DISCLAIMER- This story is a work of fiction and is not in any way shape or form an accurate depiction of reality. This is only for entertainment purposes and not to be taken seriously.
-CHAPTER 1: SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE-
The rain in 1980s Mumbai didn't fall; it colonized. It turned the open gutters of Dongri into stagnant, black veins of filth and the corrugated tin roofs into a deafening percussion of chaos. To a child of eight, the sound was usually a lullaby of poverty. To Aryan, it was the sound of a ticking clock.
He sat on a damp wooden crate in the corner of a dingy godown, staring at his hands. They were small, the fingernails bitten to the quick and caked with the grey grime of the docks. In his mind, he could still feel the phantom weight of a smartphone and the sterile, clinical scent of a 2025 hospital room.
But there was something else. Something new.
When he closed his eyes, he saw a shimmering, golden hum at the edge of his consciousness—a library of souls he had observed in his past life. It was his "Golden Finger," a remnant of his rebirth. He called it The Living Canvas. It allowed him to do more than just mimic; it allowed him to subsume. If he focused on a character, his heart rate would sync to theirs, his vocal cords would tighten or slacken, and for a few minutes, the orphan named Chhotu would simply cease to exist.
"Chhotu! Boss wants you. Alone."
The voice belonged to Salim, Gani Bhai's lieutenant. He gestured toward the heavy velvet curtain at the back of the godown. "He's in a mood, kid. Don't make him wait."
Aryan stood up. He felt the hunger in his gut, but as he walked toward the curtain, he reached into that golden hum. He didn't just want to survive this meeting; he wanted to change his destiny.
He walked into a room that smelled of expensive tobacco and sandalwood. Gani Bhai sat in a high-backed chair, a thick gold chain gleaming against his sweat-stained safari suit. A flickering projector in the corner was casting a grainy, silent image of Sholay onto the far wall—the scene where the sun sets over the jagged rocks of Ramgarh.
Gani was a middle aged, half bald small time gangster on the docks of Bombay. He dealt in small time smuggling and full time fishing business. And above all he loved Sholay more than his own dead mother- may she rest in peace.
Gani didn't look up. He was cleaning the barrel of a nickel-plated revolver. "The delivery at the docks went well, Chhotu. Salim says you were fast. Too fast. Like you knew where the shadows were before the sun even went down."
"I just pay attention, Bhai," Aryan said.
"Good. Pay attention now," Gani rasped. "I'm putting you on the bigger runs starting Monday. You're small, you're smart. You'll be my eyes."
This was the crossroads. In the original timeline, this was where he would have become a permanent fixture of the underworld. Aryan took a slow, measured breath and triggered The Living Canvas.
Target: Gabbar Singh. Essence: Cruelty, Power, Madness.
Suddenly, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The small, scrawny boy didn't just stand straighter—his very presence expanded. His skin seemed to toughen, and the light from the projector hit his eyes, turning them into something predatory and ancient.
"Bhai... before Monday... I wanted to show you something."
Gani Bhai smirked, leaning back. "Entertain me, kid."
In the end, like most gangsters of this age… Gani was also the type who thought of himself as a moviestar. A superstar.
Aryan stepped into the flickering beam of the projector. As he did, the transformation completed. To Gani Bhai, it was as if the air in the room had thickened. The child's face didn't just change expression; the muscles shifted, creating a heavy, menacing jowl that shouldn't exist on an eight-year-old.
Gani was the type who would just spontaneously decide to kick a kid out of the gang if he impressed him enough… He was a person who thought of himself as a romantic person at heart. How did he know this? Because that was how he had gotten out of this gang in the first place… but that would've taken years and creating and directing a subpar film to prove himself.
Years would be lost that way… so since he had been awarded a cheat by the world itself- he might as well use it to get ahead in life.
And what better way than becoming an actor?
"Kitne aadmi the?" The voice that came out was a tectonic rumble. It wasn't a child's imitation. It was a jagged, gravelly baritone that vibrated in Gani's chest. Aryan paced the room, and his footsteps—usually light and pitter-pattering—now hit the floor with the heavy, rhythmic thud of a man wearing dusty leather boots.
"Sookha... bilkul sookha... do aadmi, aur tum teen! Phir bhi waapas aa gaye? Khaali haath?"
He let out the laugh. It wasn't a child's giggle. It was a dry, mocking sound that carried the weight of a thousand murders. As he laughed, Aryan's eyes flared with a genuine, terrifying madness. For that moment, he was the bandit king of the rocks.
Gani Bhai's hand stopped moving on the revolver. The cigarette hung forgotten from his lips. He felt a primal instinct to reach for his gun—not because a boy was acting, but because a predator was in the room. He felt the "Presence" of a legendary killer radiating from a child.
Aryan finished the monologue and snapped out of it. The "Canvas" receded, leaving him small, panting, and exhausted. The supernatural weight vanished, leaving the room feeling oddly empty.
The room went silent. The only sound was the whirring of the projector. Gani Bhai stared at him, his face pale. He had seen many things in the underworld, but he had never seen a soul switch bodies in front of his eyes.
"You're a freak, Chhotu," Gani whispered. His hand was trembling slightly. He saw a talent that was not just "good"—it was monstrous. It was a power that would either conquer the world or burn it down.
And strangely… Strangely it evoked a memory within himself.
A memory of laughter, innocence and young days…
So the merciless gangster… decided to do the first good deed in his life.
"You don't belong here," Gani said, his voice dropping to a low growl. He pulled a thick roll of a bunch of hundreds rupees of cash from his drawer and threw it at Aryan's feet. "Two thousand rupees. Take it."
Aryan looked at the money.
"Listen to me," Gani leaned in, his eyes burning. "You take this money, and you leave Dongri tonight. You go to the studios. But if I ever see your face here again, I will shoot you. Not because you're a traitor, but because I won't have a ghost living in the gutter. You're too good for this filth, kid. Don't let me catch you wasting a gift like that."
Aryan picked up the roll of cash. He felt the weight of the two thousand rupees—and the toll the "Golden Finger" had taken on his small body. He simply nodded.
He walked out of the office and straight into the pouring rain. He was a shadow among shadows, but now he knew. He wasn't just a man with memories of the future. He was a man with a supernatural weapon.
He had 2,000 rupees and a library of souls.
As he stepped onto the main road, the headlights of a passing Fiat illuminated his face. For a fleeting second, his reflection in a puddle wasn't that of a dirty child, but of a man who was about to become everyone and anyone.
The long game had begun.
…
A/N- Slumdog Millionaire is the name of the movie directed by Danny Boyle and was released in 2008. It feature a kid from Mumbai's slums getting the chance to go on a game show where he could become a millionaire.
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