Date: January 2, 2009
Time: 6:30 AM
Location: Aritra's Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat
The faint gray light of dawn filtered through the dusty curtains of Aritra's small room, casting long shadows across the cracked walls. His ceiling fan spun lazily, creaking with each rotation, as if struggling under the weight of silence. Aritra sat at his desk, his fingers pressed against his temple, staring blankly at the glowing screen of his laptop. The spreadsheet displayed neat rows of numbers—profits, expenditures, projections—but none of it mattered at that moment.
His mind was elsewhere, trapped in the echo of Ratan Das's smug voice from their last meeting: "Power isn't about fighting every battle. It's about knowing which ones to lose."
The words haunted him, not because they were wrong, but because they were true.
The knock on his door snapped him from his thoughts. It was soft, hesitant—his mother's.
"Aritra, tumi uthecho?" (Aritra, are you awake?)
"Yes, Ma," he replied, his voice flat.
She didn't enter. Just the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hall reminded him of the growing distance between him and everything he once cared about.
His phone vibrated on the table, breaking the fragile silence. Ishita's name flashed on the screen.
"Meeting is set for 11 AM today," her message read. "Ratan expects an answer."
Aritra stared at the message for a long time before typing his reply:
"Confirmed."
Time: 11:30 AM
Location: A Small Warehouse, Baruipur
The warehouse was nothing more than a decaying relic—a forgotten structure with rusted shutters and peeling paint, hidden behind a row of abandoned buildings. The kind of place where deals were made in whispers, and threats echoed louder than promises.
Aritra arrived dressed in dark jeans, a black jacket zipped up to his neck. His face was expressionless, but his eyes burned with a quiet fury. Ishita was already there, leaning against her car, her sharp gaze scanning the perimeter.
"You don't have to do this," she said quietly as he approached.
Aritra's jaw tightened. "Yes, I do."
Inside, Ratan Das waited, seated casually on an old wooden crate, flanked by two men whose faces were carved with the kind of indifference only money could buy. The faint smell of tobacco hung in the stale air.
Ratan's grin stretched wide when he saw Aritra. "Ah, the boy king himself. Decided to join us in the real world, have you?"
Aritra didn't respond. He reached into his bag, pulling out an envelope thick with cash—30 lakhs, meticulously counted and stacked. He tossed it onto the crate between them.
"There's your money," he said coldly. "Now stay out of my way."
Ratan picked up the envelope, flipping through the notes with lazy satisfaction. His gold rings glinted under the dim light as he thumbed the edges of the bills.
"You see, this wasn't so hard," Ratan said with a smirk. "You've got potential, boy. But potential without power? It's just a fancy word."
Aritra's hands curled into fists at his sides, but he kept his voice steady. "Consider this the last payment. I won't be so generous next time."
Ratan chuckled, leaning back slightly. "That's the thing about power, Aritra. It's never about the money. It's about making sure people know who's really in charge."
Aritra stepped closer, his eyes locked onto Ratan's. "And you'll remember that when this empire is too big for you to touch."
The tension in the room was suffocating, thick enough to cut with a knife. But neither of them flinched.
After a beat, Ratan gave a dismissive wave. "We'll see, boy. We'll see."
Aritra turned and walked out, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from the bitter taste of compromise.
Time: 2:00 PM
Location: Aritra's Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat
The door creaked shut behind him as he entered his room, the familiar smell of old books and dust wrapping around him like a blanket he couldn't shake off. He sat at his desk, staring at nothing, the echoes of Ratan's words still rattling in his mind.
His phone buzzed again—a message from Ishita:
"Transaction complete. Construction resumed. No further issues—for now."
Those last two words—for now—felt like a noose tightening around his ambition.
Aritra leaned back, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. The cracks above mirrored the fractures within him, lines drawn by choices he never thought he'd have to make.
He had money. He had influence. But somewhere along the way, he'd started losing pieces of himself.
And yet, he knew he'd do it all over again.
Because empires weren't built by holding onto pride.
They were built by knowing when to let it go.