December 28, 1988
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The winter sun hung low over the Kashmir valley, casting long shadows across snow-dusted ridges. In hidden bunkers and remote villages, the remnants of terrorist networks that had once terrorized the region now operated in whispers. But whispers were enough for the System.
Raj sat in his Mumbai office, the glow of multiple screens illuminating his face. Arjun Das stood before him, delivering the year-end briefing on ASUR operations.
"Boss, Kashmir is quieter than it's been in decades," Das began, placing a thick folder on the desk. "Our final sweeps in November and early December eliminated the last twenty-three high-value targets. Total terrorists neutralized this year: over three hundred and twenty. Cross-border infiltration attempts dropped eighty-five percent. Local informants dried up—fear of the 'ghost force' spread faster than any recruitment drive."
Raj nodded slowly, scanning the maps marked with red crosses. "The Pandit families?"
"Migration reversed in most districts. Over sixty percent who had packed bags decided to stay after our anonymous security assurances through community leaders. Schools reopened fully in Anantnag and Baramulla. The army parades the success as their own, but we know the truth."
A faint smile touched Raj's lips. In his original life, 1989 would have seen the exodus begin in earnest—lakhs fleeing, a wound that never fully healed. Here, that scar was fading before it could form.
But the System pinged a new alert, projecting holographic data only Raj could see.
"Punjab," Raj said quietly.
Das's expression hardened. "Yes, boss. ISI frustration boiled over. Intercepts show they've redirected funds and trainers—three major cells forming in Amritsar, Jalandhar, and border villages near Ferozepur. Plans for bombings in early 1989, targeting temples and police stations to reignite the Khalistan flame."
Raj leaned forward. "How many operatives do we have there now?"
"Four hundred, as you ordered in April. All JS-1 enhanced, with local fronts—tractor repair shops, dhaba networks, gurdwara volunteer groups. They've mapped the cells completely."
"Then end it before the new year. No public firefights. Silent removals only. Seize weapons caches—add them to our stockpiles. Make it look like internal betrayals or Pakistani double-crosses."
Das saluted crisply. "Already in motion. Phase one completes tonight—two module leaders disappear during 'routine meetings.' By January 5, Punjab will be as clean as Kashmir."
Raj dismissed him with a nod, then turned to the next report—Luxmi Bank's record-breaking quarter.
Suraj Patel entered moments later, carrying a sleek leather binder embossed with the golden Swastika.
"Boss, the numbers are beyond projections," Suraj said, unable to hide his excitement. "We closed December with eight lakh forty thousand active accounts. Deposits crossed the twenty-five hundred crore mark—up forty percent from September."
Raj raised an eyebrow. "The referral and incentive schemes?"
"Exploded. The ten-rupee instant bonus for referrers brought in chains—families, villages, entire factories opening accounts together. School drives alone added ninety thousand student accounts in the last two months. Zero-balance with no fees removed the final barrier."
He flipped to a colorful chart. "Branch performance: the newest fifty in Uttar Pradesh and Karnataka are already profitable. Rural penetration is our edge—no other bank matches our reach."
Raj traced the growth curve. "Ranking?"
"We've climbed to twenty-eighth nationally. RBI officials are whispering about fast-tracking scheduled status upgrades. And the Swastika rebrand…" Suraj hesitated, then continued, "it's working. Rural customers see prosperity, not controversy. Urban youth call it bold."
Raj leaned back. "The new scheme?"
Suraj grinned. "Launched quietly last week—zero-interest loans for United Farmers Trust members to purchase Bata footwear and Mehra Construction farming tools. First disbursals: fifty crore. Farmers repay through crop dividends, default risk near zero because UFT controls the supply chain. It's a closed loop, boss. They buy our shoes to work on there fields or in other industry, with our equipment, deposit earnings in our bank, and vote for our party."
Raj's eyes gleamed. "Beautiful. Project the ecosystem lock-in."
"By mid-1989, we estimate eighty percent of UFT's thirty thousand projected members will bank exclusively with Luxmi, wear Bata, and use Mehra tools. That's a captive rural economy spanning five states."
The intercom buzzed. Vishal Singh requested entry.
The construction CEO looked exhausted but triumphant. "Boss, Shiv Temple milestone achieved ahead of schedule. The central Nataraja shrine and sacred pushkarani tank are fully complete—structural, plumbing, carvings, everything."
Raj stood. "Show me."
Vishal spread satellite photos and artist renderings. The massive bronze Nataraja statue—twenty feet tall, commissioned from Swamimalai artisans—now dominated the skyline. The tank, lined with black granite and fed by filtered spring water, shimmered like a mirror.
"Soft opening over Christmas-New Year drew five lakh twenty thousand pilgrims in twelve days," Vishal continued. "Spontaneous donations: forty-two crore in cash and gold. Local economy boomed—our newly built hotels full, vendors thriving. Mehra Construction hired two thousand more workers just to manage crowd flow."
Raj studied the crowd photos—families from across India, sadhus in saffron, young couples taking selfies with the Swastika banners.
"BP presence?" he asked.
"Subtle but effective. Our workers distributed ten lakh prasad packets, each with a small card: 'Bharatiya Party—Building Roads, Building Faith.' Quiet voter registration drives at the site added thirty thousand names in Maharashtra alone."
Raj closed the folder. "Security?"
"Triple-layered. Visible police, plainclothes ASUR outer ring, enhanced inner circle. One attempted disruption—fake sadhus trying to incite communal slogans—was neutralized before they reached the gate."
The day blurred into evening. Raj authorized final transfers: one hundred crore from Luxmi profits into ASUR expansion (target: twelve hundred operatives by March), fifty crore into Bata's next fifty stores, and seventy crore accelerating Shiv Temple's next phase—the thousand-pillar mandapam.
As night fell, he drove home alone. The mansion was quiet—Jyoti in Dadar overseeing a new book launch, Priya in Kochi finalizing engagement preparations with her father.
Raj poured himself a rare drink and stepped onto the terrace. Mumbai sparkled below: his city, his nation, his altered timeline.
The System predicted softly. Punjab operations: 68% complete. Terror cells crumbling. Luxmi deposits still climbing. Temple donations hitting forty-five crore.
He raised his glass to the darkness.
"1988 ends with eight hundred crore in profits," he whispered. "1989 will be the year they learn my name without ever knowing it."
Far across the country, in snow-covered Punjab fields, shadows moved silently. ASUR teams closed in on the final targets. By dawn, another threat would vanish—another piece of the old tragic history erased forever.
The empire grew stronger in the silence.
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