Date: March 3–5, 1992
Location: Dadar and Colaba, Bombay, India
Dadar's Shiv Shakti stall reeked of vada pav and sweat, a grimy pulse in Bombay's chaos. March 3, 1992, 7:30 PM. Shiva, 18, stood under its flickering bulb, ₹2,000 burning in his pocket—his tin's guts, scraped from England's bet and family lies. Tomorrow's Pakistan vs. India World Cup match in Sydney loomed, etched in his 2025 memories: Pakistan's 216 for 6, India crumbling at 173, a 43-run rout. Wasim's swing, Mushtaq's guile, Tendulkar's lone 54—Shiva saw it clear as monsoon rain. A ₹2,000 bet, odds maybe 2.1:1, could yield ₹4,200, fuel for his empire. But Dadar wasn't Colaba, and Manoj wasn't Raju Bhai. One slip, and Bala's shadow could find him.
Shiva's kurta clung, damp from the BEST bus ride, ₹6 fare. Shiv Shakti buzzed—railway clerks, hawkers, a radio blasting "Bharat ka Josh!" for India's hype. Manoj, scar above his eye, leaned over a ledger, twitchy as a cornered rat. Gossip pegged him as Raju's rival, outside Bala's grip. Shiva hoped it held.
"Pakistan-India," Shiva said, voice low, sliding ₹2,000 in a cigarette pack. "Pakistan to win."
Manoj's scar twitched, eyes flicking up. "Big talk, kid. India's got Tendulkar. Sure about this?" He counted the cash, fingers greasy.
"Read it in Blitz," Shiva lied, clutching a crumpled paper as prop. His 2025 mind sneered: Wasim takes three, game over.
"Odds, 2.1," Manoj grunted. "Back tomorrow, 9:00 PM, if you're right. Don't bring trouble." He stuffed the pack in his shirt, glancing at a burly shadow by the stall—his own thug, not Kalia. Shiva nodded, slipping into Dadar's din, sari vendors and rickshaws swallowing him. But a prickle lingered—Manoj's stare, too sharp, too hungry.
At home, Colaba's flat was a trap. Lakshmi, his mother, stirred dal, radio droning Pakistan's odds. Priya, 15, sprawled with algebra, shot him a glare. "Out again, Shiva? Smell like a station."
"Met a cousin," he muttered, dodging to his cot. Priya's braid swung, her eyes like needles. She'd seen his tin last night, ₹5,620 gleaming. Trouble brewed. Ramesh, his father, slumped in, clerk's exhaustion carved deep. "Shiva, JEE's two months off. Study, not gallivanting."
Shiva nodded, guilt a splinter. The JEE, May 10, was his IIT Bombay ticket—computer science, the IT boom's key. He'd hit Flora Fountain yesterday, snagging a pirated Arihant physics book for ₹90. Nights, he'd solve mechanics problems, 2025's shortcuts (vector hacks, energy theorems) making it easy. But bets came first—cash was his ladder.
March 4's match played out as foretold. Shiva listened at a neighbor's radio—Pakistan's 216, India's 173, Wasim's 3 for 36 shredding hopes. March 5, 9:00 PM, he was back at Shiv Shakti, heart a drum. Manoj slid ₹4,200, notes worn, his scar gleaming under the bulb. "Sharp kid," he rasped, too soft. "Stay sharp, or you bleed."
Shiva pocketed the cash, turning—then froze. Kalia, Bala's scarred thug, loomed in the alley, bidi glowing. "Colaba boy," Kalia growled, stepping close, breath sour. "Heard you're lucky. Bala wants ₹1,000. Now."
Dadar's crowd parted, eyes down. Shiva's 2025 instincts screamed—bribe, don't run. He pulled ₹300, all he'd carried loose. "Student, bhai. This is it."
Kalia snatched it, snarling. "Next time, full. Or I find your house." He vanished, but Shiva's blood ran cold. Kalia knew Colaba—Raju's leak? Manoj's? The web was tangling.
He took the last bus home, ₹6, clutching ₹3,900. Near Sassoon Docks, the beggar woman stood, her gaze a blade. "Knots tighten, boy," she hissed, unprompted. "Cut, or hang." Shiva's 2025 death flashed—fire, glass, screams. He tossed her ₹5, fleeing her shadow, the void's claw sinking deeper.
Home was no refuge. Priya waited, arms crossed. "Saw you in Dadar, Shiva. Handing cash to some goon. What's your game?"
His throat tightened—truth was poison, lies were fraying. "Helped a friend," he snapped. "Mind your books."
"You're lying!" Priya's voice cracked, loud enough for Lakshmi to pause, knife mid-chop. "You're sneaking, hiding money!"
"Enough!" Shiva hissed, too sharp. Lakshmi's eyes met his, worry deepening. Priya stormed off, but her words lingered—a fuse lit.
Next day, March 6, Shiva hit Churchgate, needing air. Flora Fountain's stalls offered a chemistry guide, ₹85 after haggling. Nearby, a NASSCOM meet spilled from a hall—techies in kurtas, talking software. Shiva lingered, ears catching "Infosys, Bangalore, raising funds." Pre-IPO, ₹10 a share, his 2025 memory whispered—₹5,000 for 500 shares, ₹1 lakh by 1997. A techie, Anil, young and chatty, mentioned a Bangalore broker, Mehta & Sons. Shiva played curious student, pocketing Anil's name. A thread to pull, after the World Cup's final bet—Pakistan over England, March 25.
Back home, Shiva's tin held ₹9,520—England's ₹1,700, Pakistan's ₹3,900, minus fares and books. Enough for one last bet, ₹3,000, on Pakistan's 22-run upset. But Kalia's threat, Priya's eyes, the beggar's hiss—they wove a noose. His cot felt like a plank over an abyss. The void watched, waiting for his fall.