Date: December 15–22, 1992
Location: IIT Bombay, Powai, and Colaba, Bombay, India
The ₹50,000 check trembled in Shiva's hands, its ink stark against the IIT library's dim glow. December 15, 1992, 11:00 AM. "For services rendered—Ashok." The words coiled like a snake. Ashok, the stranger from the canteen, had offered a job—vague, shadowed. Shiva's 2025 memories offered no clue, only the beggar woman's hiss: "Bound tighter." Had his blood in her vial summoned this? A lifeline to pay Bala's ₹20,000 debt, fund IIT, secure Whitefield—or a trap to bind him deeper to the void?
He stuffed the check into his pocket, Vikram's chatter about C++ fading. Outside, Powai's breeze carried eucalyptus and diesel, IIT's campus alive with boys lugging textbooks. Shiva's dual life—student by day, gambler by night—felt like a tightrope fraying. The check could clear Bala, but Ashok's price loomed unknown. His tin was barren, ₹150 left after pawning his watch. No choice—he'd cash it, but warily.
At 2:00 PM, he hit a Powai bank, ₹5 bus fare. The clerk, a paunchy Marathi, eyed the check. "Big money for a student," he grunted, stamping it. ₹50,000 in crisp notes filled Shiva's bag, heavy as sin. He wired ₹20,000 to Bala via a Colaba hawala contact, ₹200 fee, whispering, "For Kalia, full settlement." The rest—₹29,800—he hid in his hostel locker, a dented steel box under Vikram's cricket posters.
December 16, 8:00 PM, Colaba's flat was a pressure cooker. Lakshmi's puja bells clanged, Priya's glare cut through the dal's steam. "You're back late," she snapped, 16 and too sharp. "What's in that bag?" Shiva's heart skipped—had she found the tin again? "Books," he lied, dodging to his cot. Ramesh, tie loose, muttered, "IIT better not be a scam." The check's weight lingered, Ashok's card burning in his pocket: a number, no name.
December 17, 9:00 AM, IIT's lecture hall hummed. Shiva aced a coding quiz—bubble sort in C, trivial with 2025's tricks—but Prof. Rao's stare lingered. "Too perfect," Rao said, chalk dusting his kurta. "Where'd you learn this?" Shiva mumbled about magazines, but Rao's eyes narrowed, a thread to watch.
That night, 10:00 PM, Colaba's alleys reeked of fish and fear. Shiva slipped to Chai Corner, needing air, but she was there—the beggar woman, rags swaying, eyes like monsoon voids. "You took the coin," she croaked, unprompted. "Ashok's thread pulls. Pay the void, or it eats you." Her finger jabbed, bony, accusing.
Shiva's 2025 crash flashed—fire, glass, a laugh. "What's Ashok want?" he hissed. Her smile split, jagged. "Power's price. A task, boy—carry a name, break a man. Refuse, and Bala's knife seems kind." She tossed a folded paper, yellowed, heavy. He grabbed it, her laugh trailing as she melted into the dark.
At the flat, midnight, Shiva unfolded the paper under a flickering bulb. A name: Vikram Sethi, journalist, Fort. Orders: leak Sethi's sources to Ashok, ruin him. Shiva's gut twisted—Sethi, a Times stringer, had sniffed scams post-Mehta's BSE crash, April '92. Was Ashok tied to that mess? The void's bargain stung—wealth for betrayal, or ruin for defiance.
December 20, 7:00 PM, Sassoon Dock's stench choked him. Kalia met him, scar glinting, but alone. "Bala's paid," he grunted, tossing Shiva's hawala receipt. "But you're marked, kid. Stay low." Freedom, yet Shiva felt caged—Ashok's shadow loomed larger.
December 22, 10:00 AM, IIT's canteen buzzed with exam gossip. Vikram slid a newspaper: "Bombay riots flare, curfew tightens." Post-Babri, December 6, the city bled—perfect cover for Ashok's game. Shiva eyed the card, number stark. Call, or burn the paper? Betray Sethi, or face the void's wrath? His thumb brushed the locker's key—₹29,800, a fortune, but not enough to flee.
The beggar's hiss echoed: "Pay, or it eats you." Shiva stood, heart a drum, and headed for a payphone. Ashok's line rang, cold and endless. A voice answered—smooth, sharp: "Shiva. Ready to work?"