The haunting image from Vex faded from Rajendra's mind, replaced by the practical glow of relief. The threat was sealed away by System law. He could breathe.
Two days later, he sat in the modest office of a struggling film director, Prakash Mehra. The room smelled of old paper and clove cigarettes. Mehra, known for a big hit years ago but now down on his luck, eyed the young man in the simple but expensive-looking white kurta.
"You want to finance a film?" Mehra asked, skepticism dripping from his voice. "With what? Your father's mill?"
"With this," Rajendra said, placing a leather bag on the desk. He opened it. Neat stacks of rupee notes, more cash than Mehra had seen in years. "Five lakhs. For a fifty percent stake in the production. Full creative control remains with you. I handle business, distribution, and… future rights."
Mehra's eyes widened. He lit another cigarette with shaky hands. "What kind of film?"
"A love story. But not just romance. A love story with… social difference. Rich girl, poor boy. Family conflict. Grand music. Beautiful scenes." Rajendra was describing the ghost of a film from his future memory, one that would resonate for decades: the core idea of **Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge**, but set in the late 80s, not the mid-90s. The concept was timeless.
Mehra snorted. "Been done. *Bobby*. *Maine Pyar Kiya* is coming soon, I hear. Same flavor."
"Not like this," Rajendra insisted, leaning forward. "The boy isn't just poor. He's an NRI. London-returned. He meets a traditional Indian girl on a Europe trip. Their worlds clash. He has to win not just her, but her entire family, her culture. He chooses *her* world. It's not rebellion; it's redemption."
Mehra paused, the storyteller in him caught. "London… Europe… expensive to shoot."
"We shoot key songs in Kashmir. Pahalgam. It looks like Europe. The rest in Bombay. I have a line on cheaper, new camera equipment from… Japan." MAKA's pipelines would provide.
"And the cast? Who is this angel who will play the girl? A new face?"
"No," Rajendra said. "An angel they've already seen, but not like this." He pulled a glossy 8x10 photo from his folder. It was a publicity still of a young, breathtakingly beautiful woman with a shy smile. **Madhuri Dixit.** She had had a few roles, none breakout hits. "Her. Madhuri Dixit."
"*Tezaab* just released. She's getting notice for the 'Ek Do Teen' dance," Mehra mused, tapping the photo. "She's hot. But can she carry a whole film as a simple Punjabi girl?"
"She can. And for the boy…" Rajendra placed another photo. A handsome, earnest young man. **Anil Kapoor.** "Steady. Likable. A good contrast."
Mehra was quiet, his mind racing through the possibilities. The cash on the table was real. The concept was solid, if unproven. The cast was promising, not exorbitant. "Why?" he finally asked. "Why films? You're a mill-owner."
"Stories are a commodity, Prakash-ji," Rajendra said, a merchant's glint in his eye. "And I think there's a global market for good ones. Let's make one."
***
The following week, Rajendra found himself at Filmistan studio, on the set of a forgettable action film where Madhuri Dixit was shooting a small dance number. He waited patiently, introduced by Mehra as the new producer's representative.
During a break, Mehra brought her over. She was even more striking in person, dressed in a heavy dance costume, wiping her brow with a handkerchief.
"Madhuri-ji, this is Rajendra Shakuniya. He is backing our new project," Mehra said.
"Namaste," she said, her voice soft, polite. Her eyes were intelligent, assessing him. Another man with money and a plan.
"Namaste. I enjoyed your work in *Tezaab*," Rajendra said. "The energy was incredible. But I think you can do more than dance."
She gave a tired, practiced smile. "Everyone says that. Then they give me another dance number."
"Not me. Prakash-ji has the script. It's called… *Pyaar Ki Jeet* (The Victory of Love). The girl is the heart of the story. She is tradition, family, strength. The boy must become worthy of her. It's her journey as much as his."
Madhuri's smile faded into genuine curiosity. "You've read the script?"
"I helped outline it. The girl… her name is Simran. She has a father who loves her but is strict. She dreams of seeing the world before an arranged marriage. She meets a boy who is free, but rootless. She doesn't need to be saved. She needs to be understood."
He was pitching the character directly to her, painting a picture far richer than the typical "heroine" role. He saw a flicker of interest in her eyes, a hunger for that very thing.
"It sounds… good. But many sounds are good. The director is important. The music is important."
"Prakash Mehra is directing. The music…" Rajendra smiled. "We are talking to Laxmikant-Pyarelal. Or maybe a new duo, Anand-Milind. We will get the best. This is not a cheap film. It is a *correct* film."
His confidence was disarming. It wasn't arrogance; it was certainty. She nodded slowly. "My manager will talk to Prakash-ji about the dates."
As she walked back to the set, Mehra elbowed Rajendra. "You handled that well. Like a veteran. But the music budget you're promising…"
"I'll handle it. Get the script polished. Get Anil Kapoor's people interested. Use my name, the Shakuniya-Manokamna Trust. Sound legitimate."
***
Back in the MANO office—a newly rented small space in a decent building—Shanti was waiting for him. She had news.
"Father's people did their review," she said, her expression unreadable. "They are… intrigued. Confused, but intrigued. Your mill's books are clean. Your pressure cooker pre-orders are solid. They don't understand your margins. But they see the potential. They are offering a distribution agreement, not a joint venture. They take fifteen percent of revenue, you keep the brand."
Rajendra sat behind his new desk. It was a start, but not enough. "Fifteen percent for just distribution is steep. They have to invest in co-marketing. And it's for three years only. After that, we renegotiate or part ways."
