January 30, 1971: The Signal
The evening in the Pratap Wada was heavy, laden with the scent of sandalwood incense and the dull humidity that often settled over Nagpur before the true summer heat arrived. In the main hall, the massive Murphy radio sat like a shrine on the teak sideboard, its vacuum tubes glowing with a warm, orange hum.
It crackled with the static of history changing.
"...We interrupt this program for a special bulletin. An Indian Airlines Fokker Friendship aircraft, named 'Ganga', flying from Srinagar to Jammu, has been hijacked..."
The announcer's voice was grave, carrying the weight of a nation suddenly held at gunpoint.
"...It has been forced to land in Lahore, Pakistan. Initial reports suggest the hijackers are armed."
Time seemed to fracture in the room.
Bhau Saheb, seated on his floor cushion, stopped his evening japa mid-prayer. The wooden beads in his hand ceased their rhythmic clicking. Vijay Pratap, Rudra's father, froze in the armchair, a porcelain teacup hovering halfway to his lips, the steam curling up into a stunned silence.
But Rudra didn't freeze.
He was looking at something no one else could see—a translucent, blue interface hovering invisibly in the corner of the dim room, casting no shadow.
[Event Triggered: The Ganga Hijacking]
Historical Context: Orchestrated by the National Liberation Front (NLF).
Timeline Deviation: None. Historical Course Confirmed.
Next Consequence: India bans Pakistani overflights (48 hours).
Strategic Opportunity: High.
"It has begun," Rudra said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the paralysis of the room like a blade.
Vijay set the cup down, the saucer clinking loudly. "Hijacked?" he whispered, his face paling. "By whom? Why?"
"Kashmiri separatists," Rudra answered, his tone flat and clinical, speaking before the radio announcer could even confirm the details. "And Pakistan is giving them asylum. They aren't arresting them, Baba. They are welcoming them as heroes."
Bhau Saheb stood up slowly. His joints popped, but the motion was fluid, shed of its usual elderly stiffness. He looked at the radio as if it were a mortal enemy.
"They have attacked a civilian plane?" Bhau Saheb asked, his voice trembling—not with fear, but with a rising, volcanic indignation. "They have taken our people hostage? Women? Children?"
"Yes, Dada ji," Rudra said, walking over to the old man. He towered over his grandfather, but he lowered his head in respect. "And while Delhi debates, writes drafts, and sends polite diplomatic notes, the people of Nagpur will be scared. They will be confused. And then, they will be angry."
Rudra placed a firm hand on his grandfather's forearm. He could feel the tension in the old man's muscles.
"The Deshmukhs will say we should wait for the government," Rudra whispered, invoking the name of their political rivals—the cautious, business-first family that controlled the local opposition. "They will say 'keep calm'. They will say 'don't rock the boat'. But you?"
Rudra paused, locking eyes with the patriarch.
"You must demand fire."
Bhau Saheb looked away from Rudra, his gaze drifting to the portrait of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose hanging on the far wall. For twenty years, Bhau Saheb had worn the mask of a gentle Gandhian—a man of spinning wheels and peaceful protests. But that was a mask. Underneath, the old soldier who had marched against the British was still breathing.
And tonight, he was furious.
"They think we are soft," Bhau Saheb murmured, his grip tightening on his cane until his knuckles turned white. "They think we have forgotten how to fight."
"Call Vilas," Bhau Saheb commanded, turning back to the room, his eyes hard. "Tell him to book Kasturchand Park. Tonight. We do not wait for the morning papers."
January 31, 1971
Nagpur had never seen a winter night this hot.
It wasn't the temperature; it was the friction of thousands of bodies pressed together. Kasturchand Park, the massive, dusty expanse of red soil in the center of the city, had been transformed into a sea of flickering torches and angry faces.
Vilas Rao and his student union network had worked overtime. They hadn't just gathered students; they had mobilized the soul of the city.
Rickshaw pullers left their vehicles at the gates. Mill workers from the Empress Mills came in their shifts, covered in cotton lint. Shopkeepers shuttered their stores early. Housewives stood on the periphery, arms crossed. The hijacking had touched a raw nerve. It wasn't just a plane; it was a slap in the face of national pride.
On the hastily erected wooden stage, floodlights cut through the darkness, illuminating swirling dust motes.
Rudra stood backstage in the shadows, his arms crossed, watching the ocean of heads. In his hand, he held the special evening edition of the Dainik Vajra. The headline, dictated by Rudra himself to the editor an hour prior, screamed in bold Marathi typeface:
"PAKISTAN STABS INDIA IN THE BACK — BHAU SAHEB DEMANDS ANSWERS."
"This is it," Rudra muttered to Vilas, who was frantically adjusting the microphone stand, sweating through his shirt. "Make sure the loudspeakers reach the back rows. If the last man can't hear the anger, the rally fails."
"Don't worry," Vilas grinned, looking energized by the sheer chaos of the moment. "The batteries are fresh. The city is listening."
Vilas grabbed the mic, the feedback screeching for a second before settling.
