Ganesh's man found the tape in Chor Bazaar. It wasn't a commercial recording. It was a dusty spool from the 1950s, labeled in fading Urdu: *"Rashid Khan - Heer Live, Mehfil 1954."* A live performance of the tragic Punjabi folk legend. It was perfect for Vex's request, and it would also serve as Elena's test.
Rajendra handed the physical tape to Elena in his office. "This is the target. The rights are murky. The owner is a stubborn old collector. Get him to sell. Price is not the main object. Discretion is. Report back only to me."
"Understood," she said, taking the spool with the careful respect of an archivist handling a bomb. Her movements were precise, her expression unreadable. The test was in motion.
Meanwhile, Shanti was proving her worth beyond flirting. The MANO Heritage textile line was hitting production snags. The Karjat weavers, while skilled, couldn't maintain consistent quality across large orders.
"We need a foreman," Shanti said, reviewing a flawed batch of silk. "Someone from among them they trust, but who understands our standards. I'll go to Karjat tomorrow, stay for two days. I'll find the right person."
"Be careful," Rajendra said. The memory of Dattu Patil and his sticks was fresh. "Take Vikram. He's good with people, and he knows the area."
She nodded, a practical acceptance of the need for security. "Alright. I'll send updates."
The next morning, as Shanti and Vikram drove north to Karjat, Rajendra turned to the other pressing issue: the Mad Scientist's demand for tenfold production. The Karjat land was cleared, but the advanced hydroponic frames from her blueprint needed specific materials—specialized plastics, nutrient solutions, climate control units—that simply weren't available in 1987 India.
MAKA would have to import them. But this wasn't VCRs. This was suspicious, specialized agricultural tech. It would draw questions.
He summoned Ganesh. "The greenhouse project. We need parts from… abroad. Japan, maybe. But we can't bring in whole systems. We need to break it down. You find a local fabricator. We give him pieces of the design, one at a time. Tell him it's for a secret government agricultural project. Bribe him into silence."
Ganesh understood. "I know a man in Pune. He makes parts for the atomic energy people. He knows how to keep his mouth shut."
"Good. Start with him."
The day passed in a blur of mundane logistics. In the afternoon, Rajendra visited the film set in Film City. They were shooting a comic scene. Salman Khan fumbled a line, causing Madhuri to break into genuine laughter. The crew chuckled. The atmosphere was light. For a moment, Rajendra felt a flicker of something like normal pride. He was making a movie. It was absurd and wonderful.
Prakash Mehra pulled him aside. "The Kashmir schedule is locked. We leave next week. But… there's a rumor. Another producer is scouting the same locations. Could try to cause trouble, delay us."
"Who?"
"Not sure. Someone with money and a grudge."
Rajendra's first thought was the ghost of Karan Seth, but he was in jail. Sampat? Possible. "Handle it on set. If there's real trouble, call me."
He returned to his office as dusk fell. There was a message waiting. Not on the System. A handwritten note, slipped under his door.
"The Russian woman met with the tape collector. Then she met with another man. A foreigner. They went to the Taj. Room 412. The tape is still with her." – A Friend.
The "friend" was likely a leftover from Sampat's network, still stirring poison. Or it was the truth.
Rajendra didn't move. He calculated. Elena had the tape. She'd met the collector. Then she'd met a foreigner. An end-buyer? A competitor? A handler from her own government? He had no proof of betrayal, only circumstantial evidence.
He decided to wait. The test wasn't over.
An hour later, Elena called his office phone.
"I have the tape," she said, her voice calm. "The collector was difficult. He wanted more than money. He wanted a letter of authenticity from a university. I had to get creative."
"Creative how?"
"I had a friend pose as a researcher from Moscow State University. It provided the prestige he wanted. Cost an extra five thousand rupees for the 'donation.' I'll deduct it from my fee."
So the "foreigner" was her fake academic. It was plausible. Smart, even.
"Where is the tape now?"
"With me. I'm having it transferred to a more stable reel. The old spool is degrading. I'll deliver the clean copy tomorrow."
"Good work," he said, and hung up.
He leaned back. She had explained it. Cleanly. It could still be a lie, but it was a good one. He'd have to see the final delivery.
His System chimed. A message from Vex. Not about the dirge he'd sent.
Vex: Our analysis of your earlier biological samples shows promising cross-reactivity with Kaldir neuro-chemistry. The 'tulsi' specimen was particularly notable. We require roots and seeds for cultivation attempt. Will pay premium. Also, the 'emotional narrative' on the 'Heer' legend is anticipated. Our people need narratives of doomed love. It… stabilizes the violent moods.
Vex was now a steady, grim client. His requests were specific, his payments prompt. He was becoming a pillar of Rajendra's multiversal income.
Rajendra sent a quick reply agreeing to the tulsi seeds, then closed his eyes. The threads were many: Shanti in Karjat handling weavers and potential thugs. Elena playing spy games over a tape. Ganesh sourcing illegal greenhouse parts. A film crew about to go to Kashmir with a shadowy rival looming.
And in the middle of it, two cosmic entities—one fighting a plague, the other fighting insanity—were waiting for their next shipment of Earth's soul.
His desk phone rang, sharp and loud in the quiet room. It was Vikram, calling from a roadside booth near Karjat. His voice was tense.
"Bhai. There's a problem. Not with the weavers. With Shanti-ji."
Rajendra sat up straight. "What?"
"She's fine, she's safe. But… a car has been following us since we left the city. A white Ambassador. Two men inside. They're not hiding it. They followed us to the village and are just parked on the road outside. What should we do?"
Someone was tailing his Chief Strategy Officer. Was it Sampat's revenge? The Sharma family's overprotective watchdogs? Or something else?
"Don't confront them," Rajendra ordered. "Finish the work. Stay in a group. When you drive back tomorrow, take the main highway, don't stop. I'll have someone meet you on the outskirts of the city."
He hung up, his mind cold. They were not just coming for him anymore. They were touching what was his.
He picked up the phone again. This call was to Ganesh's cousin, the one with the metal workshop. The man who knew people who didn't ask questions.
"I need two cars. And four men who can drive and watch. Not to fight. To intimidate. For tomorrow."
Business was business. But you had to protect your assets.
And Shanti Sharma, with her fifteen percent and her sharp mind, had just become his most valuable earthly asset.