Date: May 10–August 20, 1992
Location: Colaba, Bombay, and Bangalore, India
The JEE hall in Colaba was a furnace, May 10, 1992, 9:00 AM. Ceiling fans creaked, stirring humid air thick with pencil scratches and sweat. Shiva sat, pen in hand, 2025's knowledge a blade—Lagrange multipliers slicing calculus, Fourier series bending physics. The IIT Bombay seat, computer science, was his ticket to the IT boom, a step beyond cricket bets. Around him, boys faltered, brows creased; Shiva's answers flowed, precise as a surgeon's cut. By 1:00 PM, he walked out, sun searing Bombay's asphalt, victory a quiet ember. Results June 15: Rank 87, IIT secured. Ramesh's grunt was cold, Priya's eyes sharper still.
Home was a fracture. Priya, now 16, watched him count ₹15,920 from the tin—World Cup wins, minus bribes. "IIT won't erase lies," she spat, voice low, Lakshmi's radio masking it. Ramesh, tie loosened, muttered, "Prove it's not gambling money." Shiva's cheek still stung from March's slap; he met their stares with ice. "Watch me," he said, 2025's steel in his tone. The tin dwindled—₹200 for Arihant books, ₹50 for bus fares—but Infosys loomed, ₹5,000 for 500 shares, a fortune by 1997.
August 19, 6:00 PM, Victoria Terminus buzzed—hawkers, chai fumes, Siddhivinayak Express's horn. Shiva boarded, ₹200 ticket, a 24-hour haul to Bangalore. The carriage rattled, windows framing Bombay's fade into Konkan dusk. Anil's contact, Mehta & Sons, waited—Infosys shares, ₹10 each, pre-IPO gold. His bag held ₹5,500—cricket's last scraps, JEE tutoring fees—enough for shares and fare back. Sleep eluded him; Kalia's April threat gnawed—₹1,500 unpaid. Bala's thug could track him anywhere.
August 20, 9:00 AM, Bangalore Cantonment station spat him into dust and heat. Auto-rickshaws whined, ₹30 to St. Mark's Road. Mehta & Sons' office was a narrow den—ceiling fan whirring, a clerk in a kurta eyeing him. "Student investor," Shiva lied, voice smooth. "Anil sent me." The clerk nodded, papers rustling. Infosys shares, ₹10 each, 500 units—₹5,000. Shiva counted notes, hands steady, receipt stamped 11:00 AM. By 1997, ₹1 lakh; by 2010, crores. The clerk's smile was thin. "Smart boy. Don't trip."
Outside, Bangalore's air was drier, promise in its sprawl. Whitefield's plots called—₹50 per sq.ft., 1,000 sq.ft. for ₹50,000—but that was November's hunt. Now, lunch: a roadside stall, ₹10 for idli-vada, chai steam curling. Then a shadow fell—Kalia, scar glinting, bidi smoke coiling. "Colaba rat," he growled, stepping from an alley. "Bala's done waiting. ₹5,000, now, or I carve you here."
Shiva's pulse spiked, 2025's crash flashing—flames, screams. His bag held ₹500 loose, shares safe in a hidden flap. No crowd, no cops—St. Mark's Road was a trap. "Student, bhai," he said, fishing ₹500. "Take this, I'll—"
Kalia's fist swung, grazing his jaw. "Full amount!" Pain bloomed, but Shiva ducked the next blow, stumbling back. Then she appeared—the beggar woman, rags swaying, eyes voids. Her voice rasped, a chant older than cities: "Kshetra rakta, mrita bandha." Kalia froze, scar paling, bidi dropping. "Witch!" he choked, bolting into Bangalore's maze, her words a whip.
She turned to Shiva, smile a splinter. "The void claims its own, boy. Threads snap soon." His 2025 death roared—fire, glass—and he tossed her ₹20, fleeing to Cantonment, heart a drum. The train back, August 20, 9:00 PM, was a lifeline, Bangalore shrinking. Colaba's flat welcomed him August 21, 6:00 AM, Lakshmi's dawn puja a faint hum.
The tin now held ₹15,420—cricket's ₹15,920 minus books, fares, shares. Priya's glare met him, Ramesh's silence heavier. "Bangalore trip," Shiva said, preempting her. "IIT prep seminar." Her lips thinned; she knew lies stacked like cards. He collapsed on his cot, shares' receipt a talisman, Kalia's fist a bruise. The beggar's chant echoed—ally or doom? The void watched, its claws in his dreams—car wreckage, a laugh from nowhere.
Whitefield's land was next, November 10, ₹50,000 for 1,000 sq.ft., Bangalore's future tech vein. But Kalia's hunt and the beggar's shadow tightened the web. Shiva's empire rose, yet each step sank him deeper into something older, hungrier. His 2025 soul whispered: Ascent has a price.