INT. CLERK'S QUARTERS – NIGHT
Rain drums softly against the window.
Laksh pulls on a long Victorian-era coat—dark, woolen, the hem brushing his boots. He fastens the last button slowly. A faint glint of metal flashes near the collar—just enough to catch attention.
From across the room, Foid, a young British officer, watches. Beside him, Kelvin chuckles.
A smirk tugs at their lips.
But as Laksh turns—
His face in the dim lamplight... something about it—sharp angles, calculating calm—
Too much like Captain Falkner.
The smirks falter.
EXT. OUTSIDE QUARTERS – MOMENTS LATER
Laksh steps into the open.
The rain meets him instantly—soft but relentless.
He lifts a dark bowler hat, then places it on his head. The wind flutters the edge of his coat as water beads on his shoulders and flickers down the fabric.
He doesn't flinch.
He murmurs—just loud enough for them to hear.
LAKSH
(haunting, amused)
"Let's collect tax claims... from that Gorakh."
Foid and Kelvin exchange a glance.
Then—shiver.
There's something off about Laksh now. Like Falkner's ghost had stepped into him. But darker. Smarter.
They follow as he walks into the downpour.
FOID
(grumbling)
"Can't we wait? This rain's a bloody curse..."
Laksh half-turns, amused.
LAKSH
"You don't want Gorakh to escape in the wait, do you?"
He smiles faintly—
Then vanishes into the wet mist.
They follow.
Reluctantly.
EXT. RIVERSIDE – NIGHT
Rain slashes down. The muddy bank is alive with quiet motion.
Dozens of tan-skinned men carry wooden crates—heavy, soaked, and bound in rope. One by one, they toss them into the river, where they float momentarily... then vanish into the current.
The rain masks the splashes, the sound lost in the drumming storm.
INT. HUT NEAR RIVER – CONTINUOUS
Inside a low, damp hut, Merchant Gorakh watches through a narrow slit in the thatched wall.
Water clings to his thick moustache, his oiled hair flattened against his scalp. His silks are damp, but his eyes—narrow and sharp.
He turns to the man beside him, a lean figure with a sharp jaw and local tattoos hidden beneath a damp shawl.
GORAKH
(whispering)
"You were right. This rain... it's the perfect cover."
He strokes his mustache, rain trailing down his nose.
GORAKH (CONT'D)
"I've trusted the Marathas with my wealth. I'm done feeding British ledgers. It's time I escape this cursed place."
The man nods, half-smiling.
SMUGGLER
"Don't worry, vanik. We're floating your crates down the overflow. The upper ponds are full... the current is strong. The river will carry your gold far beyond Company reach."
Outside, a final crate splashes into the water.
The men melt into the rain.
Gorakh watches silently, his breath fogging in the cold. In the shadows behind him, a single lamp flickers—
and then, a bootstep.
The rain pours steadily.
Laksh, Foid, and Kelvin crouch behind a thick banyan tree, half-concealed by overgrowth. The river glimmers in the distance—crates disappearing into its current like secrets swallowed by the earth.
Foid wipes rain from his brow, whispering harshly:
FOID
(grumbling)
"Why the hell are we hiding here, Laksh? What's the point?"
CRACK.
Kelvin shifts his foot—snaps a twig under him. Both flinch.
Laksh doesn't move.
His hat low, coat soaked, his eyes gleam in the dark like glass knives.
He speaks quietly. Calmly. But each word lands like a weight.
LAKSH
"Tell me, gentlemen…"
He tilts his head slightly, watching a final crate sink into the river.
LAKSH (CONT'D)
"Would you rather collect a few coins in Company tax…"
A pause.
LAKSH (CONT'D)
"Or... take the gold, say the Marathas looted it... and walk away richer, while the Crown stays blind and happy?"
Foid stares at him, stunned.
Kelvin glances between the smuggled crates and Laksh.
LAKSH (smiling faintly)
"My friends... paperwork is fiction. But gold... gold writes its own truth."
He adjusts his hat.
A flash of lightning cuts the sky.
Rain pours harder now.
The crates continue drifting down the river, vanishing into darkness.
Foid and Kelvin watch, their eyes glinting—not with duty, but with greed.
FOID
(low, intrigued)
"And how would you even do it?"
