The Pratap Wada was quiet when Rudra returned, the evening shadows stretching long across the courtyard. The smell of jasmine from the garden mixed with the scent of old wood and stone.
Rudra went straight to his father's study. Vijay Pratap was pacing, a half-smoked cigarette in his hand. When Rudra entered, Vijay stopped and closed the door, locking it.
"Well?" Vijay asked, his voice tight. "Two weeks, Rudra. You've been disappearing every morning. The accounts show the fifty thousand is gone. Drained. And I don't see any cotton in our mill's warehouse."
Rudra calmly poured himself a glass of water from the copper pitcher on the desk.
"It's not in the mill, Baba. If it were in the mill, the Union would know. If the Union knows, the Deshmukhs know."
Rudra sat down, crossing his legs. "We have four hundred bales of high-grade raw cotton sitting in a private godown in Itwari. Purchased at an average of 130 rupees. Fully paid for."
Vijay dropped into his chair, the ash from his cigarette falling unnoticed onto the desk. "Four hundred? The market price is already touching 150. You... you already made profit?"
"Paper profit," Rudra corrected. "But we aren't selling yet. The Deshmukhs are running around like headless chickens. They think a Gujarati syndicate has cornered the market. They are panic-buying whatever scrap is left at 160."
"You blocked them," Vijay whispered, a mix of horror and admiration on his face. "You used my money to starve our competition."
"I used your money to secure our future," Rudra said, his eyes hard. "When the rain fails—and it will fail next week—the price will hit 300. The Deshmukhs will have empty warehouses and expensive contracts to fulfill. They will come to us, Baba. And we will sell to them. But at our price."
Vijay looked at his son. He didn't see the boy who barely scraped through his exams anymore. He saw a stranger. A shark in a white kurta.
"Who are you?" Vijay asked softly. "Since that day you fixed the loom... you are different."
Rudra stood up, placing a hand on his father's shoulder. "I am just a man who realized that being good doesn't save you. Being strong does. Now, wash your face. Aai is waiting for dinner. We cannot look worried."
The dining hall was a long, narrow room lined with teak pillars. The family sat on wooden paats (low stools) on the floor, eating from heavy silver thalis. It was a tradition Bhau Saheb insisted on—no matter how rich they became, they ate sitting on the earth.
The atmosphere was heavy, much like the humid air outside.
Sumitra served the Varan Bhaat (Lentils and Rice) with a generous ladle of homemade ghee. "Rudra, you are becoming thin," she chided, piling more potato bhaji onto his plate. "Are you working too hard at the mill? Vijay, stop him. He has to finish his degree."
"He is learning quickly, Sumitra," Vijay said, keeping his eyes on his plate. "Very quickly."
At the head of the row, Bhau Saheb ate slowly. He was a man of few words during meals, but tonight, he seemed troubled.
"The Chief Minister called today," Bhau Saheb said, breaking the silence. His voice commanded instant attention.
Rudra paused, a piece of roti halfway to his mouth.
"Is everything alright in Bombay, Sasuji?" Sumitra asked respectfully.
"No," Bhau Saheb grunted. "The meteorological department has sent a confidential report. The monsoon currents have stalled over the Arabian Sea. They are expecting a dry spell for at least three weeks."
Rudra caught his father's eye. Vijay went pale. Rudra didn't flinch. He continued eating, though his heart hammered against his ribs. The System was right. To the day.
"What will happen to the farmers?" Sumitra asked worriedly.
"Ruin," Bhau Saheb sighed, wiping his hands. "If it doesn't rain by the 15th, the sowing season is lost. There will be famine in Vidarbha. I have to go to the constituency tomorrow. We need to organize water tankers."
He looked at Vijay. "Vijay, how is our stock? If the crop fails, the mill will struggle."
Vijay choked slightly on his water. He looked at Rudra.
Rudra spoke up, his voice calm and respectful. "Baba has managed it, Dada ji. We have enough inventory to run for six months, even if not a single boll of cotton grows this year."
Bhau Saheb raised an eyebrow, looking from his son to his grandson. "Is that so? Good. At least one of us has foresight."
The dinner concluded in silence, the weight of the coming calamity hanging over the family. For Bhau Saheb, it was a political and humanitarian crisis. For Sumitra, a tragedy.
For Rudra, it was the signal to start the harvest.
July 10, 1970.
The wait was excruciating.
For ten days, the sky teased Nagpur. Grey clouds would gather, thunder would rumble, but not a drop fell. The heat grew oppressive. Dust storms swirled through the streets.
Rudra spent his days in the mill office, watching the ticker of the radio and reading the newspapers.
Market Report: Cotton Futures Uncertain. Local News: Wells drying up in Yavatmal.
Then, on the eleventh day, the dam broke. Not the clouds—the market.
Rudra was sitting with Gokul Das in the secret godown when the radio crackled to life.
"This is All India Radio. The Central Government has officially declared a drought watch for the Vidarbha and Marathwada regions. The Ministry of Agriculture predicts a 50% crop failure..."
Outside the godown, the noise of the city seemed to change. The lazy hum turned into a frantic buzz.
In the Cotton Mandi, panic erupted.
[System Alert][Prediction Verified.][Market Event Triggered: The Great Dry.][Cotton Price Current: ₹180... ₹210... ₹240...]
The numbers on the holographic interface scrolled up rapidly like a slot machine hitting the jackpot.
Rudra stood up and dusted off his pants. He looked at Gokul Das.
"Open the doors, Gokul," Rudra said. "The guests will be arriving soon."
"Who, Malik?"
"The Deshmukhs," Rudra grinned. "And they will be bringing their checkbooks."