The crumpled note from Vikram Sampat felt like a lead weight in Rajendra's pocket. Thirty percent. They wanted to turn him from a sovereign operator into a franchisee. A vassal. The threat was unspoken but clear: refusal meant war, and this war would not be fought with sticks in a Karjat field.
He had two days.
Rajendra did not go home. He went to the mill office, now silent at night. He needed to think like a merchant, not a mobster. What did Sampat really want? Not just profit. He wanted the method. The red smoke, the divine transport—the legend of MAKA was attracting the wrong kind of investor.
He couldn't fight them directly. MAKA was small, a crew of loyalists, not an army. He needed leverage. Not cosmic leverage this time, but cold, hard, earthly business leverage.
He pulled out a notebook, the one labeled 'Project Utsav'. He flipped past the film outlines. He wrote a new heading: SAMPAT PROBLEM.
Assets: MAKA ring (secret). Crew loyalty. MANO's growing legitimacy. Void-Coins (cosmic capital, not usable here). Film project (potential future influence).
Liabilities: Unknown size of Sampat's network. Possible political/ police connections. Exposure of MAKA's methods.
He needed to make MAKA unpalatable to swallow, and MANO too public to touch.
An idea began to form. A dangerous, public gambit.
The next morning, he called Prakash Mehra. "The film. We need to move faster. Can you get a simple shooting schedule and budget to me by tomorrow? I want to announce it. Publicly."
"Announce? We don't have the full cast locked!"
"We have Madhuri Dixit's interest. We have a director. We have a story. That's enough for a press announcement. I'll handle the rest."
He then called Shanti. "The 'Artisan to Market' pilot you announced at the gala. I want to make it real, and I want to make it high-profile. Can you get a list of reputable NGOs or government cooperatives working with Karjat artisans by end of day?"
"Rajendra, what's going on? You're moving at warp speed."
"Opportunity has a short window, Shanti. Please."
He could hear her hesitation, but she agreed. "I'll see what I can find."
Next, he summoned Ganesh. "The Sampat offer. We will not merge. We will not give thirty percent. But we will not ignore it. I want you to find out everything about Vikram Sampat's business. Not rumours. Facts. His main import lines. Which docks he uses. Which customs officers he pays. Who his biggest buyers are. Be a ghost."
Ganesh nodded, his face grim. "And if he makes a move before we are ready?"
"He won't. He gave forty-eight hours. He expects negotiation or fear. We will give him neither. We will be too busy building a monument in the sunlight for him to risk pulling it into the shadows."
By afternoon, the pieces started coming together. Mehra faxed over a bare-bones budget and schedule. Shanti's assistant dropped off a directory of artisan cooperatives. Ganesh's first report came in: Sampat's main business was Japanese televisions and audio equipment. His key buyer was a chain of electronics stores in Gujarat. His customs clearing agent was a man named Deshpande at Nhava Sheva.
Rajendra now had a name: Deshpande.
He put on a beige MANO kurta and went to visit his new lawyer, a sharp young man named Rustom who had set up the Singapore shell for the Russia deal.
"Rustom, a hypothetical. If a major Mumbai importer were to suddenly have his customs clearing agent… incapacitated. What would happen?"
Rustom adjusted his glasses. "Incapacitated how?"
"Say, arrested. For taking bribes from multiple parties, not just him."
"Chaos. Shipments would stall. Demurrage charges would pile up at the docks. Buyers would sue for breach of contract. It could bankrupt a medium-sized operation if it lasted more than a week. Why?"
"Just a hypothetical. How would one… facilitate such an arrest? Anonymously."
Rustom gave him a long look. "An unsigned letter with specific details—shipment numbers, bribe amounts, bank account details—sent to the Director of Revenue Intelligence, not the local customs office. The DRI loves high-profile scalps. They'd move fast."
Rajendra nodded. "Thank you. Please draft the incorporation papers for a new subsidiary. 'Manokamna Pictures Pvt. Ltd.'. And prepare a press release about our first film, Pyaar Ki Jeet."
Back at the mill, he crafted the letter. He used information from Ganesh's report, combined with educated guesses about how grey-market operations worked. He listed three specific shipments of Sanyo TVs, their container numbers, the alleged bribe amounts paid to Agent Deshpande, and a numbered Swiss bank account (fabricated, but plausible). He had the letter typed on a cheap typewriter bought from the grey market itself and mailed it from a post office in faraway Bandra.
The trap was set. Not a violent one. A bureaucratic one.
The next day, he executed the public gambit. He called a small press conference at the Cricket Club of India, a respectable venue. He stood before a handful of business and entertainment reporters, with Prakash Mehra beside him.
