Date: February 23–March 3, 1992
Location: Colaba and Churchgate, Bombay, India
Chai Corner's lantern glow cut through Colaba's dusk, a beacon in the fish-reeking haze. February 23, 1992, 7:00 PM. Shiva, 18, lingered across the street, pulse quick as a trapped sparrow. His first bet—₹1,000 on England over India, Perth's World Cup opener—had hit true. England's 226 to India's 217, a 9-run choke, exactly as his 2025 memories foretold. Botham's swing, Jadeja's run-out—it played like a script he'd written. Now, ₹1,800 waited with Raju Bhai, ₹800 profit. A spark for his empire, if he could claim it without snapping the thread.
The tea stall buzzed—dockworkers slurping chai, a transistor radio crowing England's win. Raju, paan-stained and gold-chained, counted notes under the counter, his Parle-G tin open like a trap. Shiva's scout of the docks had whispered Raju's ties to Bala, a don whose goons patrolled Sassoon's alleys. A kid collecting big could spark questions—or worse.
Shiva adjusted his kurta, stepping into the light. The radio looped Doordarshan's jingle—"Bharat ka World Cup!"—as Raju's eyes flicked up, narrowing. "Bicycle boy," he grunted, spitting paan, red flecking the dirt. "Lucky, eh?"
"Lucky," Shiva echoed, voice pitched young, nervous. His 2025 mind hissed: He smells blood. "Got my winnings, bhai?"
Raju slid ₹1,800 across, notes crumpled, his stare heavier than the cash. "England, 1.8 odds. Smart pick for a schoolboy. What's next, hmm? Got a crystal ball?"
Shiva pocketed the money, forcing a shrug. "Just read Sportstar." The lie felt thin—Raju's smirk said he wasn't buying. A shadow moved behind the stall, a lanky man with a scar on his neck. Kalia, Bala's thug, dock gossip warned. Shiva's gut twisted. Too many eyes.
He turned to leave, but Kalia stepped closer, bidi smoke curling from his lips. "Kid," he rasped, voice like gravel, "lucky boys pay tax. ₹500, now."
The stall froze, porters glancing away. Shiva's 2025 instincts screamed—pay or run, not fight. He fished out ₹100, heart pounding. "All I got, bhai. Student, you know."
Kalia snatched it, leaning in, breath sour. "Next time, more. Bala don't like stingy kids." He melted into the crowd, but his scar burned in Shiva's mind.
Slipping into Colaba's alleys, Shiva clutched the ₹1,700 left. The beggar woman was there, by the paan shop, her gaze piercing. "Thread's tight, boy," she croaked, unprompted. "Snip it, or it chokes." Shiva froze—her words echoed his 2025 death, glass shattering. He tossed her a rupee, fleeing her stare, the void's whisper clawing his spine.
At home, the flat was a cage. Lakshmi, his mother, chopped onions, radio droning cricket scores. Priya, sprawled with homework, shot him a look. "Back late again. What's with you, Shiva?"
"Library," he muttered, dodging to his cot. Priya's eyes, sharp as blades, followed. She'd seen him count cash last week—trouble brewing. His tin held ₹5,700 now, enough for bigger bets. Pakistan vs. India, March 4, Sydney, loomed—Pakistan's 43-run upset, Wasim's 3 wickets shredding Tendulkar's 54. Odds might hit 2.1:1, ₹2,000 could yield ₹4,200. But Raju was poison; Shiva needed a new bookie. Dadar's Manoj, scar-faced and twitchy, worked Shiv Shakti stall, far from Bala's reach. He'd scout tomorrow.
Ramesh, his father, trudged in, clerk's fatigue etched deep. "Shiva, JEE's in May. Bought you a math book—₹100. No excuses."
Shiva nodded, guilt stinging. The JEE, May 10, was his gate to IIT Bombay, computer science—key to the IT gold rush. His first life's slog taught him; 2025's tricks (integration hacks, probability curves) would make it child's play. He needed books—cheap, pirated, from Flora Fountain's stalls.
Next day, February 24, Shiva took a local train to Churchgate, ₹5 fare, the carriage a crush of sweat and tiffins. Flora Fountain's book stalls sprawled under banyan shade, hawkers peddling dog-eared Arihant guides. He haggled a JEE math book to ₹80, pocketing the change. BSE's stone fortress loomed nearby, traders shouting—Sensex at 3,000, Mehta's scam still a shadow. Shiva lingered, ears catching gossip: "Infosys, Bangalore outfit, raising cash." Pre-IPO, ₹10 a share, his 2025 memory confirmed. Five hundred shares, ₹5,000, could hit ₹1 lakh by 1997. He needed a broker, maybe through Churchgate's tech meets.
A chaiwala's radio blared Pakistan's warm-up win. March 4's bet burned urgent. Shiva boarded a train to Dadar, weaving past sari vendors to Shiv Shakti stall. Manoj, scar above his eye, eyed him like prey. "What you want, kid?"
"World Cup bets," Shiva said, low. "Pakistan-India."
Manoj grunted, glancing at a ledger. "Come back March 3, evening. Bring cash."
Shiva left, Dadar's vada pav stench clinging. Back home, Priya cornered him. "Saw you at Churchgate, buying books. Since when you study so much?"
"JEE," he snapped, too sharp. Her frown deepened—secrets wouldn't hold long.
On his cot, Shiva counted ₹5,620—post-book, post-fare. March 3, he'd bet ₹2,000 on Pakistan. Infosys whispered too, but Kalia's threat loomed larger. The beggar's words—snip or choke—echoed, a noose tightening. His 2025 death flashed: fire, screams. Was he weaving a web, or caught in one?