April 25, 1992
The Bombay sky was a bruised purple, heavy with the threat of another monsoon downpour. Shiva stood at the window of the apartment, the city's restless pulse filtering through the glass—honking rickshaws, the distant cry of a street vendor, the low rumble of a passing train. Inside, the air was stifling, thick with unspoken tension. Lakshmi moved silently in the kitchen, her back to him, while Ramesh sat at the table, his eyes fixed on a newspaper he hadn't turned in ten minutes. Meera was at school, her absence a small relief; her frightened glances had become harder to bear.
Shiva's fingers grazed the pouch of gold coins hidden in his pocket, their weight a quiet reassurance against the chaos of his thoughts. The Council's latest note—"The next lesson will not be so kind"—had burned itself into his mind, a warning that time was running out. His family was safe for now, but the fragile peace felt like a held breath, ready to shatter with the Council's next move. Vikram's words echoed in his head: You're shutting me out. Lakshmi's plea: You're not my son anymore. Each cut deeper than the last, but he couldn't stop—not when the Council's shadow loomed so large.
He needed power, not just to protect his family but to strike back. The gold was a start, but it wasn't enough. The stock market crash was imminent—Harshad Mehta's scam would unravel any day now, tanking the BSE Sensex (Moneycontrol, 1992). Shiva had pulled out just in time, but his gains were modest. To truly challenge the Council, he needed to think bigger, to leverage his future knowledge in ways he hadn't yet dared.
A plan was forming, fragile but audacious. The economic liberalization of 1991 was opening doors—foreign investment was trickling in, and companies like Infosys were on the cusp of explosive growth. If he could position himself early, invest in the right ventures, he could amass the wealth and influence to shield his family and unravel the Council's web. But it meant taking risks, stepping deeper into the world of high stakes and hidden players.
Shiva slipped out of the apartment, telling Lakshmi he was headed to the library. Instead, he made his way to a small, nondescript office in Fort, the heart of Bombay's financial district. The sign outside read Patel Investments, a brokerage he'd scouted for its reputation among small but savvy investors. The air inside was thick with the scent of ink and cigarette smoke, the walls lined with charts tracking the Sensex's erratic climb.
The broker, a wiry man named Anil Patel, looked up from his desk, his glasses glinting under the fluorescent light. "You again," he said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "What's the play this time, kid?"
Shiva placed the pouch of gold coins on the desk, the soft clink drawing Patel's attention. "I want to liquidate these and invest the proceeds. I'm looking at tech—software companies, specifically."
Patel's eyebrows shot up. "Tech? That's a niche market. Most people are chasing textiles or steel. Why software?"
"It's the future," Shiva said, his tone steady. He couldn't reveal his knowledge of the IT boom to come—Infosys's IPO in 1993, the Y2K frenzy, India's rise as a tech hub (NASSCOM, 1993). "I've done my research. Companies like Infosys and Wipro are poised for growth."
Patel leaned back, studying him. "You're either a genius or a fool. The gold's worth about 20,000 rupees at current rates. You sure you want to bet it all on a hunch?"
"It's not a hunch," Shiva replied, his voice firm. "Set up the investments. I'll take the risk."
Patel shrugged, pulling out a ledger. "Your funeral. But I'll need a few days to process the sale and place the orders."
Shiva nodded, a flicker of hope igniting. If this worked, it could be the foundation of his empire. But as he left the office, the familiar prickling sensation returned—a feeling of being watched. He scanned the bustling street—office workers, street vendors, a stray dog nosing through garbage—but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Yet the unease lingered, a whisper of the Council's presence.
Back at college, Shiva found Vikram waiting by the library steps, his arms crossed, his expression a mix of frustration and concern. "You're avoiding me again," Vikram said, blocking his path. "What happened to 'we're in this together'?"
Shiva's guilt flared, but he kept his tone even. "I've been busy, Vikram. Trying to keep my family safe."
"By shutting me out?" Vikram's voice rose, drawing glances from passing students. "I fought for you, Shiva. I deserve to know what's going on."
Shiva glanced around, lowering his voice. "Keep it down. I'm not shutting you out. I'm just… handling things."
"Handling things," Vikram echoed, his tone bitter. "Like you handled the factory? You almost got us killed. And now you're acting like nothing happened."
Shiva's jaw tightened. "I saved my family, Vikram. I'm doing what I have to."
