Date: February 21, 1992
Location: Colaba, Bombay, India
The dusk air of Colaba was a stew of fish, diesel, and desperation, curling through Chai Corner's smoky haze. Shiva, 18, stood outside the tea stall, heart a caged beast. February 21, 1992, 6:30 PM. Tomorrow's India-England World Cup match in Perth burned in his 2025 memories: England's 226 for 8, India choking at 217, a 9-run loss. Botham's swing, Azharuddin's flicker of hope, Jadeja's fatal run-out. He knew it like a mantra, a key to his first fortune.
His pocket held ₹1,000—₹300 from his "book fund," ₹700 begged from his mother, Lakshmi, with a lie about a cousin's wedding gift. The cash felt heavy, a pact with the shadows. Chai Corner, a shack near Sassoon Docks, was Raju Bhai's domain. The bookie, 40, with paan-red lips and a gold chain, ran bets from a ledger hidden in a Parle-G tin. Shiva had scouted him for weeks, ears tuned to dockworkers' whispers. Raju was small-time but tied to Bala, a don whose name made fishermen flinch. One wrong move, and Shiva's rebirth could end in a Colaba alley, throat slit.
He adjusted his faded kurta, stepping into the stall's glow. The radio blared Doordarshan's World Cup jingle—"Bharat ka Tyohar!"—as cabbies and porters sipped chai, debating Tendulkar's form. Raju leaned against the counter, counting notes with a vulture's focus. His eyes flicked up, locking on Shiva.
"Kid," Raju rasped, paan juice dribbling, "you lost? This ain't a library."
Shiva forced a nervous grin, channeling 1992's naive boy. "Heard you take bets, bhai. World Cup." He clutched a Sportstar magazine, its cover hyping India's "batting might," as a prop. His 2025 mind sneered: Perth's pace kills them.
Raju's smirk widened, gold chain glinting. "Bets, eh? Got cash, or just dreams?"
Shiva slid ₹1,000 under a chipped chai glass, fingers steady despite his pulse. "England to win. Tomorrow's match."
The stall quieted, porters glancing over. Raju counted the notes, slow, deliberate. "Thousand rupees? Big for a schoolboy. Daddy's money?"
"Saved for a bicycle," Shiva lied, voice cracking just right. "Read England's got swing."
Raju tucked the cash into his tin, ledger rustling. "Odds, 1.8. England's favored, but Perth's tricky. Don't cry if Azhar pulls it off." He spat paan, red splattering the dirt like blood. "Back tomorrow night, 7:00, if you win."
Shiva nodded, slipping into Colaba's dusk. A BEST bus roared past, horn piercing the din. He glanced back—Raju's stare followed, sharp as a blade. A beggar woman by the paan shop watched too, her gaze ancient, chilling. She sees the void in me, Shiva thought, absurd but unshakable. His 2025 memories whispered: Every thread weaves a noose.
At home, the flat was a pressure cooker. Lakshmi stirred dal, radio droning cricket ads. Priya, his sister, sprawled on the floor, scribbling homework. "Where were you?" she asked, braid swinging, eyes too sharp for 15. "Smell like fish."
"Met a friend," Shiva said, dodging to his corner. Priya's stare lingered—she'd be a problem if he wasn't careful. His father, Ramesh, slumped in, clerk's exhaustion etched deep. "Shiva, JEE books came. ₹200. Study, don't waste time."
Shiva nodded, guilt pricking. The JEE, May 10, was his ticket to IIT Bombay, computer science—a must for the IT boom he'd ride. He'd aced it in his first life, but 2025's math tricks (matrix shortcuts, probability hacks) would make it a breeze. He'd study nights, using pirated books from Flora Fountain, saving cash for bets.
Under his cot, he checked his tin: ₹4,000 left after the ₹1,000 bet. Enough for two more—Pakistan vs. India, March 4, and the final, March 25. Pakistan's 43-run upset in Sydney was next, odds maybe 2.1:1. He'd bet ₹2,000, spread to a Dadar bookie, Manoj, to avoid Raju's net. Stocks loomed too—Infosys, pre-IPO, ₹10 a share, if he could find a Bangalore broker. But first, tomorrow's win: ₹1,800, ₹800 profit. Small, but a spark for his empire.
Lying on his cot, Shiva stared at the fan's slow spin. The beggar's gaze haunted him, a splinter in his soul. Raju's smirk, Priya's suspicion, Bala's shadow—they were threads in a web he'd weave or choke on. His 2025 death flashed—glass, fire, a scream. Was this rebirth a gift, or a trap?
He closed his eyes, the radio's cricket chant fading. Tomorrow, the match. Tomorrow, the first thread. Whatever the cost, he'd pull it.