Date: December 30, 2008
Time: 5:00 AM
Location: Aritra's Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat
The faint pre-dawn glow crept timidly through the cracked glass window of Aritra's small room, casting pale streaks across the faded posters of physics formulas and WBJEE preparation charts plastered unevenly on the walls. The ceiling fan spun lazily, creaking with every rotation, a monotonous rhythm that echoed the hollow emptiness gnawing inside him.
Sleep had become a distant luxury, lost in the shadows of late-night calculations, not of exam problems, but profit margins, recruitment strategies, and the hidden costs of running an empire from the shadows. His textbooks, once meticulously organized, now lay scattered across the dusty floor like relics of a life he had long abandoned.
His phone vibrated sharply against the wooden desk, its screen flickering with a name that had become synonymous with business: Ishita (Sec). He picked it up without hesitation, already bracing himself for another storm.
"Yes?" His voice was flat, void of the warmth it once carried.
"Sir," Ishita's voice was crisp, professional, but laced with an underlying tension that immediately set him on edge. "We've got a situation."
Aritra sat up straight, the cold air biting against his skin. "What now?"
"The factory site. We've received… complications," she replied, choosing her words carefully. "Ratan Das—a local political heavyweight—has decided he wants a 'stake' in the project."
Aritra's jaw clenched. "How much is he asking?"
"It's not about money," Ishita said softly. "Not entirely. He wants influence. Control over logistics, labor unions, even our supply chain."
Aritra's eyes darkened. This wasn't a simple bribe like the ones he'd handled before. This was an attempt to infiltrate his empire, to tether his success to someone else's greed.
"Set up a meeting," he said after a pause. "I'll deal with him myself."
"Are you sure, sir? He's not like the others. He doesn't operate with… rules."
Aritra's voice was a low growl. "Neither do I."
Time: 10:00 AM
Location: Baruipur Construction Site
The factory was a skeleton of steel and concrete, rising defiantly against the grey winter sky. The air was thick with dust, the sharp scent of wet cement mixing with the faint aroma of burning wood from distant tea stalls. Construction machines roared, their mechanical growls punctuated by the rhythmic clang of metal on metal.
Ishita stood near the makeshift site office, her sharp black blazer dusted slightly from the dry wind sweeping across the open land. She checked her watch, her face a mask of professionalism, though her eyes flickered with concern beneath her stoic exterior.
A black SUV pulled up, its tinted windows reflecting the harsh glare of the sun. The door opened, and Ratan Das stepped out—a man whose mere presence seemed to pull the air tighter. He wasn't imposing in size, but his demeanor carried the weight of unchecked power. Thick gold rings adorned his fingers, and his sharp eyes, framed by crow's feet, scanned the area with the casual confidence of someone who had nothing to fear.
Aritra arrived moments later, stepping out of a modest car, his appearance simple yet carrying an invisible aura that made heads turn. His dark shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, exposing lean arms—not the physique of a laborer, but of someone who carried the weight of responsibilities heavier than any load on the construction site.
Their eyes met—two storms on a collision course.
Ratan didn't waste time. "So, you're the boy trying to build an empire in my backyard," he said, his voice smooth but dripping with condescension.
Aritra didn't flinch. "And you're the man who thinks he owns it."
Ratan chuckled, a deep, raspy sound. "I don't need to own it. I just need to make sure it grows… with the right guidance."
"Guidance," Aritra repeated, his voice like steel wrapped in silk. "Is that what you call extortion these days?"
The tension crackled between them like static before a storm.
Ratan's smile faded. "Listen, boy. You're smart—I'll give you that. But intelligence without power is like a sword without a blade. Useless."
Aritra stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. "Power doesn't come from fear. It comes from control. And I don't plan on sharing mine."
Ratan's eyes darkened. "You think money can protect you from men like me?"
"No," Aritra replied quietly. "But it can buy men who protect me from men like you."
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. For a heartbeat, it seemed like the world paused, waiting for the inevitable clash.
But then Ratan laughed—a short, sharp bark of amusement. "You've got guts, I'll give you that."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "But remember this—every empire has cracks. And I know exactly where to find yours."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked back to his SUV, his footsteps leaving invisible marks in the dust.
Aritra stood still, his heart pounding, not from fear, but from the adrenaline of confrontation. Ishita approached him quietly.
"That was risky," she said softly.
Aritra didn't take his eyes off the retreating car. "So is building an empire."
Time: 9:00 PM
Location: Aritra's Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of his laptop screen. Aritra sat at his desk, his reflection staring back at him from the darkened window. His phone buzzed again—a message from Ishita:
"Construction progress on track. No further interference—for now."
Those two words echoed louder than the silence around him: for now.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, tracing the cracks that had grown like veins over the years. They felt like a metaphor now—small, insignificant at first, but left unchecked, capable of bringing the whole house down.
His empire was rising.
But so were the cracks.
And Aritra Naskar knew one thing for sure: the higher you build, the harder you fall.
But he had no intention of falling.
Not yet.