Date: December 29, 2008
Time: 6:00 AM
Location: Aritra's Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat
The faint glow of dawn seeped through the dusty glass window of Aritra's small room, casting pale streaks across the faded walls adorned with old WBJEE posters and dog-eared textbooks. His ceiling fan rotated lazily, groaning with every spin, mirroring the heaviness that settled in his chest. Sleep had been a luxury he couldn't afford—not because of late-night study sessions, but because the battlefield in his mind never rested.
Last night's confrontation with his parents still lingered like a bitter aftertaste. His father's furious words echoed in the corners of the room, mixing with the faint sounds of morning life outside—roosters crowing, the distant chug of an early train, and the occasional barking of stray dogs. But nothing drowned out that voice:
"Tui amar shontan hote parbi na." (You can't be my son if this is who you've become.)
His phone vibrated sharply on the wooden table beside him, its sudden buzz cutting through the silence. The screen lit up with "Ishita (Sec)" flashing in bold. He snatched it up, his pulse quickening—not from fear, but anticipation. Ishita never called this early unless something was wrong.
"Tell me," he said, skipping any greeting.
Ishita's voice came through, crisp and professional as always, but laced with a tension she rarely allowed to surface.
"Sir, we've got a problem with the Baruipur factory site."
Aritra sat up straight, his heart thudding against his ribs.
"What kind of problem?"
"The construction has been halted by the local authorities," she replied. "The police, along with some political middlemen, have blocked the site. They're claiming 'documentation issues'—but we both know that's just a cover."
Aritra's jaw tightened. "What do they want?"
"Money," she replied flatly. "A total of 2 crore INR to 'smooth things over.'"
The number didn't shock him as much as the inevitability of it did. This wasn't a surprise. It was just another part of the system—the price of doing business in a country where power was currency, and corruption was part of the infrastructure.
"Break it down," he ordered.
Ishita's tone grew sharper. "Inspector Rajesh Dutta from the Baruipur police station is demanding 50 lakhs, claiming it's for 'security services.' Then there's Councillor Prabir Ghosh, responsible for local construction permits—he wants 75 lakhs to ensure 'regulatory compliance.' Finally, MLA Tanmoy Saha's office is demanding another 75 lakhs as a 'political facilitation fee.'"
Aritra ran a hand through his messy hair, exhaling slowly. This wasn't just extortion—it was an organized ecosystem.
He stood up, pacing the room, his bare feet cold against the cracked floor tiles. For a brief second, he considered fighting back. Filing legal complaints, pushing through bureaucratic red tape, maybe even going to the media. But reality snapped back like a taut rubber band.
Time is money. And every day of delay is bleeding both.
"Pay them," he said, his voice low and controlled.
Ishita paused for a moment, as if weighing whether to argue.
"Are you sure? That's a significant amount for—"
"Just do it," he cut her off. "But make it clear—this is the last payment they'll receive without consequences."
Her voice was sharp again. "Understood."
The call ended, leaving Aritra staring at the small cracks running along the ceiling, feeling them mirror the growing fractures within him.
Time: 11:00 AM
Location: Baruipur Construction Site
The construction site buzzed with uneasy silence. The once-bustling area—where machines roared and laborers shouted over the cacophony of progress—was now eerily quiet. Cement mixers sat idle, scaffolding stood half-assembled, and piles of bricks gathered dust under the mild winter sun.
Ishita arrived, stepping out of a sleek white sedan that looked out of place against the dusty backdrop. Her sharp black blazer contrasted with the earth tones of the site, her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses that reflected the image of men who thrived on intimidation.
Waiting near the temporary site office was Inspector Rajesh Dutta, his uniform crisp but his demeanor anything but. His thick moustache curled slightly at the ends, and his potbelly strained against the buttons of his khaki shirt. He leaned casually against a rusting steel beam, lazily flipping through a cheap cigarette between his fingers.
As Ishita approached, he greeted her with a smirk.
"Madam, we have some… safety concerns. You understand how delicate these large projects can be."
Ishita didn't bother with pleasantries. She pulled out an envelope from her leather bag—thick with crisp ₹1000 notes—and handed it over without blinking.
"Fifty lakhs. As agreed."
Rajesh took the envelope, his fingers greedily thumbing through the stack before slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket. His grin widened.
"Ah, efficiency. I like that in business partners."
But Ishita wasn't here to charm anyone. She turned to her next target—Councillor Prabir Ghosh, a man with slicked-back hair, gold rings adorning every finger, and a gut that spoke of both wealth and laziness. He stood nearby, pretending to inspect construction documents, though his eyes darted toward the envelope in Ishita's hand like a predator spotting prey.
"For your 'regulatory clearances,'" Ishita said, handing him another envelope—seventy-five lakhs this time.
Prabir chuckled nervously, stuffing the cash into a leather briefcase.
"You know, these government processes are slow. But with the right… motivation, things can move faster."
Ishita's expression didn't change. "I'm not paying for speed. I'm paying for silence. Make sure both are delivered."
Finally, she approached a man in a tailored suit—a representative of MLA Tanmoy Saha, the local political heavyweight whose influence stretched far beyond Baruipur. The man was young, with slick hair, dark glasses, and the kind of arrogant grin that came from knowing he was untouchable.
Without a word, Ishita handed over the final envelope. Seventy-five lakhs, bundled neatly.
The man glanced inside, nodded, and simply said, "Pleasure doing business."
But Ishita leaned in slightly, her voice low and icy.
"This isn't a business relationship. It's a transaction. There won't be a second one."
The man's grin faltered for a second, but he recovered quickly.
"Of course, madam."
As the bribes were tucked away, the invisible barriers that had halted progress disappeared as if they'd never existed. Machines roared back to life, workers scrambled to their positions, and the skeleton of Aritra's empire continued to rise, floor by floor.
Time: 8:00 PM
Location: Aritra's Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat
The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of his laptop screen. Aritra sat at his desk, staring at the message from Ishita:
*"Payments made. Construction resumed. No further issues—for now."
For now. The words lingered, heavy with unspoken warnings.
Aritra leaned back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling once again. His empire was growing—but so was the darkness creeping at its edges. Bribes, corruption, threats. These weren't the foundations he had envisioned, yet here he was, stacking dirty money like bricks in the walls of his legacy.
How far am I willing to go?
He didn't have an answer.
Because empires weren't built on ideals. They were built on power.
And power always had a price.