The paper felt heavier than it should've.
One license. Official. Stamped. Filed in the British records office. It meant Vikram now existed — at least in a form acceptable to the system that had once erased his original body without blinking.
But the name on the paper wasn't his.
It read: "Vinod Pratap"
He'd chosen it two weeks earlier. A name common enough to be ignored, sharp enough to be remembered when needed.
He needed more now.
One license meant he could operate a printing press legally. But nothing else. No land record. No school trail. No caste registry. No traceable family.
If someone looked too close, the lie would crumble.
So he began building a past.
He started with the local business tax office near Sita Ram Bazaar.
The clerk there was balding, slow, and always short on ink. Vikram waited in line, touched his arm by accident, then moved on.
That night, while the man slept in a small cot behind a curtain, Vikram walked through his mind.
The records were simple. Printed ledgers. Manual entries. A tax registry with names scribbled in pencil.
He added one line.
Business Dues Paid – Vinod Pratap – Small Printing Stall – 1908
Done.
The next morning, he returned with a fresh form and a blank look.
The clerk flipped through his ledger, saw the entry he didn't remember writing, and nodded absently. "You want a copy of the receipt or the duplicate?"
"Receipt," Vikram said.
Next was the school certificate.
He found a retired headmaster in Ballimaran — a cranky man with a broken walking stick and a loud opinion on nearly everything. The man lived alone, surrounded by old registers, photos, and unused ink pots.
Vikram offered to clean the room. Took the man's hand gently. Held it.
Three seconds.
That night, he walked through chalkboards and punishments. He found an empty page in the man's memory — an old student register from 1908.
He added one more line.
Vinod Pratap — Age: 13 — Transferred from Etawah District Board School.
The old man woke the next day with a faint recollection of the name. He grumbled that the boy never listened in Sanskrit class.
Vikram smiled.
Exactly the kind of memory he needed.
By the end of the week, Vikram had five believable proofs:
Trade license
School record
Business tax receipt
Reference letter from a retired municipal officer
Anecdotal backing from neighbors and shopkeepers whose memories he quietly influenced
Every one of them built off the others.
Not perfect. But believable.
He folded them into a linen packet, wrapped in old newsprint, and tucked them under his bedding at the press.
He was no longer a shadow.
He was Vinod Pratap, a man with records, a paper past, and an official place in the city.
And yet, no one had met him until a month ago.
No one had seen him grow up.
And no one would question it.
Not with Magicnet whispering the past into every open mind.