Date: November 10–15, 1992
Location: Bangalore and Colaba, Bombay, India
The auto-rickshaw jolted to a stop on Whitefield's dusty main road, Bangalore's November sun baking the earth. Shiva, 18, stepped out, boots crunching gravel, the tang of eucalyptus sharp in his nose. November 10, 1992, 2:00 PM. His 2025 memories burned bright: this scrubland would become an IT goldmine—glass towers, land at ₹2,000 per sq.ft. by 2005. Now, it was a forgotten patch, ₹50 per sq.ft., a fortune for those who saw tomorrow. Kumar's shack loomed ahead, tin roof glinting, a hand-painted sign: Kumar Real Estate. Inside, the agent, a wiry Tamil with a Gold Flake cigarette, sized up Shiva's faded kurta.
"Plot's 1,000 sq.ft.," Kumar rasped, ash falling. "₹50,000, cash. You got it, boy?"
Shiva's bag held the sum: ₹15,000 from Infosys dividends—100 shares sold at ₹15 last month—and ₹35,000 borrowed from a Colaba moneylender at 15% interest, due 1994. Risky, but Whitefield was a sure bet. "Half now, half on papers," Shiva said, his 2025-honed edge cutting through. Kumar's eyes gleamed—greed, not trust.
"Full payment, or I walk," Kumar shot back. "Big clients waiting." A bluff; Whitefield was a nobody's dream. Shiva slid ₹25,000 across, notes crisp, deliberate. "Half now, half tomorrow. I stay here tonight." Kumar scowled, but the cash vanished into his pocket, a grumbled curse trailing.
Night draped Bangalore in a chill shroud. Shiva lay on a creaking charpoy, stars piercing the shack's cracked roof. Kumar's coughs rasped next door, a restless guard. Morning broke, November 11, 8:00 AM—papers signed, deed stamped. The plot was his: a dusty square of promise, the first brick in his empire.
Back in Bombay, November 13, 6:00 PM, Colaba's alleys reeked of fish and salt. Lakshmi's dal bubbled, Priya's eyes stabbed. "Another trip, Shiva? IIT's in two weeks," she snapped, glaring at his bag. Ramesh's silence loomed, heavy as monsoon clouds. Shiva's tin held ₹500—too little for Bala's debt, Kalia's ₹1,500 demand unpaid since April.
November 14, 9:00 PM, Chai Corner glowed dimly. Shiva dodged it, but fate struck. Kalia emerged, scar gleaming, two goons in tow. "Bala's waiting," he growled, shoving Shiva into an Ambassador, ₹50 to a dockside warehouse. Bala sat inside, squat and menacing, gold rings flashing, eyes twin voids. "Colaba rat," he sneered, voice slick as oil. "Whitefield, eh? My cut's ₹20,000 now, or I take the land."
Shiva's stomach iced—how did Bala know? The moneylender? Kumar? "I've got ₹500," he choked, 2025's crash flaring—flames, screams. Bala's laugh cut deep. "Then you're mine, runner boy. Or I carve Priya's name on you." Knives glinted, goons closing.
Then she came—the beggar woman, rags swaying, eyes bottomless. "Rakta bindu, mrita suta," she chanted, voice a storm. The air thickened, shadows twisting. Bala flinched, rings clattering as he staggered back. "Witch!" he spat, fleeing with his men, terror swallowing their bravado.
She faced Shiva, smile sharp as a sickle. "Blood buys power, boy. Yours or theirs. Choose." His 2025 death roared—had he struck a deal with the void? He tossed her ₹100, bolting into the night, her laugh clawing his spine.
Home, November 15, 7:00 AM, Lakshmi's puja bells rang. Priya cornered him, waving the Whitefield deed—found in his bag. "Land? With what money, Shiva?" Her voice broke, Ramesh's steps nearing. "Investment," he said, steel masking fear. "For us. Trust me." Priya's tears fell, but she nodded, a brittle peace. Ramesh loomed, silent, the weight crushing.
The tin held ₹400—Bala's debt a noose, the beggar's words a blade. IIT loomed, November 25, a new war. Shiva's empire rose, but the void's grip tightened. His 2025 soul hissed: Ascent costs blood. Pay, or burn.