Anya's final words echoed: "Wait for the right moment." Rajendra understood waiting. In the multiversal auction, timing was everything. In the collapsing Soviet Union, timing was a bomb's fuse—you had to be close enough to seize the blast, but not so close it vaporized you.
He gave Ganesh his new standing orders: "Keep ears on the ground in Moscow. Not just on Elena. On the army. On the GUMR depots. I want to know if a single general sneezes. Use the contacts we made with the Russian traders here. Pay for gossip."
"And our… barter project?" Ganesh asked.
"We prepare. We build the inventory. Medicines, canned foods, electronics. We find a secure warehouse. We get everything ready to ship at a moment's notice. But we do not move until I say."
The waiting game had begun. His focus shifted back to the empire he was actually building: MANO.
The greenhouse project in Karjat, spurred by the Mad Scientist's blueprints, was taking shape. It looked like a futuristic alien dome to the local workers, but Shanti's cover story—an "Israeli-Dutch joint research initiative on tropical herbs"—held up, especially after she "donated" a new water pump to the village panchayat.
The film, Pyaar Ki Jeet, was complete. The editing was done, the music scored by Anand-Milind was catchy, and the early screenings for distributors had sparked a genuine buzz. Prakash Mehra was ecstatic. "They are calling it the new Maine Pyar Kiya," he told Rajendra. "The chemistry between Salman and Madhuri is magic!"
A grand premiere was set at the prestigious Regal Cinema in Colaba. It was to be a proper event—red carpet, press, film stars, and crucially, industrialists and politicians. It was MANO's coming-out party as a cultural player.
Rajendra, Shanti, and Prakash Mehra stood in the lobby finalizing the guest list a week before.
"We must invite the who's who of Bombay," Mehra said. "The Bhatts, the Chopras, the Nadiadwalas…"
"And beyond Bombay," Shanti added, scanning a separate list. "Industrialists. My father will come, and he will bring some Delhi people. It's good for credibility."
She handed Rajendra a page. "This is the political and bureaucratic list. I've included some key secretaries from the Industries Ministry. And… I took the liberty of adding a personal invitation for Mr. Manmohan Singh, the Finance Minister, and his family. He's known to appreciate the arts, and his granddaughter is a film enthusiast studying in Bombay. A long shot, but worth trying."
Rajendra's eyebrows rose. Manmohan Singh. The quiet, brilliant economist who would one day open India's economy. Right now, he was Rajiv Gandhi's Finance Minister, navigating a fiscal crisis. His presence would be a seismic endorsement.
"Do you think he'll come?"
"He won't. But his granddaughter might. She's about our age. Name is Priya. She's at St. Xavier's. If she comes, it's a foot in the door."
The plan was set. Invitations went out on thick, cream-colored cardstock with the MANO Pictures logo.
The night of the premiere was a spectacle. Klieg lights cut through the Bombay night. A crowd gathered behind barricades, hoping to catch a glimpse of Madhuri and Salman. Rajendra stood inside the lobby, wearing a tailored bandhgala, looking every inch the young tycoon. Shanti stood beside him in an elegant silk sari, managing introductions with effortless grace.
The stars arrived to cheers. The industry folks milled about, air-kissing and exchanging trade gossip. Arun Sharma arrived with a group of older industrialists, giving his daughter and Rajendra a curt, approving nod. He was playing his part.
Then, a different sort of guest arrived. A young woman in her early twenties, wearing a simple but exquisite chiffon saree, walked in without fanfare. She had an intelligent, observant face and an aura of quiet confidence that didn't need a spotlight. A bored-looking older chaperone trailed behind her.
Shanti subtly nudged Rajendra. "That's her. Priya Singh."
Rajendra moved to greet her. "Miss Singh. Thank you for coming. I'm Rajendra Shakuniya."
"Priya, please," she said with a polite smile, shaking his hand. Her grip was firm. "My grandfather sends his regrets. He's buried in budget papers. But he said if the film is as charming as the invitation, I should report back."
"We hope it meets the challenge," Shanti said, joining them. "I'm Shanti Sharma. We're so glad you could make it."
Priya's eyes flickered between them, sharp and assessing. "Shakuniya Mills and Sharma Industrials venturing into film. It's an interesting diversification. My grandfather says India's future is in services and soft power. Perhaps you're proving him right."