KELVIN
(tilting forward)
"You can't stop crates midstream… not without a damn dam."
Laksh grins.
He tilts his hat, water trailing off its brim.
Then, with a quiet rustle—
He lets a coiled rope fall from his other hand.
LAKSH
(softly)
"Not a dam. Just a rope."
The two officers look at him, confused.
FOID
"What?"
LAKSH
(cheerfully)
"A floating crate is the easiest thing to stop, my friends. You just need the right place... and the right idiot."
He suddenly turns to Foid—
and pushes him forward.
LAKSH (CONT'D)
"Sir, we need your sacrifice."
Foid stumbles, sputtering.
LAKSH (CONT'D)
"Go to the far bank. Run along the bend until they can't see you. Find two trees. Tie the rope. Let it drag across the water like a blade."
He smirks.
LAKSH (CONT'D)
"Crates will catch. Water will slow. The river will betray their route."
Foid hesitates.
LAKSH (calmly)
"Unless... you'd rather watch the gold float by?"
Foid groans, snatches the rope, and starts running along the edge.
Kelvin watches, impressed and unsettled.
KELVIN
(low)
"You've done this before."
LAKSH
(adjusting his collar)
"No. But rivers and greed? They flow the same way."
Foid strips off his shirt and coat, shivering under the rain. Only in his trousers, he tosses the soaked bundle to Kelvin, who catches it with suspiciously gleeful hands.
FOID
(grumbling under his breath)
"Expected nothing less from you bastard friends…"
He shoots a glare at Laksh, who's calmly coiling the rope like a man tying fate itself.
Foid takes the rope—eyes burning with a mix of shame and suspicion.
FOID (CONT'D)
"What exactly are we, Laksh? Taxmen or thieves?"
Laksh doesn't answer.
His head is tilted, listening.
Somewhere in the distance—
The low mooing of cows.
He smiles faintly.
LAKSH
(half to himself)
"Seems the cows want to eat gold tonight."
Kelvin looks confused.
KELVIN
"What?"
LAKSH
"Nothing."
EXT. FAR BORDER – KING HADA'S LAND – NIGHT
A muddy riverbank, miles downstream.
Several cowherds, barefoot and draped in wet cloth, bathe their cattle in the rising water. Rain hits the cows' backs in rhythmic splashes.
One of them, a lean boy with a nose ring and cracked lips, peers into the current—eyes narrowing.
COWHERD
(muttering)
"We need to assess if the cattle escaped the Whites or not..."
He pauses, watching something float by.
COWHERD (CONT'D)
"…and retrieve it."
A crate bobs silently, tangled in reeds.
It doesn't belong.
The rain has grown colder.
FOID, shirtless, clutches the coarse rope. He stands ankle-deep in the swirling water, shivering, his breath coming in quick, misty bursts.
Just as he's about to step forward—
LAKSH
(softly, from behind)
"You wouldn't like traveling against the river, would you?"
Foid pauses.
Laksh kneels, plucks a single leaf from a branch above, and gently places it onto the river's surface.
The leaf floats forward.
But—
Heavy raindrops begin to batter it.
The leaf soaks.
It drifts... slows...
Then—catches on a patch of wild grass and reed, pulled to the muddy edge like a fallen soldier.
LAKSH
(murmuring)
"Angle your path. Forty degrees off the current... Not too wide. Not too straight. Flow with the bend—you'll land exactly across from here."
Foid blinks.
FOID
(confused, half-whispering)
"Why does that sound familiar... I've read this somewhere…"
He frowns—shrugs it off.
And steps forward.
EXT. RIVER – CONTINUOUS
Foid plunges in—
The rope taut in his hand, the water immediately clawing at him like cold hands.
The current spins him sideways. His legs kick wildly, arms flailing.
Rocks scrape against his shins.
Branches whip his face.
He coughs, half-choking, the rope cutting into his palm.
A moment of panic—
Then—
The current tilts.
He lets his body turn slightly—just enough.
He lets the angle carry him.
EXT. FAR BANK – NIGHT
With a final splash—Foid crashes into reeds. Mud sucks at his knees as he pulls himself up, coughing, gasping, soaked to the bone.
The rope slaps the ground behind him like a snake.
He made it.
Just as Laksh said.
