Vikram sat in silence as the morning sun filtered through the cracks of the temple outpost in Karol Bagh.
He wasn't here to pray.
He was here to listen.
Before him stood nineteen names. Their faces were marked not by guilt — but by distance. They were former Hindus who now attended churches or mosques. All poor. All from colonies under mission control. All had joined foreign faiths for rice, for medicine, for a seat during the rains.
Not evil.Not radicals.Just broken.Just swayed.
He didn't hate them.
But he could not leave them like this.
Through Magicnet, Vikram had long since developed the tools for removing dangerous memories.
But now he aimed to do something harder — to unravel years of emotional dependency woven by sermons, charity, and guilt.
He called this project: "Anuloma."Not conversion. Not deprogramming.Just… returning.
Each night, he touched them.
One by one. Softly. While they slept in safe houses arranged by Renu's network.
He entered their memory webs. Not to rip. But to repair.
In the mind of Savitri, a widow who had accepted Christianity after missionaries paid for her son's schooling, Vikram found three key threads:
Hunger during monsoon
"Father Joseph" handing her warm dal
The first feeling of safety after her husband's death
He didn't erase them.
He moved them.
He rewrote the warm meal — made it come from a nearby temple kitchen.Recast Father Joseph's face into that of an old Brahmin priest with kind eyes.Moved the church's safety into the walls of a crowded but cheerful dharmashala.
Her son still went to school.But now, it was a school built by her own community.
She woke two days later and instinctively turned east for morning prayer.
When asked why?
She said, "I think I forgot where I came from. But I remember now."
This wasn't brainwashing.
This was memory gardening.
Pulling weeds. Leaving the soil. Letting native growth return.
In another case, a boy named Idris had been drawn to a small mosque where he found discipline — five daily prayers gave him routine. He didn't hate Hindus. He didn't think of Pakistan. He just liked feeling belonged.
Vikram found his core memories were:
The mosque's call echoing through early fog
The clean white kurta handed to him by an elder
The feeling of standing in rows, no one shouting, no one judging
Vikram preserved the discipline.
He simply relocated it.
Rewrote the foggy morning not with the muezzin's call, but the temple conch.Turned the white kurta into a dhoti given by a saffron-robed mentor.Made the rows into students lining up for morning yoga.
When Idris awoke, he didn't reject Islam.
He just felt… less tied.
A week later, he asked for a copy of the Bhagavad Gita.
By the end of the month, Vikram had successfully re-rooted forty-two individuals across Delhi and Agra.
No threats.No bribes.No pressure.
Just a return of memory to its honest ground.
But some were deeper.
Especially those converted by trauma.
A man named Rafique, once Raghu, had watched his brother beaten by a zamindar's thugs — Hindu thugs — while the local mosque gave him food. To convert him required care.
Vikram didn't rewrite the beating.
He kept it.
But reframed the rescuers:Instead of the mosque, it was a group of Hindu ascetics who took him in, fed him, showed him sword kata.
He woke angry.But not at Hindus.At corruption.
He joined Vikram's volunteer network two weeks later.
This was slow war.
No fire.No headlines.
Just a rising tide of people no longer willing to see dharma as foreign or absent.
By year's end, nearly 500 re-connections had been made.
Magicnet expanded.
And more importantly, the emotional energy within the net changed.
Where once there was only fire and survival, now there was belief.
Real, rooted, peaceful strength.
Vikram knew the British wouldn't understand it.
They couldn't.
To them, conversions were numbers.Demographics.Power graphs.
But Vikram understood that memory was identity.
And whoever wrote the memory, wrote the soul.
Now, the pen was in his hand.