The Ambassador car rattled down the dusty Karjat road. Rajendra sat in the back, Ganesh beside him, the MAKA ring a cold weight on his finger. Vikram drove, his knuckles white on the wheel.
"The sarpanch is called Dattu Patil," Ganesh explained, his voice low. "A local bully. He controls the water, the petty contracts. He says no land sale in his village is valid without his 'blessing' and a fifty percent cut of the price."
"A tax on a legal sale?" Rajendra's voice was flat.
"For him, yes. He has three brothers. They have sticks, sometimes axes. The police post is ten kilometers away, and the sub-inspector is his cousin."
A simple, entrenched problem of rural power. Violence was the currency here. But Rajendra was not a local farmer. He was a merchant with a ring that could make things disappear, and a System that could, for a price, make problems… inconvenient.
They arrived at the plot. It was good land, rolling and green by a stream. An old woman, the seller, stood wringing her hands by a bullock cart. Facing her were four men. Dattu Patil was thick-set, with a thick moustache and a smug, proprietary air. His brothers held heavy staves.
Patil saw the city car and smirked. He walked over as Rajendra stepped out.
"So, the Bombay seth comes himself," Patil said, not bothering with niceties. "You city people think you can throw rupees and take our mothers' land? The paper is not enough. The village blessing is needed. That is another two lakh rupees. Pay now, or your papers are worth less than toilet paper here."
Rajendra didn't look at him. He walked past him to the old woman. "The sale is complete, aunty. The money is in your son's account. You should go to him in the city now. This is no longer your concern."
The woman glanced fearfully at Patil, then nodded and hurried to the cart.
Patil's face darkened. He stepped in front of Rajendra. "Are you deaf? I am talking to you."
Now Rajendra looked at him. "I heard you. You are demanding a bribe on a legally registered sale. I am refusing."
One of the brothers stepped forward, tapping his stave in his palm. "Then you will have an accident. And the papers will be lost. These things happen."
Ganesh moved, but Rajendra held up a hand. He looked at Patil, his gaze calm. "Dattu-ji. You are a man of influence here. I am a businessman from Mumbai. We both understand value. But we disagree on the price of this 'blessing.'"
"Two lakh is the price," Patil snarled.
"I offer a different currency," Rajendra said. He turned and pointed to a large, solitary boulder at the edge of the field. "See that rock? It blocks the sun from a quarter-acre. It is a nuisance. A sign of poor land."
Patil frowned, confused. "What nonsense is this?"
"If I can make that nuisance disappear, right now, with a word, will you reconsider your fee?"
Patil and his brothers burst into laughter. "City madness! You are a clown!"
"Watch," Rajendra said. He walked towards the boulder, about twenty yards away. He made a show of raising his ring hand, muttering under his breath. He focused. Store.
The boulder—a two-ton hunk of granite—vanished. Not with a dramatic red flash, but with a simple, silent pop of displaced air. One second it was there, solid and ancient. The next, there was only flattened grass.
The laughter died.
Patil's jaw went slack. His brothers took a step back, their staves lowering. The old woman in the cart made a sign against evil.
Rajendra walked back, dusting his hands. "A nuisance, removed. I can remove other nuisances. Legal ones, like police complaints from a city businessman about extortion. Or… other kinds." He let his gaze rest on the staves. "My blessing comes from a fiercer Mother. I suggest you accept the original sale, with a reasonable 'community donation' of ten thousand rupees for the village temple. Not two lakhs for your pocket. That is my final offer."
It was no longer a negotiation. It was a statement of power they could not comprehend. The divine trumped the local bully.
Patil's bravado had evaporated, replaced by superstitious dread. He nodded shakily. "T-ten thousand… for the temple. Yes."
"Good. Ganesh Kaka will arrange it." Rajendra turned and got back into the car. "The land will be fenced tomorrow. There will be no more 'blessing' fees."
As the car pulled away, Vikram let out a whoosh of breath. "Bhai, they looked like they saw a ghost!"
"They saw something older than ghosts," Ganesh said, reverence in his voice. "They saw shakti."
Rajendra said nothing. He had used the ring's "legend" again. It was a sustainable currency in this world.
Back in Mumbai, a different kind of invitation waited. It was creamy cardstock, delivered by hand to the mill office.
Sharma Industrials & The Shakuniya-Manokamna Trust request the pleasure of your company at a Charity Gala for the Upliftment of Rural Artisans. Cocktails & Dinner. The Willingdon Club.
It was formal. It was Shanti's father's world. And it was an opportunity.
He called Shanti. "The invitation. Is this your father's idea?"
"Partly," her voice came down the line. "He was impressed you stood your ground on the marketing investment. He wants to see you in his environment. To see how you… move. Be warned, it's not just charity. It's a show. Everyone will be watching the new boy."
"I understand. What's the expected… donation?"
"At least one lakh. But don't just give money. Say something. Something smart about rural artisans and modern markets. They eat that up."
"Noted."
He hung up. A lakh was nothing to the MAKA cash flow, but it was a statement for MANO. He would go. He would wear a simple but flawless bandhgala in MANO's colors—cream and gold. He would be the humble, visionary industrialist.
But first, he had to deal with a more immediate issue. The film project, Pyaar Ki Jeet, was hitting a snag. Prakash Mehra called.
