Chapter 18: The Seeds Of Power 2
1st October 1970 – The Ashok Hotel, New Delhi
The morning sun filtered through the finely polished windows of Room 812 at The Ashok Hotel, casting gentle beams over velvet-lined drapes and the marble-veined floors. In a city bursting with ministers, lobbyists, and foreign ambassadors, the Ashok stood like a crown jewel in Lutyens' New Delhi—a quiet, unobtrusive fortress of post-independence prestige. Built by the government to impress foreign delegates and house dignitaries, it radiated elite presence. Luxurious and secure, it offered what few places in the capital could: anonymity for the powerful.
It wasn't just a hotel. It was a statement.
And now it belonged—at least temporarily—to Vikram Singh.
At nearly ₹500 a night, it was one of the most expensive rooms in the country. That amount, in 1970, was the equivalent of an entire year's salary for a lower-cadre government employee, and in 2025 terms, it would exceed ₹50,000 a night. But Vikram didn't spend this on indulgence. Comfort abetted discretion. No one suspected that the man in Room 812, who occasionally ordered black coffee and read newspapers in the lounge, was the architect of one of the most far-reaching, invisible campaigns to ever touch the heart of the Indian state.
He had arrived in Delhi on 23rd September, after wrapping up his work in Bombay.
There, he had moved like a shadow and was able to quietly infiltrate homes, guesthouses, and remote retreats in Bombay and its surrounding regions, carefully influencing 16 Members of Parliament each target carefully chosen without leaving a single trace behind.
Since arriving in New Delhi, he had already used his memory manipulation skill on18 MPs in these 7-8 days.
And today was going to be a turning point.
The ornate telephone on the side table clicked softly. Another confirmation.
Vikram closed his leather-bound notebook and walked toward the window.
Below him, the hotel gardens resembled a military parade, with perfectly aligned paths and sharp-dressed staff pacing corridors with synchronized poise. Diplomats, industrialists, and bureaucrats passed one another every hour, exchanging briefcases, cigarettes, and deniable favors
But where they moved to preserve power, Vikram moved to simplify it.
Vikram felt no urgency. His plan was unfolding ahead of schedule.
Tonight, he would be hosting a private party in one of the hotel's grand ballrooms—officially, a gathering for "national discussion and informal networking." Unofficially, it would be the single most ambitious operation he had executed to date.
Tonight's gathering would open a new frontier in his unfolding design.
Tonight, everything would accelerate.
His notebook lay closed on the table, hundreds of names listed within—some already influenced and already under his control, some carefully aligned in priority.
Twenty-seven Members of Parliament had confirmed their attendance. The invitations had not been sent randomly. Every single guest had been personally referred, nudged, or convinced by the 34 MPs he had already influenced.
That was the power of seed implantation: once loyalty was rewritten and aligned to Vikram's vision, those MPs didn't even need instruction. They believed it was their own idea to bring others in and following Vikram's order is only natural for them.
That was the genius of subtle memory implantation: loyalty born of illusion led to conviction without coercion.
This wouldn't be mass manipulation. It was ideological infection.
And tonight, under columns and chandeliers, the next batch of hosts would be activated—willingly, unknowingly.
Tonight, when the doors closed and the champagne flowed, when ideologies blurred under soft jazz and politics turned personal—he would make contact.
Formally, it would be presented as a closed-door policy salon—not unusual for politically adjacent circles. But behind the wine and words, Vikram would engage in something far more surgically potent.
He had prepared his entry cues meticulously. No staged lectures. No fiery speeches. Only music, taste, and well-placed moments of contact.
What set this particular plan apart was not the scale—but the strategy
Not in public view. Not under pressure. But quietly. In one-on-one conversations, casual moments, and brief disappearances from the crowd. A handshake here. A pat on the shoulder there. A brief clasp of forearms while exchanging stories of rural poverty or upcoming votes.
That was all it took.
One touch.
One moment.
One rewrite.
If tonight went according to plan—and Vikram had every reason to believe it would—the number of MPs under his influence and are loyal to him would rise to 61.
Nearly one-fourth of his target.
And it wasn't even November yet.
The final goal was still far ahead: at least 260 MPs under his influence before the new government was sworn in, sometime around March 1971. But this moment—the shift from dozens to scores—was monumental. A quiet revolution was happening under the noses of the nation's power structure, and no one knew.
No intelligence bureau had detected unusual behavior. No opposition leader had raised suspicion. Not even Indira Gandhi's own network of political loyalists had noticed that some of their colleagues were no longer entirely... themselves.
And that was the danger of belief: once modified, it looked exactly like conviction.
Vikram turned back to the mirror, adjusting his collar with calm precision. His reflection stared back—not as a villain, not as a tyrant, but as an architect.
Tonight wasn't just a party.
It was a ritual of alignment, a recalibration of India's political compass.
And when the ballroom doors opened, they would not be entering a simple gathering of peers.
They would be stepping, unknowingly, into the hands of history.
The ballroom of The Ashok Hotel had been dressed for power.
No banners, no slogans, no overt display of ideology. Just the rich glow of crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes hanging like royal insignias, and a long table at the center, arranged with the finest cutlery and glassware the Indian government could afford in a time of political frugality.
It wasn't opulence for its own sake -it was camouflage. Designed to reflect taste, not dominance.
At the far end was a dining spread that would make even seasoned diplomats pause. Plates of roasted koftas, almond-glazed kebabs, spiced paneer parcels, and imported cheeses from Switzerland, served discreetly among hand-polished silverware and bone china. The alcohol, quietly uncorked in an inner corridor, was tastefully billed as "dining accompaniments."
