EXT. RAJ SABHA – NIGHT
Thunder cracks.
Torches flicker against carved stone pillars. Marble floors reflect the firelight, warped by the stormy gusts outside.
A circle of RAJPUT NOBLES sit on stone thrones, wrapped in deep reds, oranges, and golds—faces grave, arms folded, swords gleaming.
In the center, a shrine to a lion-headed deity, incense coiling in the air like smoke from a dying battlefield.
Footsteps echo.
A YOUNG ENVOY in a rain-soaked blue robe enters, his turban loose, skin glistening from the storm.
He bows low—voice trembling, wet.
BLUE ENVOY
(breathless)
"Forgive me, Senapati. Help... is being delayed."
A hand tightens into a fist on the stone throne.
RAJPUT WARRIOR (mid-40s)—face shadowed, voice hoarse:
WARRIOR
(muttering)
"Pandrah din... pandrah din ho chuke hain."
Thunder rolls.
A WOMAN—wrapped in a blood-red saree, her eyes sharp as blade edges—steps forward from the shadows.
She walks barefoot over cold stone.
RED WOMAN
(quietly)
"Our father Hada lies dead these fifteen days.
Our mother... now speaks to walls."
The envoy's knees buckle as he drops, forehead touching stone.
BLUE ENVOY
(urgent, ashamed)
"Maharaj Hada's revenge will be taken. Please…
Just a few more days—"
A MINISTER with a curled mustache and pearl-studded turban shakes his head, arms crossed.
MINISTER
(grim)
"Gorakh has taken shelter near the Maratha ports.
Each day we wait, another ally slips away."
A rumble of thunder again.
WARRIOR
(rising)
"Enough waiting. If the British won't act... we will."
He unsheathes his sword. Thunder cracks again.
INT. BRITISH ADMINISTRATIVE BUILDING – NIGHT
Dim lamps flicker against green walls lined with wooden filing cabinets. Rain taps the foggy windows. A ceiling fan groans above.
FALKNER — slick-haired, Victorian coat, gloves tucked into his belt — leans by the window, flipping through a damp folder.
A smirk plays at the corner of his lips.
He mutters as he tosses the file onto a nearby bench.
FALKNER
(under breath)
"So… Gorakh escaped to the Marathas.
With gold. How... poetic."
(beat)
"Guess that's another report for the pile."
He turns.
Marches toward a cluttered bench stacked high with folders. Each stamped in red:
LOAN GRANTED
Recipient: Gorakh Rai
He picks one up. Then another. And another.
Each reads the same.
He stops. Murmurs to himself with growing disbelief:
FALKNER
"Fifteen loans... twenty lakhs each..."
His hand freezes mid-flip. A twitch in his jaw.
FALKNER (CONT'D)
"…Gorakh's a bastard.
But the real question is—"
His eyes narrow.
FALKNER (CONT'D)
"Which bloody idiot approved all this?"
A moment of silence.
Then—
A creak.
His gaze lifts.
From the corner of the room, a shadow shifts. a boy steps forward—a nervous man with ink-stained fingers and shaking spectacles.
Boy
(stammering)
"S-Sir... it appears the papers were…
forged. Different signatures. Different departments.
No one noticed. Or rather—everyone assumed someone else approved."
Falkner stares at him.
Then laughs—dry, sharp, surgical.
FALKNER
"Oh. Beautiful."
He pulls out a cigarette. Strikes a match on a folder edge. Flame flares in the dimness.
FALKNER (CONT'D)
"Someone just looted Her Majesty's East India Company…
...with stationery."
He exhales smoke. The papers flutter as a gust from the broken fan turns another page.
Across it:
"Issued to: Mrs. Radhika Sen / Mrs. P. Kumari / Mrs. Nalini Das"
Dozens of fake names.
But same handwriting.
INT. BRITISH ADMINISTRATIVE BUILDING – NIGHT
The storm murmurs outside. Paper rustles beneath weak lamplight.
FALKNER drops the last forged loan file into a wooden box marked:
"FRAUD INVESTIGATION – MARATHA PORTS"
He wipes his hands like dusting off crime.
FALKNER
(muttering)
"Company needs to improve its authentication methods...
...or at least hire fewer drunk accountants."
He pulls out a fresh sheet. Begins drafting a report—"Security Vulnerabilities in Rural Lending Protocols."
As he writes, his eyes flick to a paper beside him.
A faded envelope stamped with low priority.
Curious, he lifts it. Opens it.
Inside: A poetic proposal, scribbled in half-verse, half-mechanical notation. The handwriting is unusually dramatic.
He reads aloud:
FALKNER
(reading, dryly)
"To compress the gods of fire and water into one roaring breath..."
(beat, unimpressed)
"…What?"
The cover page bears a name:
"Submitted by: L. Chandra, Clerk (7th Class)"
Falkner squints at the scribbled sketch—a strange steam mechanism. No signature, just a line of badly drawn gears and spirals.
He scoffs.
FALKNER
"That Shakespearean boy is trying to improve British tech...
What a jester."
He tosses the paper aside—
Then pauses.
Looks at it again.
Sighs.
Slips it into the outbound box for London proposals.
FALKNER
(grudgingly)
"Let the real fools deal with it."
He closes the lid.
Behind him, the fan whirs. Somewhere outside, the rain falls harder.