"Anil Kapoor's dates are a problem. He's committed to another film. And Laxmikant-Pyarelal are asking for a fortune upfront. Madhuri is interested, but without a solid hero and music director, she's hesitant."
Rajendra thought fast. "Forget Anil. What about another young actor, one on the rise but not yet a superstar? Someone with intensity."
"Who? Jackie Shroff? Too rugged. Sanjay Dutt? Trouble."
"Not them." Rajendra sifted his future memories. A face, intense, charismatic, known for explosive energy… "Chunky Pandey? No… too new. Wait. What about… Anupam Kher? For the father. And for the boy…" He grasped for a name that fit the late-80s timeline. "…Salman Khan."
"Salman? Sunil and Salma Khan's son? He's done nothing! A bit part in Biwi Ho To Aisi. He's a model, not an actor."
"Exactly. He's fresh. He looks good. He has the innocent, puppy-dog charm that can turn into passion. And he'll be cheap. Get him. As for music… we don't need L-P. Get… get a new pair. Get Anand-Milind. They are young, hungry, and will create a fresh sound for a fresh love story."
Mehra was silent, recalibrating. "Salman Khan and Anand-Milind. It's a gamble. A huge gamble."
"So was Maine Pyar Kiya. And look at that gamble now." Rajendra referenced the smash hit that had just released, knowing it was changing the game. "We make our own gamble. Set the meetings."
He hung up, feeling the pieces of this new venture click into place. It was all a calculated bet on future knowledge.
The evening of the gala arrived. The Willingdon Club was all polished wood, soft light, and the low murmur of money and power. Rajendra moved through the crowd, exchanging polite nods. He saw Shanti with her father. Arun Sharma was holding court with a few older industrialists.
Sharma saw him, excused himself, and walked over. "Shakuniya. I see you clean up well."
"Thank you for the invitation, sir. A worthy cause."
"It is. But causes need more than sentiment. They need sustainable models. What do you think of the rural artisan?"
Rajendra was ready. "I think they are the original startups, sir. Incredible skill, zero marketing, terrible supply chains. They don't need charity; they need a business partner. A company that can take their art, ensure quality, brand it, and connect it to urban and international markets. That's true upliftment—turning their craft into a profitable business for them."
Sharma's eyes gleamed. It was the right answer—philanthropy coated in business pragmatism. "Interesting. You should meet some of the trustees of the foundation."
He was being introduced. This was the opening.
As the dinner began, Rajendra found his seat. To his left was an elderly gentleman, a Mr. Iyer, who owned a chain of pharmacies. To his right was a surprise—a sleek, sharp-eyed man in his thirties.
"Vikram Sampat," the man introduced himself, shaking hands. "I run a small electronics import firm."
Rajendra's internal alarms rang softly. Electronics import. MAKA's territory. "Rajendra Shakuniya. Textiles, consumer goods."
"I've heard," Sampat said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "You move fast. I also hear you have… remarkable logistical solutions. Very efficient."
The subtext was clear. This was not a chance meeting. This was a probe from a competitor, or worse, someone from Nair's old network sniffing around.
"Efficiency is just good planning, Mr. Sampat," Rajendra replied mildly.
"Of course. But in our business, sometimes planning meets… unexpected obstacles. Customs, delays, greedy officials." Sampat leaned in slightly. "It's good to have friends who can make obstacles disappear. Don't you agree?"
The threat, or the offer, was laid bare. Rajendra held his gaze. "I find it's better to build a business so strong that obstacles become irrelevant. Friends can be fickle."
Sampat's smile tightened. He leaned back. "A philosophical point. We should talk business sometime. Real business."
Before Rajendra could answer, the clinking of a glass silenced the room. Arun Sharma was at the podium, beginning his speech.
As Sharma spoke, Rajendra's mind raced. Sampat was a new variable. A potential enemy who understood the grey market, not just as a thug, but as a businessman. More dangerous than Nair.
The speech ended. Pledges were called. When Rajendra's name was called, he stood. "The Shakuniya-Manokamna Trust pledges two lakh rupees," he announced, doubling the expected amount. A murmur of approval. "And we pledge to pilot a 'Artisan to Market' partnership in the Karjat region within the next six months."
It was a perfect MANO moment. Public goodwill, a business promise.
As he sat down, Shanti caught his eye from across the room and gave a slight, approving nod.
The evening was a success. He had navigated the shark tank.
Leaving the club, his driver opened the car door. As he slid in, he found a small, folded note on the seat. It hadn't been there before.
He opened it. The handwriting was neat, anonymous.
"Your efficiency is admired. Your independence is noted. A proposal: Merge your logistics with our network. You keep 30% of your operation's profit. We provide protection and scale. Refusal will be seen as hostility. Decide in 48 hours. Ask for Mr. Sampat at the Taj business centre."
It was an ultimatum. Cleaner than Nair's, more corporate. But an ultimatum nonetheless.
They weren't asking for a cut. They were asking for ownership. They wanted to swallow MAKA whole.
Rajendra crumpled the note. He looked out at the glittering lights of Marine Drive.
The land bully in Karjat was handled with a show of divine power.
The corporate shark in a suit would require a different solution.
He had forty-eight hours.
And somewhere in a studio, a young Salman Khan was probably about to hear his life was going to change.