🎉✨ HUGE SHOUT-OUT to Bad Timing! ✨🎉
🥳🙌 Thank you for the wonderful support ! ☕💖
**********************************************************
February 12, 1972 The Willingdon Sports Club, Bombay.
The Willingdon Sports Club was a monument to a British Raj that refused to acknowledge it had died twenty-five years ago. Set amidst acres of manicured emerald lawns in the heart of a suffocatingly crowded metropolis, it was a fortress of privilege. The waiters wore starched white uniforms with brass buttons, the teakwood floors were polished to a mirror finish, and the silence in the reading rooms was absolute.
This was where the old money of Bombay retreated to divide the spoils of the nation. It was a place where entry was dictated not merely by wealth, but by pedigree.
Rudra Pratap did not have the pedigree. But he had an invitation.
He walked across the shaded veranda, his charcoal-grey suit perfectly tailored but deliberately devoid of any flashy accessories. Beside him walked Ashwin Dalal, clutching a slim, black leather briefcase. Ashwin looked nervous, constantly adjusting his glasses. He was a brilliant strategist, but stepping into the Willingdon felt like stepping into the lion's den of the Indian elite.
"Breathe, Ashwin," Rudra murmured, his voice barely carrying over the gentle clinking of porcelain teacups from the nearby tables. "They are just men. They bleed spreadsheets and sweat profit margins, same as anyone else."
"Arun Mahajan is not just anyone, Mr. Pratap," Ashwin whispered back. "He practically wrote the import quotas for the chemical sector. Half the Cabinet ministers in Delhi owe his family money."
"Which makes him a structural load-bearing pillar," Rudra replied smoothly as they approached a secluded table overlooking the eighteenth hole of the golf course. "And when you own the pillar, you own the roof."
Arun Mahajan was already seated. He was a man in his late fifties, possessing a thick mane of silver hair and an aristocrat's posture. He wore a crisp linen blazer and a silk cravat, looking entirely relaxed. A crystal glass of imported single malt sat on the table before him, catching the late afternoon sun.
He did not stand when Rudra approached. He merely offered a patronizing, tight-lipped smile.
"Mr. Pratap. And... an associate," Mahajan said, his gaze dismissing Ashwin entirely. "I must admit, I was surprised when you requested this meeting. Usually, when a young man survives his first real test in the city, he throws a party. He doesn't seek an audience with his betters."
Rudra pulled out a chair and sat down uninvited. Ashwin remained standing slightly behind him, placing the black briefcase flat on the table.
"I didn't come to seek an audience, Mr. Mahajan," Rudra said, his voice calm, devoid of any anger over the failed union strike. "I came to offer you a lifeline."
Mahajan chuckled, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. It was a rich, throaty laugh of a man who believed he was utterly untouchable. "A lifeline? My dear boy, I think the victory at the Malad factory has gone to your head. You outsmarted Kelkar and his union thugs with a clever parade. Congratulations. But do not mistake surviving a street brawl for winning a war. S.N. Bhaskar in Delhi is still my friend. The banks are still my friends. You have a factory, yes. But let us see how long you can keep it running when your raw material quotas are mysteriously delayed for the next three years."
Mahajan leaned forward, the smile fading into a cold, hard sneer. "You are a guest in my city, Pratap. You have overstepped. Surrender your experimental license, sell the Malad facility to my consortium at a reasonable discount, and I will allow you to return to Nagpur with your logistics company intact."
Rudra looked at the older man. In his previous life, this exact breed of entitled, monopolistic billionaire had systematically dismantled his dreams, using the government as a personal bludgeon. He felt a familiar, icy rage in his chest, but the System had taught him that anger without leverage was useless.
Rudra didn't speak. He simply raised two fingers slightly.
Ashwin unclasped the briefcase. The sharp click-clack of the metal locks was the only sound at the table. He pulled out a single, thick manila folder and slid it across the polished table until it rested right next to Mahajan's whiskey glass.
"What is this?" Mahajan asked, glancing at it with mild distaste. "If this is a lawsuit regarding the union protest, save your breath. No judge in Bombay will hear it."
"It is not a lawsuit," Rudra said softly. "It is your obituary. Open it."
Mahajan hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his aristocratic features. He picked up the folder and opened the cover.
The first page was a heavily stamped document from the Gujarat State Water Board, but it possessed a secondary, unauthorized seal. It was a toxicity analysis report.
"My intelligence division has spent the last week looking very closely at your crown jewel—the Vapi Petrochemical Plant in Gujarat," Rudra began, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. "It is a highly profitable facility. But we noticed an anomaly in your operational costs. Specifically, your waste disposal expenditures are eighty percent lower than the industry standard for a plant processing heavy heavy-metal solvents."
Mahajan's face began to lose its color. He turned the page.
"We wondered how that was possible," Ashwin took over, his voice steadying as he stepped into his element. "So, we traced the underground outflow pipes from your facility. You are not treating the toxic effluent, Mr. Mahajan. You are dumping it directly into the Damanganga River. We have chemical soil samples, photographic evidence of the bypass valves, and the sworn, recorded testimony of the local sub-magistrate whom you have been bribing ten thousand rupees a month to ignore the dead fish."