Shanti raised an eyebrow. "You're dictating terms to Sharma Industrials?"
"I'm setting the value of my brand. If they want a piece of the future, they pay for it with effort, not just with their name. Take the counter-proposal back."
She shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "You are impossible. But I'll try." As she turned to leave, she paused. "This film project… is it real? Or just a diversion?"
"It's another business, Shanti. Just like cookers. Stories are products. Emotions are a market." He said it plainly, but the concept felt alien to her.
"Be careful, Rajendra. Film people are… different. It's not like selling steel."
"Everything is a sale," he replied. "You're just selling a different kind of dream."
After she left, Ganesh arrived, his clothes dusty. "The land, bhai. I found it. Twelve acres near Karjat. Good soil, a small water stream. The owner is an old widow, wants to sell to settle in the city with her son. Price is fair."
"Buy it," Rajendra said immediately. "Use the trust. Register it under the 'Shakuniya Agro Research Foundation.' Hire a local manager. Start clearing the land. We will plant tulsi, neem, turmeric. Our own supply."
As Ganesh left, Rajendra felt the structure solidifying. Land. Manufacturing. Distribution. Entertainment. A multi-pronged empire, rooted in earth but with its eyes on wider horizons.
He checked the System. A message from the Mad Scientist. The replacement neem oil had been received and scanned clean. The quality control protocol was now permanent. Good.
Then, a new, automated notification.
**[Host 'Pixel-Lord' has initiated a 'Trade Arbitration' against you.]**
**[Reason: 'Failure to deliver on promised cultural archive access, following withdrawal of coercive offer.']**
**[Pixel-Lord's Demand: Either provide the archive at the 'fair market price' of 200 VC as previously suggested, or pay a penalty of 50 VC for 'breach of negotiation in good faith.']**
**[System Arbitration in 24 hours. Prepare your defense.]**
Rajendra stared at the alert. Pixel-Lord was petty. He hadn't gotten his way on the 800 VC deal, and now he was throwing a tantrum through official channels, trying to squeeze a penalty or a cheap archive out of the situation.
It was a nuisance, but a dangerous one. He couldn't afford a System judgment against him.
He needed a lawyer. But not an earthly one.
He opened a direct channel to the Mad Scientist.
**Rajendra (Earth-Prime): I require advice. A minor host is using System arbitration to harass me over a failed cultural archive deal. What is the most efficient way to make him withdraw his claim?**
Her reply was characteristically blunt.
**Mad Scientist: Logic does not work with collectors. They are emotional. Fear or superior ownership works. Do you possess anything he wants more than the archive, or anything that threatens his existing collection?**
Rajendra thought. The archive was Pixel-Lord's obsession. What could trump that?
An idea, deliciously mischievous, came to him. He still had the data-log from the Mad Scientist. The corrupted, fragmented mess. Within it were bits of cultural data from a thousand worlds. Junk. But to a collector…
He spent an hour, using the System's filter, extracting all non-hazardous, fragmented cultural bits from the log: a three-second screech of alien opera, a blurred glyph from a dead language, a pixelated image of a strange ceremonial mask. Meaningless trash. He packaged it into a single file.
He then sent a new offer to Pixel-Lord, marked **PRIVATE & URGENT.**
**Rajendra (Earth-Prime): Before the arbitration, consider this. I have come into possession of a 'Salvage Log' from a derelict dimensional explorer. It contains thousands of fragments of lost cultural data from extinct Tier-2 and Tier-3 civilizations. Music, art, text. All incomplete, but unique.**
**I am willing to trade you the ENTIRE log for two things: 1. You immediately withdraw your arbitration claim. 2. You pay me 75 Void-Coins.**
**This is a one-time offer. This log is the ultimate collector's curiosity. The archive of a single primitive world is nothing compared to the whispers of a hundred dead empires.**
He sent the offer, attaching a tiny, tantalizing sample—a haunting, distorted melody that sounded like whalesong mixed with breaking glass.
He waited.
Ten minutes later, the response came.
**Pixel-Lord: WITHDRAWAL OF ARBITRATION CLAIM CONFIRMED.**
**SENDING PAYMENT NOW.**
**SEND THE LOG. IMMEDIATELY.**
Rajendra smiled. He had just turned cosmic junk into 75 VC and legal victory. He sent the data-log.
A new message popped up, not from Pixel-Lord, but from the System.
**[Arbitration Case #4491: Dismissed at request of claimant.]**
**[Host 'Rajendra (Earth-Prime)': No penalty assigned.]**
He had won. Again. By trading trash for treasure.
He leaned back, the quiet hum of his office around him. He had navigated a film star, an industrial titan, a land purchase, and a cosmic nuisance before lunch.
The door to his office opened. It was Vikram, Ganesh's son, his face pale.
"Bhai. The Karjat land. There's a problem."
"What problem?"
"The local *sarpanch* (village head). He says the sale is not approved by him. He demands a… a large 'fee.' And…" Vikram swallowed. "He has men with him. They have sticks. They are at the property, right now. They say the city people cannot just come and take their land."
An earthly problem. A very simple, violent, earthly problem. No cosmic threats. Just greed and a local bully with a stick.
Rajendra stood up. This required a different kind of negotiation.
"Get the car, Vikram," he said, his voice calm. "And call Ganesh. Tell him to bring the MAKA ring. We are going to Karjat."
The cliff wasn't cosmic this time. It was a dirt road leading to a field. But the fall could be just as hard.