He lies there, half-laughing, half-shivering, staring at the stormy sky.
FOID
(breathless, amazed)
"What... the hell are you, Laksh..."
A realisation comes in his mind.
Foid's lips twitch into a strange, bitter smile.
FOID
(whispering to himself)
"Equal forces... cancel out."
He grips the rope again—this time not with fear, but with understanding.
FOID (CONT'D)
"And the bastard walks straight through the storm..."
He stares across the river.
Laksh, still in the shadows, tilts his hat and turns away, walking calmly, the rain parting around him.
Foid watches.
Still lying in the mud.
FOID runs—
Barefoot, shirtless, soaked to the bone.
The rope coils behind him like a serpent of fate.
His foot slips on a leaf—
Mud bursts upward—
But he catches himself, keeps running.
Branches crack beneath him.
Water splashes against his legs—
Cold droplets shatter against his skin like tiny stones.
He leaps over a fallen log—
A massive branch lying in his path.
His foot slips—again—
Leaves slide beneath him—
But he doesn't stop.
He skids, catches momentum, and keeps running.
He reaches the bank before the drifting crates.
The river bent like a spine, trees crouching low along either bank.
Without hesitating, he wraps the rope around a sturdy tree trunk—his hands trembling, blood mixing with rain.
Then—
Still gripping the rope—
He sprints back across the river, pulling the line taut behind him.
Forty degrees.
Exactly as Laksh said.
Debris slams into his side.
Floating branches whip his arms.
But he holds steady—
Guided not by strength, but by calculation.
He reaches the other side—
Ties the rope around a thick banyan root, breath heaving.
Then—
WHAM.
Then—
A distant rumble.
A crate rounds the bend.
The rope is taut.
The moment stretches...
And then—WHAM
A crate slams into the rope—
Tilts, bucks sideways—
Another crashes in behind it—
And another.
Water erupts into the air.
Crates jostle, collide, jam against the rope in a growing mass.
The river foams.
Rain smashes down.
But the crates?
They stop.
A tide of wealth arrested mid-flow.
Trapped.
FOID collapses to the mud, panting, staring at the heap of trapped crates.
Behind him, Laksh lights a single match beneath a rock shelf—shielding it from the rain.
The flame flickers.
It reflects in his eyes.
LAKSH (to himself, quiet)
"The river which forget itself."
His coat flickers casting shadows at Far away border where,
A cow moos and turns away from the gold—rejecting wealth instinctively. A metaphor for dharma untouched by greed.
EXT. MARATHA BORDER FORT – NIGHT
The rain has not stopped. If anything, it has become heavier—turning the mud into slush and painting the world in streaks of water and shadow.
A flaming mashal (torch) burns steadily in front of a grand stone gate, its fire flickering violently against the storm.
On either side of the arched gateway, Maratha guards stand with curved tulwars and soaked shawls—stern, unmoving. Their turbans are waterlogged, but their gazes never waver.
Beyond the gate—
A rain-slicked road winds downward, filled with bullock carts, villagers under umbrellas, and soldiers on horseback, all trudging through the monsoon night.
From an upper window carved into the stone fort wall, Merchant Gorakh watches nervously.
He squints through the rain as he raises a polished doorbin (brass binoculars), wiping the lenses quickly before pressing them to his face.
GORAKH'S POV THROUGH THE BINOCULARS:
The burning torch, its light cutting through the mist.
The guards, shifting slightly as new arrivals pass.
The drenched crowd, weary and unaware.
The horizon—blurred. No sign of his gold.
BACK TO GORAKH:
He lowers the binoculars.
His silk robe clings to him, the hems dirty, the damp refusing to leave. The dim flame of a nearby oil lamp casts a strange glow on his face, making his eyes twitch with unease.
He looks down at his ringed fingers, gripping the balcony's edge like they could force fate forward.
Then, softly—half to himself, half to the storm:
GORAKH
(murmuring)
"When... will my gold arrive?"
A crack of thunder rolls over the fort.
He doesn't blink.
Because somewhere out there, his fortune is floating...
...and something else is watching it move.
Meanwhile
Inside the Maratha fort, an old warrior-priest says:
"Once, even kings feared this gate. Now it's just wet stone. Shivaji's name echoes, but no one listens."