Soft instrumental music drifted from a live trio in the corner—piano, tabla, and sitar harmonizing in a slow, graceful rhythm. No microphones, no loud announcements. Just conversation, laughter, and the occasional pop of a wine cork being eased from imported glass.
The waiters moved silently, their starched white uniforms blending into the marble pillars like ghosts trained for discretion. Plates of kebabs, buttered rolls, almond-stuffed koftas, and chilled tomato soup circled among the guests. The alcohol, though officially frowned upon in government circles, flowed in silver trays behind closed curtains.
And amidst it all, Vikram moved like smoke.
Twenty-seven Members of Parliament had accepted the invitation. Only nineteen had arrived so far, but the others were on their way—delayed by committee sessions, traffic near Connaught Place, or last-minute political gossip. These weren't just random legislators. They represented a mix of backgrounds: urban elites, rural populists, first-time MPs, and seasoned veterans. Each one had something to lose—and something to gain.
They mingled freely, drawn in by the soft lighting and absence of press. No one carried recorders or notepads. Most had left their personal secretaries behind, following Vikram's precise instructions:
"Tonight is for minds, not minutes."
Vikram moved quietly, dressed in a formal Nehru jacket, pocket square blinking subtly under warm chandeliers. His shoes were polished just enough. His eyes calm. He posed neither threat nor charisma. He was measured. Unremarkable.
And that made people relax.
He greeted each guest personally: nodding, clasping hands, sharing warm eyes and well-timed compliments. He didn't dominate the room. He curated it.
Each handshake, shoulder brush, or tap on the back triggered his Memory Manipulation interface. Each time, he accessed that guest's mind—not to override, but to gently reconstruct.
For example:
A socialist MP from Bihar, nursing his second glass of claret, laughed at a joke about central planning, and Vikram leaned in, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.
Touch. Access.
Within seconds, Vikram's mind slipped into the sleeping layers of the man's psyche—not truly asleep, but dulled by drink and comfort, enough to allow entry.
He planted the same seed: a false but emotionally charged memory. One that hinted at personal loss during the Bengal famine, followed by a vision of a unified India rebuilt not by party slogans but by selfless discipline and a charismatic, unnamed thinker—someone who looked eerily like Vikram himself.
The MP blinked once, chuckled again, and continued eating. The insertion was clean.
Second contact came with a veteran minister from Uttar Pradesh, who took Vikram aside to complain about Indira's increasing centralization of power. The two stepped into a side corridor for a private conversation—another carefully arranged opportunity.
A handshake before parting.
Contact. Infiltration. Edit.
This time, Vikram pulled up a memory of Partition violence the minister had long buried—he didn't erase it, but reframed it, aligning its trauma with the need for a stronger, morally unshakeable parliamentary system. A system this man would now strive to build, unknowingly according to Vikram's design.
With a rising MP from Tamil Nadu, known for his regional passion, he adjusted the emotional anchor of identity- transforming distrust of federal interference into admiration for inclusive national programs.
With a woman MP from Bengal, he again used memories of the 1943 famine-not to cause pain, but to align service as a personal oath she had once made and "forgotten"-until now.
No one noticed. No one suspected.
By 10:45 PM, twenty-seven MPs had arrived.
And by 11:30 PM, Vikram had made physical contact with twenty-six of them.
The final one—a cautious, stoic figure from Madhya Pradesh—remained elusive, rarely breaking from group conversations. Vikram watched him carefully, sipping black coffee from a porcelain cup near the far end of the hall. He would require patience.
The evening wore on. Cigarette smoke curled through the room like fog. Conversations deepened—shifting from polite banter to policy critiques, state-level frustrations, and whispers about upcoming election alliances.
No one noticed how certain phrases kept repeating: "We need new blood," or "Someone has to rise above party lines," or "What if there's a way to unify without compromise?"
They thought they were thinking for themselves.
They weren't.
Finally, as the guests began to rise from their armchairs and loosen Nehru jackets, preparing to depart, Vikram approached the final man.
He offered him a folded silk handkerchief—the MP had spilled a few drops of dal on his kurta.
They exchanged a short nod.
Fingers brushed.
Contact.
A flash. A memory rewritten. An oath remembered that had never been spoken.
It was done.
The MP blinked, smiled faintly, and thanked him.
> Operation complete: 27 minds touched. 27 visions aligned. 61 MPs under influence.
—
By the time the ballroom lights dimmed and hotel staff returned to clear glasses and sweep corners, Vikram stood at the window of his suite once more, facing the rising city and the silence of Gandhi Jayanti morning.
Few remembered that the same 2nd October also gave birth to Lal Bahadur Shastri, the quiet strategist behind the 1965 Indo-Pak war and champion of food sufficiency.
But Vikram remembered. And silently, he paid tribute—not with flowers or slogans, but with work.
He had changed 61 MPs—just under a quarter of his target of 260 MPs. Elections weren't even announced yet. Parliament still existed, frail and disoriented. But when it fell, his work would have already planted foundations in its replacement.
Political parties would not know these MPs had shifted.
Intelligence agencies wouldn't catch the lucid suggestions sewn into private ideology.
Even Indira Gandhi's innermost circle would only see a Parliament too functional, too cooperative, too unselfish—and mistake it for her own rising charisma
Vikram leaned back into the velvet armchair, pulled his ledger close, and marked the page:
> Project Parliament Influence:
> Completed Minds: 61/260
> Next Phase: Internal Bureaucracy – Target Secretaries, IAS, and District Collectors
He closed the book. The wind outside howled gently against the thick windows. The city below dreamed of old slogans and broken promises.
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