The faint glow of dawn crept through the narrow cracks of Aritra's window, casting slivers of orange light across his modest room. The dusty ceiling fan above spun lazily, its rhythmic creak lost beneath the soft hum of his laptop, still open, its screen dimmed but not asleep—much like Aritra himself.
He hadn't slept. Not even for a minute.
The trades from the night before replayed in his mind like a relentless echo—the heart-pounding volatility, the surge of profits, the decisive clicks that sealed his fate. The final number still lingered on the screen, $32.5 million, yet it felt distant, like an illusion he could reach out and touch but never truly grasp.
His body was exhausted, but his mind buzzed with energy—a dangerous combination for someone who thrived on ambition.
Aritra leaned back, staring at the ceiling, his heart finally slowing after hours of relentless adrenaline. But the weight of his success pressed heavily on his chest, not because he feared failure, but because he knew this was only the beginning.
"I've conquered numbers. Now it's time to conquer reality," he whispered to himself, closing the laptop with a soft click.
The clock read 6:00 AM when he finally pushed himself off the chair. His legs felt like lead, muscles stiff from sitting too long. He splashed cold water on his face, staring into the cracked bathroom mirror. The reflection staring back was familiar yet different—eyes sharper, a faint smirk lingering as if he knew secrets the world hadn't discovered yet.
After a quick shower, he changed into a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his uniform of defiance against the mundane routine of his peers. While they prepared for school, Aritra was preparing to reshape his empire.
He grabbed his phone and dialed Ishita's number, the line connecting after just two rings.
"Good morning, sir," her crisp voice came through, not a hint of sleepiness despite the early hour.
"Morning, Ishita. I need you to be at the office by 9 AM. We have work to do," Aritra replied, his voice steady, devoid of the fatigue gnawing at his body.
"Understood," she responded, professionalism woven into every syllable.
Aritra hung up without another word. There was no need for pleasantries. Their relationship wasn't built on them—it was built on ambition and efficiency.
By 8:30 AM, he was riding his old bicycle through the narrow, dusty lanes of Dakshin Barasat, weaving past sleepy tea stalls and early morning commuters. The air was crisp, filled with the distant scent of burning wood and the faint aroma of fresh jalebis frying somewhere nearby.
But Aritra didn't notice any of it. His mind was elsewhere, already in Salt Lake, already drafting plans, strategies, ideas.
When he finally arrived at the office, the sleek glass building stood in stark contrast to the simplicity of his appearance. Block EP-G-42, Sector V, Salt Lake City—it was more than just an address. It was the beating heart of his growing empire.
Ishita was already there, dressed impeccably as always, her expression unreadable as she greeted him.
"Morning, sir. The reports you requested are on your desk," she said, falling into step beside him as they entered the building.
"Good," Aritra replied, his pace unrelenting as they ascended to his office.
The space was minimalist but elegant, the large windows offering a panoramic view of the bustling city below. He dropped his bag on the sleek wooden desk, the leather chair creaking softly as he sank into it.
"What's the current status?" he asked, flipping through the documents she'd placed before him.
"The construction at the Baruipur factory is on schedule. The equipment installations will begin next month. The recruitment ad in The Times of India has received over 300 applications. Shortlisting is underway," Ishita reported, her tone efficient, precise.
Aritra nodded, absorbing the information. But his mind was already several steps ahead.
"I want to expand the recruitment. We need engineers, software developers, logistics managers. Not just anyone—I want the best. Contact headhunters if necessary," he instructed, his eyes never leaving the papers.
"Understood," Ishita replied, jotting down notes swiftly.
Aritra leaned back, tapping his fingers against the polished surface of the desk.
"Also," he added, his gaze sharp, "start the paperwork to register a holding company. We're going global soon, and I need a structure that can handle that."
Ishita paused briefly, her eyes flickering with a hint of surprise before she nodded. "I'll get on it immediately."
The day passed in a blur of meetings, calls, and decisions. Aritra navigated through it all with the same precision he used in trading—calculating, analyzing, always two steps ahead.
But as evening approached, fatigue finally caught up with him.
He stood by the large window, watching the city lights flicker to life as the sun dipped below the horizon. The weight of his ambition pressed down on him, not as a burden, but as a reminder.
"This is just the beginning," he whispered to himself, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
And he believed it with every fiber of his being.
Because for Aritra Naskar, the boy from Dakshin Barasat, the world was just a playground waiting to be conquered.