Mahajan swallowed hard. "This... this proves nothing. Environmental regulations are suggestions in this country. A fine, at best."
"In 1965, perhaps," Rudra countered. "But not today. Not when the Prime Minister is trying to build a populist, pro-farmer image. If the farmers of Gujarat find out that a Bombay billionaire is poisoning their irrigation water to save a few rupees, there will be riots that make your little union strike look like a picnic."
Rudra tapped the folder. "But keep reading. The environmental damage is just the moral failing. The next section details the real crime."
Mahajan's trembling hands turned to the third section. It was a series of bank statements. International bank statements.
"Through our financial contacts in Singapore and London," Ashwin continued, adjusting his glasses, "we tracked the 'consulting fees' paid by your Vapi plant to a shell company in the Isle of Man. You have been systematically over-invoicing your import of base chemicals and siphoning the surplus foreign exchange into a private account. Massive violations of the Foreign Exchange Regulation Act."
Mahajan dropped the folder. He looked like a man who had suddenly suffered a massive coronary event. The arrogance, the smug superiority of the old money—it vanished, replaced by the sheer, naked terror of an old man facing a life sentence in a federal prison.
"If I hand this file to the Enforcement Directorate," Rudra said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet register, "you will not just lose your companies. You will lose your estates, your clubs, and your freedom. S.N. Bhaskar will not save you. He will deny he ever knew your name."
The silence returned to the table. The distant sound of a golf club striking a ball echoed across the manicured lawns.
"What do you want?" Mahajan whispered. His voice was hoarse, defeated. He reached for his whiskey, but his hand shook so badly the crystal clinked against his teeth. "Money? Do you want me to buy the file?"
"I don't need your money, Arun," Rudra said, deliberately using the man's first name to strip away the final layer of hierarchy. "I need your utility."
Rudra leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "My electronics division needs highly refined trichloroethylene and specialized resin compounds. My textile mills need a steady supply of synthetic dyes. You produce all of these. From today, Mahajan Chemicals will supply Pratap Industries with these materials at a priority allocation, priced strictly at manufacturing cost. No markup. No delays."
"At cost?" Mahajan gasped. "That will wipe out the profit margins of three of my factories."
"Your profit margins are no longer my concern. Your survival is," Rudra stated coldly. "Furthermore, you are going to pick up the telephone tomorrow morning and call your friend S.N. Bhaskar in Delhi. You are going to tell him that you have reviewed my Malad project and find it to be a vital national interest. You will use your political capital to ensure that my experimental license is converted to a permanent one without any further bureaucratic delays."
Mahajan looked at the young man sitting across from him. He had spent his life playing chess with the other billionaires of Bombay, carefully trading favors and manipulating import quotas. But Rudra Pratap wasn't playing chess. He had simply walked up to the board and set it on fire.
"You are turning me into a vassal," Mahajan said bitterly. "A supplier for your empire."
"I am turning you into a silent partner in a conglomerate that is going to modernize this country," Rudra corrected him, standing up. He buttoned his suit jacket. "You get to keep your membership at the Willingdon. You get to keep your mansions and your prestige. But make no mistake, Arun. If you ever try to interfere with my factories again, or if my supply chain experiences even a one-day delay... I will destroy your legacy so thoroughly that your grandchildren will have to change their names."
Rudra looked at Ashwin, giving a brief nod.
Ashwin reached forward, leaving the copied folder on the table, but snapping his black briefcase shut.
"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Mahajan," Ashwin said, allowing himself a small, professional smile.
Rudra turned and walked away from the table, not waiting for a reply. He navigated the lush carpets of the club's interior, stepping out into the blinding Bombay sunlight where the black Vajra SUV was waiting.
As they settled into the plush leather seats, Ashwin let out a massive, shaky breath, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
"I cannot believe that worked, Mr. Pratap," Ashwin breathed. "He looked like he was going to pass out. We just secured the entire chemical supply chain for the Malad plant without spending a single rupee in capital."
Rudra looked out the tinted window as the SUV merged into the chaotic traffic of Haji Ali.
The old kings of the License Raj were falling, one by one. First Sikka through brute financial force, and now Mahajan through intelligence and leverage. The foundation of the enterprise was finally secure.
"It worked because men like Mahajan only understand power that is handed down to them," Rudra said quietly. "They don't know how to fight men who build their power from the ground up."
Rudra closed his eyes, the hum of the System fading into the background. The battles for the city were over. Now, they had to deliver the future.
"Call Homi Vakil when we get to the office, Ashwin," Rudra instructed. "Tell him the supply line is secure. Tell him I want the Pratap-1 chip functioning on my desk by the monsoon."
Want to know what happens next? Read 15 chapters ahead at:
Patreon : patreon.com/Inkstory05Â
Ko-fi : ko-fi.com/inkstory
(Want to support without a subscription? One-time tips are always welcome via Ko-fi.)
Thank you so much for reading!