"At what cost?" Vikram shot back. "You're different, Shiva. You're obsessed, secretive. It's like you're not even you anymore."
The words echoed Lakshmi's, a blade twisting in Shiva's chest. He wanted to tell Vikram everything—his rebirth, his mission, the Council's grip—but the risk was too great. "I'm still me," he said quietly. "I just have to do this alone."
Vikram shook his head, disappointment etched in his features. "Fine. But don't expect me to keep chasing you. I'm your friend, not your shadow."
As Vikram walked away, Shiva felt a fracture widen in his heart. Vikram was his anchor, the one constant from his past life. Losing him would be a wound he couldn't afford, but he couldn't stop now—not with the Council circling.
That afternoon, Shiva met Priya at a crowded tea stall near the community center. The air was thick with the aroma of brewing chai and frying pakoras, the chatter of patrons a shield against eavesdroppers. Priya sipped her tea, her eyes scanning the street with practiced caution.
"I've got something," she said, keeping her voice low. "My contacts came through. The factory in Byculla wasn't just a gang hideout. It's linked to a network of properties across Bombay—warehouses, old mansions, even a temple. They're all tied to a shell company called Vishrambaug Enterprises."
Shiva's pulse quickened. "The Council?"
"Maybe," Priya said. "The company's records are murky, but it's got connections to powerful people—politicians, businessmen, even a few cops. I tried digging deeper, but my source got spooked. Someone's watching them."
Shiva's mind raced. Vishrambaug Enterprises was a lead, a crack in the Council's armor. "Can you get me an address? Somewhere I can start looking?"
Priya hesitated, her expression wary. "I can try, but Shiva, this is bigger than you realize. These people don't just threaten—they erase. You go poking around, you're painting a target on your back."
"I already have one," Shiva said, his voice hard. "They took my family once. I won't let it happen again."
Priya studied him, then nodded. "Alright. I'll get you a list of properties. But you need to be smart about this. No more charging in blind."
"Deal," Shiva said, though he knew caution was a luxury he could scarcely afford.
That evening, as Shiva returned home, the apartment felt colder, the silence heavier. Lakshmi was in the kitchen, preparing dinner, but she didn't look up as he entered. Ramesh was at the table, his newspaper folded, his eyes fixed on Shiva with a mix of fear and resignation.
"We need to talk," Ramesh said, his voice low but firm.
Shiva sat, bracing himself. "What is it, Papa?"
Ramesh leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly. "Your mother and I have been talking. We're leaving Bombay. There's a cousin in Pune who can take us in. It's not safe here anymore."
Shiva's heart sank. "Leave? Papa, you can't—"
"We can, and we will," Ramesh interrupted, his tone unyielding. "You've brought trouble to our door, Shiva. We don't know how or why, but we can't live like this—jumping at every knock, waiting for those men to come back."
Lakshmi joined them, her eyes red-rimmed. "Meera's terrified, Shiva. She won't eat, won't sleep. We have to protect her."
Shiva's throat tightened, guilt and desperation warring within him. "I'm fixing this," he said, his voice shaking. "I have a plan—money, connections. I can keep you safe."
"Safe?" Lakshmi's voice broke. "You almost got us killed. Whatever you're doing, it's not worth our lives."
The words were a hammer blow, shattering his resolve. He wanted to argue, to tell them about the Council, his mission to save India—but the truth would only frighten them more. "Please," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Give me a little more time."
Ramesh shook his head. "We're leaving in a week. You can come with us, or you can stay. But this ends now."
As his parents walked away, Shiva sat frozen, the weight of their decision crushing him. The whisper of power he'd chased—through gold, stocks, plans—was slipping through his fingers. His family was slipping away, and with them, the very reason he fought.
That night, as he lay in bed, a new note appeared under his door, the All-Seeing Eye stark against the paper: "Choose wisely, Shiva. The clock is ticking." His blood ran cold. The Council was closing in, and his family's departure would only make them more vulnerable. He had to act—find their safehouses, expose their network—before it was too late.
But as he clutched the note, a darker thought took root: what if the power he sought came at the cost of everything he loved?
Foreshadow & Reflection
Unbeknownst to Shiva, the Council's next move was already unfolding, a trap woven with threads of betrayal and ambition. As he teetered on the edge of his resolve, a new figure watched from the shadows, their role in the game poised to shift the balance in ways Shiva could not yet foresee.