Date: January 15, 1992
Location: Colaba, Bombay, India
The world screamed back into focus—humid air, the tang of fish, a ceiling fan's lazy creak. Shiva's eyes flew open, heart hammering like a war drum. He lay on a thin cot, sheets rough as burlap, in a room too small, too familiar. A yellowed calendar hung crookedly on the wall: January 15, 1992. His breath caught. Moments ago—or was it years?—he'd died in 2025, Delhi's neon streets blurring as his car spun, tires shrieking, glass exploding into darkness.
Yet here he was, reborn. Alive. Eighteen again.
Shiva stumbled to a cracked mirror, hands shaking. The face staring back was his, but younger—smooth cheeks, no scars, eyes wide with a boy's fear instead of a man's cynicism. His 2025 memories surged like a forbidden tide: Sensex crashes, cricket scores, tech empires, wars, elections. A map to power, if he dared seize it.
"I'm back," he whispered, voice high, unbroken. Colaba's din seeped through the window—rickshaw horns, hawkers' cries, the faint bhajans of a distant temple. His family's flat, a 400-square-foot cage, held him like a fist. Middle-class, scraping by on his father's clerk salary and his mother's stitching. Five thousand rupees in savings, hidden in a biscuit tin. A pittance, but enough to start.
He wouldn't just survive. He'd conquer—wealth first, then influence, until he ruled the world from its shadows. No spotlight, no throne. Just strings, pulled unseen. But Bombay's underbelly was a maze of knives. One wrong step—bookies, dons, or family suspicion—could bury him before he began.
Shiva's gaze fell to the calendar. The 1992 Cricket World Cup loomed, February 22 to March 25, a goldmine for his foresight. He knew the scores: England beating India in Perth, Pakistan crushing India in Sydney, Pakistan's upset in the final. Betting was illegal, run by tea-stall bookies tied to petty dons. Risky, but quick cash. Then stocks—Infosys, pre-IPO, a steal at ₹10 a share. Land, too—Whitefield's dirt-cheap plots, destined for Bangalore's IT boom. And education: IIT Bombay, computer science, to ride the tech wave.
Footsteps shuffled outside. His mother, Lakshmi, entered, her sari faded, eyes etched with worry lines he hadn't seen in decades. "Shiva, you're up? You were tossing all night." Her voice, softer than 2025's grief-hardened rasp, pierced him.
"Bad dream," he said, forcing a smile. His younger voice felt wrong, like a stranger's. Over breakfast—idli, sambar, the radio blaring Vividh Bharati's cricket ads—his mind raced. Step one: find a bookie. Colaba's Chai Corner, a stall near the Sassoon Docks, was a hub. Raju Bhai, paan-chewing and gold-chained, took bets under a Parle-G tin. Shiva could lie—say he'd saved for a bicycle, dodge his father's lectures about "safe jobs."
He rummaged under his cot, finding ₹300 in crumpled notes, his "book fund." Enough for a test bet, if he played it small. The World Cup's first big match, India vs. England, was a month away. He'd bet ₹1,000 on England, knowing their 9-run win. Odds might be 1.8:1, modest but safe. Riskier bets—Pakistan's upsets—could follow, spread across bookies to avoid eyes.
His sister, Priya, 15, poked her head in, braid swinging. "Shiva, you look weird. Planning to run away?" Her tease, so familiar from 1992, stung with nostalgia.
"Just thinking," he said, shoving the ₹300 into his pocket. Priya's sharp eyes lingered—she'd be trouble if he wasn't careful.
Slipping into Colaba's morning chaos, Shiva passed fishmongers and bidi stalls, the air thick with salt and diesel. A beggar woman by a paan shop locked eyes, her gaze ancient, unnerving. She sees me, his 2025 mind whispered, absurd but chilling. He shook it off, focusing on Chai Corner. Raju Bhai would be there, ledger ready.
The calendar's date burned in his mind: January 15, 1992. Thirty-eight days to the World Cup. Thirty-eight days to start his empire. Whatever the cost—lies, bribes, blood—Shiva would pay. The shadows of Bombay curled around him, whispering their welcome.