The office in the new MANO corporate wing was a study in contradictory serenity. One wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, overlooking the chaotic, vibrant sprawl of central Mumbai. The opposite wall was lined with dark teak bookshelves holding ancient, leather-bound volumes of the Puranas, the Vedas, and modern treatises on mass psychology. In the center, behind a sleek rosewood desk that held no computer, only a crystal paperweight and a single, fresh lotus flower in a copper bowl, sat Swami Suryananda.
He was no longer "Swamiji" the public sensation. His title, etched on the brass plaque outside, read: Director of Perception & Cultural Strategy. He wore simple white khadi, but the fabric was of the finest quality. His beard was precisely trimmed, his eyes calm pools that had seen the machinery behind the miracle. He was now a senior executive in the empire of Rajendra Shakuniya.
On his desk lay a single typed page. It was not a vision, not a prophecy. It was a quarterly forecast. The header read: MANO/MAKA Perception Shaping – Q4 1990 – Target Outcomes.
Rajendra stood by the window, his back to the room. "The drought in Rayalaseema," he said, his voice quiet but filling the space. "The meteorological data suggests a 70% probability of significantly deficient late monsoon rains. The crop estimates will be revised downward next month."
Suryananda looked at the document. The first item listed was Commodity Influence – Foodgrains.
"You wish me to predict the drought," Suryananda stated.
"No. Predicting a drought during a dry spell is noise. You will speak of atonement. You will give a discourse on the Varuna Sukta, on the cosmic balance of rain. You will say that the land's thirst is a symptom of a deeper, moral parching—greed, hoarding, the sin of waste. You will be vague, philosophical, mournful. The press will eat it up. And when the crop forecasts are officially lowered two weeks later, your words will be recalled as prescient."
The goal was simple. MANO, through a network of rural procurement agents, had been quietly buying up surplus grain from the Punjab and Haryana belt for months, using forward contracts and MAKA's logistical reach. A "predicted" drought in the south would spook the national market. Prices would begin to creep up. When the real shortage hit, MANO's warehouses would release grain at a premium, reaping enormous profit, all while being seen as savvy, not manipulative. Suryananda's lament would be the match to the tinder.
"Item two," Rajendra continued, turning from the window. "The state elections in Madhya Pradesh. The incumbent government is shaky. The mining contracts in the Bailadila hills are up for review. Our rivals have the current minister in their pocket."
Suryananda's eyes moved down the list. Political Realignment – Madhya Pradesh.
"You cannot predict an election," Suryananda said.
"I don't need you to. I need you to discredit a man. The minister, Tiwari. He presents himself as a devotee of Lord Rama, a man of spotless character. His constituency is deeply religious." Rajendra picked up a small file from a side table and placed it before Suryananda. It contained photographs, grainy but clear, taken from a long lens: Minister Tiwari leaving a well-known casino in Kathmandu, Nepal. "He has a gambling problem. A secret one."
"And my role?"
"You will speak, at a well-attended lecture in Bhopal, about the 'gambler's soul' in the Mahabharata—about Yudhishthira's fatal flaw. You will speak of the modern-day dice game being played with the people's minerals. You will not name him. You will look sorrowful, and say that sometimes, the servants of the people are servants of their own vices. The local media will make the connection. The scandal will erupt two days before the nominations are finalized. His party will drop him. The new candidate, whom our people are already supporting, will ride in on a wave of 'clean politics.'"
Suryananda absorbed it. He was no longer just shaping weather or geology. He was shaping political fortunes. The power was dizzying, terrifying.
"And the third item?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Rajendra's gaze grew colder. Diversion & Obfuscation – MAKA Maritime Transfer, Karwar.
"A shipment is arriving next week. High-value engineering samples from a… defunct Ukrainian design bureau. It needs to move from the coast to Pune without any curious eyes. The local police chief in the region is notoriously nosy and ambitious."
"You want me to distract the police?"
"I want you to distract the public, which will distract the media, which will pressure the police to look elsewhere." Rajendra's lips thinned. "A certain famous film actress, Miss Pooja Khanna, is having a secret affair with her married director. The paparazzi would pay a fortune for the story. You will have a 'vision' of a 'golden pair trapped in a web of illusion, their love story causing a storm of tears.' You will sigh about the corruption of Bollywood's soul. A tip about the actress's Goa villa, from an 'anonymous devotee,' will find its way to the tabloids the same day. The nation's eyes, and the police's bandwidth, will be on a seaside sex scandal, not on a quiet coastal barge off-loading unmarked crates in the dead of night."
Suryananda stared at the page. Weather, politics, celebrity gossip. It was all the same to Rajendra. Raw material to be processed through the refinery of public perception, with Suryananda as the chief engineer.
"I have become a weapon," Suryananda said, not with pride, but with awe-struck horror.
"You were always a weapon," Rajendra corrected, walking over to place a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was not comforting; it was proprietary. "You just had poor aim. I have given you a scope. You are not a fraud, Suryananda. You are a strategist. A myth-maker. In a country that runs on stories, you are the author of the most compelling ones. That is a form of divinity, is it not?"
He left the Director of Perception alone with his forecasts.
That night, in his plush new apartment provided by MANO, Suryananda did not sleep. He sat before a small, personal shrine he kept—a simple picture of the goddess Durga. He lit a single lamp, its ghee flame flickering.
For years, his prayers had been performative, empty words for an empty sky. Tonight, he felt a genuine urge to pray. But not to the fierce, beautiful goddess in the picture.
He closed his eyes, and in the silent theater of his mind, he saw not Durga, but another face. Sharp, intelligent, utterly devoid of mystical light. The face of the merchant. The man who saw the future not in visions, but in data-points; who worshipped not at altars, but at the intersection of probability and profit; who had taken a conman and given him a kingdom made of air and influence.
What have you made me? Suryananda thought, the prayer forming without words. I move markets. I break ministers. I hide your sins in the glare of celebrity scandal. I am your oracle, your lens, your living, breathing smokescreen.
The flame danced. He felt no divine presence, only the immense, silent weight of the system he now served—a system more real, more demanding, and more omnipresent than any god he had ever invoked.
He opened his eyes and blew out the lamp. The room was dark. In the distance, the endless, hungry hum of Mumbai filtered through the glass.
He was Swami Suryananda. The Prophet for Hire. And his only god now was the man who held the ledger, the man for whom faith was just another futures contract, and he, Suryananda, was the most lucrative derivative ever created. The prayer ended not with "Om," but with a quiet, shuddering breath into the profitable dark.