"
"I've been reading up," Shiva lied. In truth, his knowledge came from decades of experience, but he couldn't reveal that. "There's a lot of potential right now, with the economy opening up."
Vikram nodded thoughtfully. "My dad's been talking about it. He says it's risky, but there's money to be made if you're smart."
"Exactly," Shiva agreed. "I'm going to be smart about it."
After classes, Shiva headed to a small brokerage firm he'd scouted earlier. The office was cramped, the air thick with the scent of ink and paper. A bespectacled broker looked up from his desk, his expression skeptical as Shiva approached.
"I'd like to open an account," Shiva said, placing his winnings on the counter.
The broker eyed the cash, then Shiva. "You're a bit young for this, aren't you?"
"I'm eighteen," Shiva replied firmly. "And I have the money."
The broker shrugged. "Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you. The market's volatile these days."
Shiva filled out the forms, his hand steady despite the flutter in his chest. He knew the risks, but he also knew the opportunities. He invested in ACC and Tisco, two stocks he remembered soaring in the coming months before the crash (Moneycontrol, 1992).
As he left the brokerage, a sense of accomplishment washed over him. He was taking control, shaping his destiny. But the encounter with the gangsters lingered in his mind, a reminder that danger lurked around every corner.
That evening, as he walked home, the streets of Bombay seemed darker, the shadows longer. He couldn't shake the feeling of being followed, the prickling sensation on his neck returning. He quickened his pace, glancing over his shoulder, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
At dinner, the family gathered once more, the mood lighter than it had been in weeks. Ramesh shared a rare joke, and Meera giggled, her laughter a balm to Shiva's frayed nerves. But as they ate, a knock echoed through the apartment, sharp and insistent.
Lakshmi frowned, wiping her hands on a towel. "Who could that be at this hour?"
Ramesh rose, his expression wary. "I'll check."
Shiva's heart raced as he followed his father to the door. Through the peephole, he saw two men—rough-looking, with hardened faces. Gangsters.
Ramesh opened the door a crack. "Yes?"
One of the men, a scar running down his cheek, spoke gruffly. "We're here to collect. You know the drill."
Ramesh's face paled. "I… I don't have the money right now. Please, give me more time."
The man's eyes narrowed. "You've had enough time. Pay up, or there will be consequences."
Shiva stepped forward, his voice steady despite the fear clawing at his throat. "How much does he owe?"
The man glanced at Shiva, surprised. "Five thousand rupees."
Shiva reached into his pocket, pulling out his winnings. "Here's twelve hundred. Take it as a down payment. We'll get the rest soon."
The man hesitated, then snatched the money. "Fine. But you have one week for the rest. Don't make us come back."
As the door closed, Ramesh turned to Shiva, his eyes wide with shock and gratitude. "Shiva, where did you get that money?"
"I won it," Shiva said simply. "And I'll get more. Don't worry, Papa. I'll take care of it."
Lakshmi embraced him, tears in her eyes. "Oh, Shiva, you're too young for this burden."
But Shiva knew he wasn't too young. He was a man out of time, armed with knowledge and driven by a purpose greater than any of them could imagine. As he lay in bed that night, the weight of his mission pressed down on him. He had bought them time, but the clock was ticking. The gangsters would return, and he needed to be ready.
Unbeknownst to Shiva, across the city, in a dimly lit room adorned with ancient symbols, a figure studied a dossier. The name "Shiva" was circled in red, a question mark beside it. The game was indeed afoot, and the pieces were moving into place.
Foreshadow & Reflection
As Shiva drifted into a restless sleep, dreams plagued him—visions of a future yet to come, of triumphs and tragedies intertwined. Little did he know that his actions had already set in motion events that would test his resolve and challenge his very soul.