Rudra washed his face with cold water from the brass pitcher, the shock helping him ground his reality. 1970.
The world outside was vastly different. No internet. No mobile phones. India was under the leadership of Indira Gandhi. The economy was strangled by the License Raj—a system where the government decided how much you could produce, at what price, and to whom you could sell. For a businessman, it was hell.
But hell is where the most profit is made, if you know the devil, Rudra thought.
He dressed quickly in a white crisp kurta-pyjama and headed to the central courtyard. The Pratap Wada was a fortress of influence in Nagpur.
Sitting on a large wooden swing (jhoola) was a man who looked carved from granite. He wore a white Gandhi cap and a simple dhoti. His mustache was thick and grey, his eyes hidden behind thick black frames.
Bhau Saheb Pratap. His grandfather. A freedom fighter, a three-time MLA, and a man whose whisper could stop riots in Nagpur.
"You're late," Bhau Saheb said, not looking up from his newspaper.
"Apologies, Dada ji," Rudra said, touching the old man's feet.
"The early bird catches the worm, Rudra. But in politics, the early bird gets shot," Bhau Saheb remarked dryly, folding the paper. "Your father tells me you want to skip college today to visit the Ginning Press. Why?"
Rudra sat on the stone step near the swing. In his past life, he had been afraid of this man. He had been a rebellious teenager who wanted to study art in Paris. Now, he saw Bhau Saheb for what he was: a powerhouse of political capital.
"College teaches me theory, Dada ji," Rudra said, his voice steady. "But the Pratap Textile Mill is bleeding money. I looked at the ledgers last night." (A lie, but he remembered the history). "We are losing efficiency. The machines are old. The labor union is restless."
Bhau Saheb lowered his glasses, looking at his grandson with new interest. "And? What does an eighteen-year-old know about unions?"
"I know that hungry men are angry men," Rudra replied. "The cotton crop this year in Vidarbha is looking weak. If the farmers suffer, the mill stops. If the mill stops, the voters in your constituency go hungry. If they go hungry, the opposition wins."
Bhau Saheb went silent. The atmosphere in the courtyard shifted. The servants stopped sweeping for a moment. Rudra had just connected business economics to political survival—something his father, a pure businessman, often failed to articulate to the old politician.
"You speak boldly for a boy who hasn't earned a rupee yet," Bhau Saheb said, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Fine. Go to the mill. But take Balwant with you. If you make a mess, he will drag you back."
[System Alert][Opportunity Detected: Influence Gain.][Current Influence with Bhau Saheb: 15/100.]
Rudra ignored the prompt and stood up. "I won't make a mess, Dada ji. I'll make a profit."
He turned to leave, but stopped. He needed to test the System.
He reached into his pocket. He had ₹450. A significant amount for a student in 1970, likely saved from months of allowance.
System, he thought. Open Store.
The blue interface expanded. It was a search bar. Simple. Minimalist.
[Search: __________________]
Rudra thought for a moment. He couldn't buy factories yet. He couldn't buy stocks instantly—there was no digital trading. He needed information.
Search: "High Yield Hybrid Cotton Seeds suitable for Vidarbha soil - 1975 Era"
[Searching...][Item Found: Report on H-4 Hybrid Cotton Seeds (Release Date 1971).][Cost: ₹2,000.]
Too expensive, Rudra grimaced. He was short.
He looked at the gold chain around his neck. A graduation gift.
System, can I trade assets?
[Affirmative. Physical Gold is accepted at current market value + 10% premium.]
Rudra unclasped the chain. It was heavy. At least 20 grams. In 1970, gold was roughly ₹180 per 10 grams. That was ₹360. Still not enough.
He needed to make money the hard way first.
"Balwant Kaka!" Rudra shouted for the family driver. "Get the Ambassador. We are going to the Cotton Market."
As he walked toward the heavy iron gates, Rudra felt a surge of adrenaline. The air smelled of diesel and dust. It smelled of opportunity.
He would fix the mill. He would secure the capital. And then, he would buy the future.