Date: November 25–December 5, 1992
Location: IIT Bombay, Powai, and Colaba, Bombay, India
The train to Powai rattled through Bombay's sprawling chaos on November 25, 1992, at 7:00 AM. Shiva, now 18, gripped his IIT Bombay admission papers, the ink still crisp. His mind buzzed with memories from 2025—coding revolutions, tech giants, Oracle's ascent. Computer science was his ticket upward, but a shadow lingered. The beggar woman's words gnawed at him: "Blood buys power. Choose." That vial, the drop of his blood, the whisper—"Bound." What had he set in motion?
Hostel 4 loomed ahead, a gray concrete slab buzzing with the chatter of boys and the clatter of typewriters. Shiva's roommate, Vikram—a lanky Tamil with thick glasses—grinned as he tossed a C++ textbook onto Shiva's bare mattress. "You're late. Prof. Rao's a beast—start studying." Shiva forced a nod, but his thoughts split. Bala's debt—₹20,000 now—tightened like a noose. The Whitefield land deed sat locked in a tin box under his cot back in Colaba, Priya's suspicious glare still fresh.
On November 28, 9:00 AM, Shiva sat in his first lecture: Data Structures. Prof. Rao, bald and sharp-eyed, prowled the chalk-dusted room. Shiva's future knowledge gave him an edge—he sketched binary trees effortlessly while classmates scratched their heads. Rao paused, peering at him. "You've done this before, Shiva?" A thin smile, but the question stung. Stay low, his 2025 self warned.
Back in Colaba by December 1, 6:00 PM, the flat simmered with tension. Lakshmi stirred dal in the kitchen, Priya's silence cutting deeper than words. Ramesh, tie crooked, grumbled, "IIT doesn't excuse secrets." Shiva's tin held just ₹200—scraped from pawned books and small bets. Bala's goons had shadowed him to VT station last week, Kalia's scarred face a silent threat. He needed money, and soon.
On December 3, 8:00 PM, the lantern at Chai Corner flickered as Shiva hurried past. She was there—the beggar woman, rags swaying, her eyes like black pits. "The void calls," she rasped, stepping into his path. "Your blood woke it. Now choose: wealth or ruin. A bargain waits." Her gnarled hand offered a clay vial, dark liquid churning inside.
Shiva's heart pounded. His 2025 death flared in his mind—flames, a voice: "Pay the price." "What bargain?" he breathed. She leaned closer, her breath rancid. "A drop of yours for a thread of fate. Wealth flows, but the void claims its due." His thoughts raced—cash to settle Bala, fund IIT, build his empire. But the price?
"Choose," she pressed, "or the void chooses for you." His hand trembled as he took the vial, pricking his thumb with the rusted pin she held out. A bead of blood dropped, the liquid hissed, and a voice echoed in his skull: "Bound tighter." The world lurched—fire, shadows, a distant laugh—then blackness. He woke sprawled on the pavement, vial gone, thumb unscarred. But a heaviness sank deeper into his chest.
By December 5, 10:00 AM, IIT's library offered a brief escape, until Vikram's yell shattered the quiet. "Shiva, mail for you!" A plain brown envelope, no sender. Inside, a check: ₹50,000, signed "For services rendered—Ashok." Ice shot through Shiva's veins. Ashok? The stranger from the canteen, the vague job offer. What services? What string had the void tugged?
The check stared back at him, a lifeline and a trap. Wealth had come, but at what cost? And what did Ashok expect in return?