October 18, 1971
Nagpur, Maharashtra.
It was the quietest Diwali in the history of independent India.
There were no firecrackers cracking in the streets. The government had banned them to prevent panic and to keep the skies clear for the Air Force. The streetlights were wrapped in brown paper to dim their glow. The city, usually a riot of light during the Festival of Lights, looked like it was holding its breath.
Rudra Pratap sat in the backseat of his Ambassador, watching the darkened city roll by. He had left the Logistics Hub for the first time in two weeks. He wasn't wearing his suit. He wore a simple white kurta-pyjama, looking like the boy he was supposed to be, not the tycoon he had become.
"The city looks sad, Malik," Balwant said from the driver's seat, his eyes scanning the shadows.
"Not sad, Balwant," Rudra replied softly. "Vigilant."
Pratap Wada
The old mansion was lit only by small earthen oil lamps (diyas) placed in the inner courtyard, invisible from the sky. The air smelled of burnt oil, marigolds, and ghee.
Rudra walked in. The tension of the FERA investigation, the spy, and the border convoys seemed to dissolve at the threshold. Here, he wasn't the Chairman. He was the son.
Sumitra Pratap, his mother, was waiting. She looked older, her saree simple, her face lined with the silent worry of a mother whose son had become a stranger.
"You have become thin," was the first thing she said, pinching his cheek. "Does the Army not feed you?"
"They feed me, Aai," Rudra smiled, touching her feet. "But they don't make Puran Poli like you."
Vijay Pratap, his father, sat on the swing (jhoola) in the veranda, a book of Marathi poetry in his hand. He was a man of soft edges, a professor who lived in the world of words, shielding himself from the brutal business world his father and son inhabited.
"Rudra," Shankar looked up, adjusting his glasses. "The radio says the Prime Minister might address the nation. Is it war?"
"Not yet, Baba," Rudra sat beside him. "But soon."
Shankar sighed, closing his book. "War... it eats the best of us. Your grandfather fought the British. I thought that was enough fighting for one family."
"Times change, Baba," Rudra said. "The weapons change. But the fight is the same. It's for survival."
While the Prataps sat in the dim light of Nagpur, the rest of India was celebrating a similar, shadowed festival.
New Delhi: Prime Minister Indira Gandhi sat alone in her garden. The sky was silent. No fireworks. She had just received a cable from Washington. Nixon was threatening to cut off aid. She stared at a single diya on her table. "Let them cut it," she whispered. "We will light our own way."
The Eastern Border (Tripura): A young soldier from the Gorkha Regiment sat in a trench, cleaning his rifle. His Diwali treat was a piece of hard jaggery. He looked at the darkness across the border. He didn't know that miles away, a Vajra Logistics truck was churning through the mud, bringing him a wool blanket Rudra had dispatched three days ago.
Bombay: In the glittering high-rises of Malabar Hill, industrialists were hoarding gold, terrified of the market crash. In the slums of Parel, Kuldeep Sikka sat in darkness, not because of the air raid blackout, but because he was broken. The blackmail had stripped him of his arrogance. He watched his children play with sparklers indoors, knowing his empire was now living on Rudra Pratap's mercy.
Pratap Wada.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Served on silver thalis, the food was rich—shrikhand, puri, batata bhaji—but the mood was somber.
After dinner, Bhau Saheb signaled Rudra to follow him to the terrace.
The night air was cool. They stood overlooking the darkened city.
"I heard about Sikka," Bhau Saheb said quietly. "And I heard about the boy, Ganesh."
Rudra stiffened. "I handled it, Dadu."
"You sent him to the refugee camps," Bhau Saheb nodded. "It was... a mercy. A cruel mercy, but mercy nonetheless."
The old freedom fighter leaned on the railing.
"I spent my life fighting with non-violence, Rudra. Satyagraha. But looking at you... seeing how you stopped the IB, how you broke Sikka... I realize that my way cannot protect this house anymore."
Bhau Saheb reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-wrapped box.
"This was your great-grandfather's. He hid it from the British in 1942."
Rudra opened it. Inside was a heavy, gold signet ring with the Pratap family crest—a Lion.
"You are the head of this family now, Rudra," Bhau Saheb said, his voice trembling slightly. "I am just the history. You are the future. Wear it."
Rudra put on the ring. It was heavy. It felt like an anchor.
"I will protect this house, Dadu," Rudra vowed. "Whatever the cost."
"I know," Bhau Saheb looked at the dark horizon to the East. "But remember, Rudra. A King who rules only by fear eventually rules a graveyard. Don't lose your humanity in this war."
The moment was shattered by the sound of a telephone ringing downstairs.
In 1971, a phone call past 10 PM usually meant death or disaster.
Rudra ran down the stairs. He picked up the receiver.
"Pratap speaking."
"Sir, it's Colonel Deshpande." The Colonel's voice was crackling with static.
"Happy Diwali, Colonel."
"There is no happy Diwali, Rudra," Deshpande barked. "Turn on the radio. The weather report."
"Weather?"
"A low-pressure depression has formed in the Bay of Bengal," Deshpande said, his voice tight with panic. "Meteorology says it's turning into a Super Cyclone. It's heading straight for Paradip."
Rudra's grip on the phone tightened. Paradip was the gateway to the Eastern Front.
"My trucks are on that highway, Colonel," Rudra said.
"Get them to high ground, Rudra. If that storm hits... the war won't matter. The logistics backbone of the Eastern Command will be underwater by morning."
Rudra hung up.
He looked at his parents, who were laughing softly in the living room. He looked at Bhau Saheb, who was watching him.
The quiet interlude was over.
"Balwant!" Rudra shouted, shattering the peace of the house. "Get the car. We are going back to the Hub."
"Now, Malik? It is Diwali night."
"The lights are going out, Balwant," Rudra said, walking out into the dark. "And if we don't move, they might never come back on."