They made small talk—about her studies (Economics), about the state of Indian cinema, about the unusual partnership between a mill heir and an industrialist's daughter. Priya was well-informed and asked pointed questions about MANO's broader business, seeing the film not just as entertainment, but as a branding exercise.
"The pressure cooker is a good product," she remarked casually. "My aunt bought one. She says it's the only one that doesn't whistle like a train. Good design can solve everyday problems."
Before they could delve deeper, the lights dimmed, and they were ushered into the hall for the screening.
The film was a hit. The audience laughed, sighed, and clapped in all the right places. When Madhuri and Salman's first song came on, there was an audible wave of delight. Rajendra watched not the screen, but the reactions. He saw the distributors nodding. He saw Shanti's father leaning forward, actually engaged. He saw Priya Singh smiling genuinely at the comedy scenes.
After the film, as the crowd spilled out into the lobby for the reception, the buzz was undeniable. Prakash Mehra was surrounded by back-slapping well-wishers. Salman and Madhuri held court, beaming.
Priya Singh approached Rajendra and Shanti again. "Congratulations. It's a wonderful film. Accessible, emotional, technically polished. You've made a commercial product with heart. My grandfather will be pleased to hear it."
"That means a great deal," Rajendra said.
"He's always looking for case studies of Indian enterprise that work," Priya continued, sipping a lime soda. "Especially now, with the… external pressures."
Rajendra's ears perked up. "External pressures?"
"The balance of payments crisis," she said, lowering her voice slightly. "The IMF negotiations. The need for foreign exchange. It's all anyone talks about in North Block. Finding new export avenues, attracting foreign partnership… it's a national priority." She looked at him meaningfully. "A company that can bridge Indian creativity with international distribution, or one that can secure strategic imports through… innovative channels, would be of great interest."
It was not a casual comment. It was a signal. The Finance Minister's office was aware of him. And they were curious.
They exchanged pleasantries a while longer before Priya excused herself, her chaperone shepherding her out.
Shanti exhaled once she was gone. "That was… intense."
"That was an opening," Rajendra corrected, his mind racing. "The 'external pressures' she mentioned—that's the IMF bailout talks. India is desperate for dollars. If we could bring in foreign goods, or better yet, facilitate exports that earn hard currency…"
"We'd have the government's blessing," Shanti finished. "But we need to deliver something tangible."
Later that week, in the Finance Minister's office in Delhi, Manmohan Singh reviewed a file. It was a routine briefing on emerging Indian business entities. His aide pointed out a name.
"Shakuniya, sir. Rajendra. The young man behind the MANO group. The film premiere your granddaughter attended. There's also a connection to Sharma Industrials through the daughter. They're moving fast—consumer goods, textiles, now films. Clean books so far. Unusual growth pattern."
Singh, a man of few words, nodded. "Monitor. In times of change, agility is a resource." He made a small note in the margin.
That evening, Priya called her grandfather, as she often did.
"How was your week, beti?" he asked.
"Busy. The film was good, Grandfather. The people behind it… interesting. The Shakuniya boy, Rajendra. He's sharp. Not just a playboy spending family money. He asked intelligent questions about export channels when I mentioned your… external pressures."
There was a pause on the line. "Did he?"
"Yes. He has a quiet intensity. And the Sharma girl with him is very capable. They seem like they're building something real."
"Keep your eyes open, Priya," Singh said softly. "The new India will be built by such people. Or broken by them. It is good to know which they are."
The call ended. A seed had been planted in the highest corridors of financial power. Rajendra Shakuniya was no longer just a name on a corporate filing. He was a subject of quiet, top-level interest.
Back in Mumbai, Rajendra knew none of this directly. But he felt the shift. The premiere had changed MANO's stature. Orders for textiles picked up. Distributors called for more pressure cookers. The film was slated for a wide release.
He stood on the balcony of his new, modest apartment (he had finally moved out of the chawl), looking at the city lights. He had a successful film. A growing business. The attention of a future legend.
And in a frozen warehouse in Moscow, a military officer was counting boxes, waiting for the signal.
The pieces were on the board. The waiting was the hardest part. But for the first time, Rajendra felt the board itself was his to play.