"Old Bharat, morning!" Rohan called out to a stocky man in his fifties.
Head Constable Bharat Dholakia was just a few years away from retirement. If Rohan had no ambition and let the current take him, a Head Constable was the absolute highest rank he could hope to reach by the time his own hair turned gray and even that wasn't guaranteed.
Bharat was an amiable fixture at Spanda Police Station. With decades of street experience, the Station House Officer (SHO) and other higher-ups regularly entrusted him with the tricky, localized disputes. Unlike some of the other veterans, he never threw his weight around with the junior constables.
He also had a soft spot for Rohan. Bharat knew the kid was grinding through an Open University degree, studying late into the night with dreams of cracking the MPSC state exams.
In Bharat's eyes, Rohan was a rare breed. The harsh reality was that most of the constables at Spanda were perfectly content to drift. They survived on their meager salaries and the occasional petty bribe, never once looking up at the glass ceiling above them. Because of this, Bharat had taken Rohan under his wing.
"What are they whispering about?" Rohan asked, nodding toward a cluster of constables gathered near the dispatch desk, chuckling and nudging each other.
"They're just quietly bragging about how many gifts they've managed to funnel to the SHO," Bharat said, his lip curling in disgust. "These fools don't think about putting in the actual work, they just think about climbing the ladder through the backdoor."
He paused, glancing at Rohan with a sympathetic sigh. "But speaking of which, kid... you should really be preparing for this Head Constable promotion, too. I know your chances aren't great on paper, but SHO Agarwal likes you, you're smart so you should scrape together something to give him, just as a token of appreciation and show him you play the game."
"Old Bharat, didn't you just criticize them for using the backdoor?" Rohan asked, suppressing a wry smile.
Even if he wanted to play the game, his pockets were entirely empty. He needed to find a way to make real money, and fast. Earning merits was one thing, but in Mumbai, cash was king. Without it, he would never be able to pull his family out of the suffocating grip of Dharavi.
"I did, but what choice is there? That's the air we breathe in this department," Bharat grumbled. "Even if the SHO favors you, you can't just stand there empty-handed while the others line his pockets. Look at me. If I hadn't been so damned stubborn and righteous when I was your age, if I had just buttered up the right leaders, I might have made Sub-Inspector by now."
The gap between Head Constable and Sub-Inspector was a massive chasm. A Sub-Inspector had stars on their shoulders; they were management. A Head Constable was still just a grunt on the street.
"But don't get discouraged, beta," Bharat added, clapping Rohan on the shoulder. His eyes twinkled. "Even if you miss this promotion, I know you'll pass that state exam eventually. And when you do... you'll be an Inspector. Hell, maybe you'll be an SHO yourself one day! Think of the bragging rights I'd have, telling everyone the local Police Chief used to buy me chai."
"Attention! The SHO is here!" a constable suddenly barked from the doorway.
Rohan snapped his head toward the main entrance. Yash Agarwal, the Station House Officer of Spanda Police Station, was striding through the double doors.
"He's early today," Rohan murmured to Bharat, falling into line as the officers snapped crisp salutes.
"Very early," Bharat whispered back from the corner of his mouth. "Something big must be happening."
Rohan gave a slight, characteristic Indian head bobble in agreement. He quickly sifted through the memories of his past life. SHO Agarwal showing up before nine o'clock meant trouble, but Rohan couldn't recall any major riots, gang hits, or scandals breaking in the Spanda jurisdiction today.
"Has Singh arrived?" Agarwal barked, his eyes scanning the room.
"Sir, the Deputy Inspector hasn't arrived yet," a desk sergeant replied instantly.
None of the Inspector-level officers arrived before nine. They were management, they were expected to stroll in at ten.
Agarwal gave a sharp shake of his head, looking irritated. His eyes landed on Rohan. "Rohan. I need you to translate, come with me."
"Yes, Sir!" Rohan responded immediately, stepping out of the line.
Under the heavy, jealous stares of the entire precinct, Rohan followed Agarwal back out the door. The ability to speak fluent English was Rohan's greatest shield.
Because the SHO constantly needed him to interpret for foreign tourists or corporate bigwigs, Rohan got unparalleled face-time with the boss.
The other constables hated him for it. They knew how crucial English was for advancement in a global city like Mumbai, but they were too lazy to put in the grueling hours required to learn it.
Opportunity only favors the prepared.
A few minutes later, Rohan was sitting in the passenger seat of the station's official Bolero SUV, driven by another junior constable. Agarwal wasn't high-ranking enough to have a personal chauffeur, so he had to requisition a station vehicle.
Rohan kept his mouth shut, covertly watching the SHO through the rearview mirror. Agarwal looked anxious, he was bouncing his knee, his expression a turbulent mix of excitement and deep, sweating worry.
The driver obviously knew the destination, but Rohan was in the dark.
Ten minutes into the tense drive, Agarwal finally leaned forward. "Rohan. We are going to meet Mr. Rajit Nayar, the State Finance Minister so you must translate the English perfectly. Do not make a single mistake, or it will be both our heads."
"Yes, Sir."
Rohan's mind raced, Rajit Nayar.
The Finance Minister of Maharashtra. He controlled the state's purse strings, a political titan of the highest order.
A heavyweight like Nayar had absolutely no business summoning a grassroots, slum-bordering police chief like Agarwal. If a State Minister needed police assistance, they called the Commissioner of Police, not a lowly SHO.
No wonder Agarwal looked like he was going to be sick. Being summoned by a titan was a double-edged sword. If you solved their problem, you were golden. If you failed, you were crushed like an ant.
But Rohan knew exactly who Rajit Nayar was. In his past life as a corporate tycoon, he had followed Nayar's career closely.
In exactly two years, Nayar was going to suffer a catastrophic fall from grace.
He would be investigated for a massive, multi-crore bribery scandal and actually sentenced to three years in prison, an incredibly rare fate for a politician in India. It was the result of a vicious, behind-closed-doors political bloodbath that finally took him down.
But right now, in 2008? Nayar was virtually untouchable.
Rohan felt a strange thrill. In his previous life, despite his millions, he had never moved in circles high enough to meet the Finance Minister face-to-face.
Now, as a bottom-tier police constable making pocket change, he was being driven directly to the man's house. Life was wonderfully ironic.
The Bolero passed through two layers of heavy, armed security and pulled into a sprawling, ultra-luxurious estate in South Mumbai. This was a private summons and it was off the books.
Agarwal stepped out of the SUV, visibly sweating now, his usual swagger entirely gone. The wealth and power radiating from the estate were suffocating him.
Rohan, however, felt perfectly at home.
He had lived in mansions just like this. He stepped out calmly, adjusting his cheap khaki uniform, unbothered by the sheer scale of the place.
He knew exactly why Agarwal had asked for the Deputy Inspector earlier. It was a bluff. Even if Singh had been at the station, Agarwal wouldn't have brought him.
A private summons from a State Minister was a golden ticket. Agarwal wasn't going to share the credit with his second-in-command.
He brought Rohan because Rohan was just a tool, a human dictionary who posed no threat to Agarwal's glory.
But Agarwal didn't realize that his human dictionary knew the future.
Authors Note:-
I will mass release chapters together at first.
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