"Thank you for coming," Rajendra began, his voice calm and clear. "Today, Shakuniya Mills and our new arm, Manokamna Pictures, are announcing two ventures rooted in Indian culture and upliftment."
He announced the film first. "Our first production, Pyaar Ki Jeet, will be directed by the acclaimed Prakash Mehra. It will star Madhuri Dixit and introduce a exciting new talent. It is a story of love that bridges worlds, and we believe it will capture the heart of the nation." The mention of Madhuri got the reporters scribbling.
Then, he pivoted. "But stories are not just on screen. The story of India is also written by its artisans. Therefore, Manokamna is also launching the 'Karjat Karigar Initiative'. We are partnering with local cooperatives to bring the exquisite weaving and pottery of the Karjat region to national store shelves. This is not charity. This is partnership. Our first collection will be unveiled next month."
It was a masterstroke. He had tied his shadowy Karjat land purchase (and his confrontation with Patil) to a noble, public-facing project. He had also planted his flag in the film industry, a world of glamour and influence.
The press ate it up. The next day's Mid-day had a small column: "Mill Heir Turns Dream Merchant: Films & Folk Art."
The clock ticked down on Sampat's ultimatum.
On the morning of the second day, Rajendra dressed not in MANO pastels or MAKA black, but in a severe, Western-style grey suit. He went to the Taj business centre and asked for Mr. Sampat.
He was shown into a sleek, air-conditioned office. Sampat sat behind a large desk, smiling his thin smile. "Mr. Shakuniya. I'm glad you came to talk sense."
"I came to deliver a message," Rajendra said, remaining standing. "The answer is no. We will not merge. We will not give you thirty percent. Or any percent."
Sampat's smile vanished. "That is… unwise. You are a boy playing with tools you don't understand. The market has rules."
"It does. And one rule is that when a smaller, more efficient operator emerges, the older ones adapt or die. You should adapt, Mr. Sampat."
Sampat laughed, a cold sound. "Efficient? Your little magic tricks? Do you know what happens to magicians who perform without the syndicate's permission? They disappear."
"Like your customs agent, Deshpande?" Rajendra asked softly.
Sampat's eyes narrowed. "What about him?"
"I hear the Director of Revenue Intelligence paid him an unexpected visit this morning. Something about bribes and Swiss accounts. I imagine your shipments of Sanyo TVs are stuck at Nhava Sheva as we speak. The demurrage charges must be mounting. What will your buyers in Gujarat say?"
The colour drained from Sampat's face. He stared at Rajendra, his mind connecting the dots with terrifying speed. The press conference, the noble projects—it was all a smokescreen. This boy hadn't come to negotiate or plead. He had come to burn a bridge before the war even started. And he'd done it not with a knife, but with a letter.
"You…" Sampat breathed.
"I am a businessman," Rajendra finished for him. "I solve problems. You presented yourself as a problem. I solved you. Now, you have a choice. You can spend the next month fighting fires with the DRI and explaining things to your buyers. Or you can accept that our businesses will operate separately, and without interference. The choice is yours."
He turned and walked to the door. He paused, hand on the knob. "Oh, and Mr. Sampat? If any 'accidents' befall me or my people, a second set of documents, detailing your entire operation, will be delivered to the Crime Branch and the Times of India. Good day."
He left Sampat sitting in the silence of his own crumbling leverage.
Rajendra walked out into the humid Bombay air. He had won. Not with the System, not with the ring. With planning, information, and ruthless earthly strategy.
He felt a surge of power, cleaner than any Void-Coin.
His driver opened the car door. As he got in, his System chimed softly with a scheduled notification.
[Monthly Contract Fulfillment: MS-02. Shipment of turmeric, tulsi, neem, ginger delivered and accepted.]
[Payment Received: 65 Void-Coins.]
[Total VC: 227.]
And below it, another message. From the Mad Scientist.
Mad Scientist: *The palliative is showing 41% efficacy in Stage-2 trials. Demand will increase. Prepare for a revised contract in 30 days. Increase your cultivation capacity.*
He leaned back against the seat. The cosmic business demanded growth. The earthly business demanded survival. And he was dancing in both worlds.
The car pulled up to the mill. Ganesh was waiting, a huge grin on his face. "Bhai! The press! Your picture is in the paper!"
"Good," Rajendra said. But Ganesh's grin faltered.
"There is also… a woman. Waiting for you in the office. She says she is from the Russian embassy. About a 'land lease.' She will only talk to you."
Elena Volkova. The Siberian oil deal. It had arrived on his doorstep.
He walked towards the office, the sounds of the city a symphony of opportunity and threat. He had just beheaded one snake. Another, far larger, with the might of a crumbling superstate behind it, was now coiled in his waiting room.
The game, once again, had changed levels.