"Comrades! Brothers and Sisters! While our leaders in Delhi sleep under warm blankets, our enemy sharpens his knife! Who will speak for us? Who has the courage to call a spade a spade?"
The crowd surged forward.
"BHAU SAHEB!" the roar went up, primed by the student cadres planted in the front rows.
Bhau Saheb stepped into the light.
He looked different. Gone was the simple, disheveled cotton shawl he wore at home. Tonight, he wore a long, structured Sherwani, buttoned to the neck, and a crisp, white Gandhi cap. He didn't lean on his cane for support; he held it firmly in his right hand like a marshal's baton.
He stood silent for a full minute. He let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable, until the crowd held its breath, waiting for the explosion.
"They burned our plane," Bhau Saheb's voice growled, low and dangerous over the crackling speakers.
The silence broke. A murmur of rage rippled through the park.
"In Lahore, right now, they are dancing in the streets. They are celebrating a crime," he continued, his voice rising in pitch. "They think India is weak. They think we are a nation of clerks and shopkeepers who will merely write letters of protest to the United Nations!"
He raised his head, his eyes blazing under the floodlights.
"But they have forgotten!" he roared, his voice thundering off the nearby buildings. "They have forgotten that this is the land of Shivaji Maharaj! They have forgotten that we do not beg for peace—we enforce it!"
The crowd erupted. The sound was physical, a wall of noise. "Jai Bhavani! Jai Shivaji!"
"I hear the opposition party saying we should be 'restrained'," Bhau Saheb continued, pointing a trembling finger toward the distant lights of the Civil Lines, where the Deshmukh stronghold lay. "They say 'Business first'. They say 'Don't disrupt trade'. I ask you—what is trade worth when your honor is hijacked?"
"NOTHING!" the crowd screamed back as one.
"I, Bhau Saheb Pratap, demand that the Prime Minister close our airspace! Isolate them! Starve them! And if they want war..."
He slammed his cane onto the wooden podium with a crack that sounded like a gunshot.
"...Then let us give them a war they will write about in their history books for a hundred years!"
It was electric. It was terrifying. It was exactly what the people wanted to hear. They didn't want a politician tonight; they wanted a protector. They wanted a patriarch.
In the VIP enclosure, Rudra watched the reaction. He saw tears of pride in the eyes of old pensioners. He saw the clenched fists of the youth, veins popping in their necks.
The blue interface flickered into existence again.
[System Alert]
Political Shift Detected.
Bhau Saheb Reputation Update: Old Title: The Freedom Fighter (Respect: 60/100). New Title: The Iron Guardian (Respect: 95/100). Faction Status: Deshmukh Faction influence reduced to "Irrelevant".
February 2, 1971
Two days later, the geopolitical landscape shifted.
Bowing to immense public pressure and strategic necessity, the Indian government officially banned Pakistani overflights. This cut off West Pakistan from East Pakistan (modern-day Bangladesh), forcing their planes to take the long, expensive route around Sri Lanka. The move instantly crippled the Pakistani military logistics.
In the Pratap Wada, the mood was victorious, though the air was thick with cigarette smoke and brewing coffee.
Bhau Saheb was sitting in his armchair, reading the national papers with a satisfied glint in his eye. "Indira did it. She actually did it."
"She had to," Rudra said, pouring a fresh cup of coffee. "The public pressure was too high. The rallies in Nagpur triggered rallies in Pune, then Bombay. And you, Dada ji, were the spark."
Vijay walked in, looking stunned, holding a local newspaper. "Have you seen the Deshmukh house?"
"What happened?" Rudra asked, feigning ignorance.
"Appa Saheb Deshmukh tried to hold a press conference yesterday to talk about 'Civic Issues' and road maintenance. No one showed up," Vijay said, almost laughing in disbelief. "The journalists were all here, asking for Bhau Saheb's statement on the airspace ban."
Rudra smiled, taking a sip of his coffee. "When the sky is burning, Baba, no one cares about potholes."
But for Rudra, this political victory was just the prologue. The hijacking was merely the catalyst. The System had shown him the roadmap: The Civil War in East Pakistan would start in March. The refugees would come by the millions. And by December, the tanks would roll across the border.
Rudra walked to the window, looking out over the Pratap estate. In the distance, the factory chimneys of their textile units were smoking.
His dye stockpiles were secure. His production lines for surgical cotton and heavy canvas were ready. His grandfather was now the undisputed voice of Vidarbha, providing the political cover they needed to expand.
"Vilas," Rudra called out to the student leader who was currently crashing on their living room sofa, exhausted from the last two days of campaigning.
"Yeah?" Vilas mumbled, half-asleep.
"Get the Civil Defense committees running. I want First Aid training. I want Air Raid drills. I want every neighborhood in Nagpur to know that if bombs fall, the Prataps are the ones holding the shield."
Vilas sat up, rubbing his eyes, looking serious. "You really think bombs will fall here? We are in the center of India, Rudra. It's a long way from the border."
"War has a way of reaching everywhere, Vilas," Rudra said darkly, his reflection in the window looking older than his years. "Especially when you are prepared to profit from it."