Date: Late February, 1948
Location: Air Force Zero, Cruising Altitude over the Atlantic Ocean
Destination: New York City, USA
The hum of the radial engines was a constant, thrumming vibration that seeped through the floorboards of Air Force Zero, a customized Douglas DC-6 meant to project the power of a new, assertive India. Outside the reinforced porthole windows, the Atlantic was a bruised sheet of grey, hidden beneath a blanket of clouds.
Anirban sat in the private cabin, a cup of lukewarm coffee resting on the mahogany table. The briefing papers for the United Nations Security Council session were spread out before him, filled with diplomatic jargon, leverage points regarding the Kashmir issue, and the calculated threats he intended to unleash upon the Western powers. He had played the geopolitical game well so far, maneuvering the British, holding the Americans at bay, and creating a fortress economy. But as he flew toward the lion's den—the headquarters of the nascent United Nations—he knew that hard power, the power of guns, nukes, and GDP, was only half the equation.
He pushed the UNSC files aside. He had rehearsed that grilling a thousand times in his mind. He knew exactly which nerve to press to make the British delegate sweat and the American representative stutter.
His eyes drifted to a different folder. It was thinner, stamped with the crimson seal of DESI (Department of External Security and Intelligence), and labeled simply: DCI-001.
The Moon.
Anirban opened the folder. A black-and-white photograph, grainy and indistinct, was clipped to the top page. It showed a teardrop-shaped stone, glowing with an inner luminescence even through the poor quality of the print.
The Moon of Baroda. A 24.04-carat fancy yellow diamond.
"Saraswati was right," Anirban murmured to the empty cabin, running a finger over the text.
The history of the stone was a microcosm of India's humiliation. Owned by the Gaekwad dynasty of Baroda for centuries, it had been a symbol of royalty, of divine favor. And then, in the chaos of the 1920s—or perhaps a bit later, the records were intentionally murky—it had vanished. Sold. Pawned off to pay debts or simply stolen by opportunists who saw the writing on the wall for the princely states.
Anirban leaned back, closing his eyes. The timeline of his previous life—the future he had left behind—played out in his mind like a high-definition film.
In that timeline, the diamond would surface in America. It would pass through the hands of the Meyer Jewelry Company in Detroit. And then, in 1953, the ultimate symbol of American soft power, the blonde bombshell herself, Marilyn Monroe, would wear it to promote Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. She would sing "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" while wearing a piece of India's soul, effectively rebranding an ancient artifact of the Gaekwads into a prop for Hollywood glamour.
Hollywood.
The word tasted bitter in his mouth.
Anirban stood up and paced the small cabin. The turbulence jostled him slightly, but his mind was on a different kind of instability.
"That is the real enemy," he thought, looking out at the endless clouds. "Not just the tanks or the sanctions. It's the story."
He thought about the year 2025. In his original timeline, the United States didn't just rule the world through its aircraft carriers; it ruled through its screens. Hollywood was the greatest propaganda machine in human history. It could turn war crimes into heroic struggles, it could paint entire civilizations as backward savages or mystical props, and it could convince a teenager in Mumbai that the American Dream was the only dream worth having.
They controlled the narrative. They defined what was cool, what was moral, what was beautiful.
And India?
Anirban clenched his fist. In 2025, Bollywood was a rotting carcass. A nepotistic cesspool that had died by its own hand. It had chased the West like a desperate dog, copying their scripts, stealing their music, and hollowing out its own cultural core. It became an industry of plastic faces and hollow souls, disconnected from the very people it was supposed to represent.
And Tollywood? The Bengali cinema he held a soft spot for? It was an intellectual tragedy. Once the home of Ray and Ghatak, the giants of world cinema, it had devolved into two extremes: pretentious art-house films that nobody watched, or cheap copies of Southern commercial potboilers. It had lost its spine.
The South had held on longer, yes. They had kept their culture, their grandeur. But even they were fighting a losing battle against the homogenized, globalized sludge that the West pumped out.
"We let them colonize our minds long after they took their flags down," Anirban whispered.
He looked back at the file of the Moon of Baroda. This diamond was the perfect metaphor. If he let history take its course, this diamond would become a footnote in Marilyn Monroe's biography. It would be 'that yellow stone Marilyn wore.' Its Indian identity would be erased, subsumed by the American cultural juggernaut.
He wouldn't let that happen. Not this time.
A sharp knock on the cabin door broke his reverie.
"Come in," Anirban said, composing himself and sitting back down.
The door opened, and Dubey entered. Dubey, his aide and the acting Chief of DESI, looked impeccable even after ten hours of flight. He carried a secure briefcase handcuffed to his wrist—a habit Anirban had insisted on for all high-level intelligence transport.
"Sir," Dubey said, locking the door behind him. "We've received the encrypted communique from the forward team in New York."
"Sit down, Dubey. Tell me."
Dubey unlocked the briefcase and pulled out a fresh report, placing it over the DCI-001 file.
"You were correct about the general location, sir. The Moon isn't in a museum. It's floating in the grey market."
"Specifics?" Anirban asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Our officers traced it through a network of gem dealers in the Diamond District on 47th Street, but the trail actually leads to a private vault in Detroit, connected to the Meyer family. However, the current transaction is being brokered in New York." Dubey tapped the paper. "It is currently in the possession of a high-end fence, an intermediary for the American Jewish-dominated black market. They specialize in 'distressed assets' from Europe and Asia."
Anirban nodded. This tracked with history. The post-war era was a gold rush for dealers. Europe was selling off its heirlooms to buy bread, and the Maharajas of India were selling off theirs to maintain their lifestyles or hide wealth from the new Indian government.
"The asking price?" Anirban asked.
"Steep, but manageable for a private buyer. But there is more, sir," Dubey said, his voice dropping an octave. "When our field agents infiltrated the network to verify the Moon's authenticity, they found... other things."
Anirban looked up. "Define 'other things'."
"The fence doesn't just deal in gems. He has a list. A 'shadow catalog', they call it. It's kept hidden from the regular buyers." Dubey flipped a page in his report, revealing a handwritten list that had been photographed by a spy camera. "Ancient Chola bronzes. Manuscripts from the Mughal libraries that went missing in 1857. Temple jewelry from the South. Even a sword that is alleged to belong to Tipu Sultan, distinct from the one in the British Museum."
Anirban felt a cold rage burning in his gut. This was the plunder of a nation, being traded like cattle in the backrooms of New York pawn shops and private galleries.
"They are stripping us bare," Anirban said softly. "Even now. They think because we are a 'poor, starving nation', they can buy our history for pennies."
"The dealers are cautious," Dubey continued. "They know the Indian government is cracking down on antique smuggling. So they are moving fast. They plan to sell the lot to private collectors in Europe and South America within the month. Once those items enter private collections, they are gone, sir. Legal repatriation would take decades, if it ever happens at all."
Anirban picked up a pen. He stared at the name of the dealer on the report. Rosenbaum. Silverstein. Van Der Hoven. The names changed, but the game was the same.
He took a piece of heavy cream-colored stationery and began to write.
"Dubey," Anirban said, his voice turning into steel. "We are not going to file a diplomatic protest. We are not going to ask the US State Department for help. If we do that, the items will vanish into basements, and the price will triple."
"Then what are your orders, sir?"
"We buy them."
Anirban slid the paper across the table. It contained a series of account numbers.
"These are the Swiss accounts. The 'Black Budget'. The funds we seized from the fleeing colonial loyalists and the unrecorded reserves." Anirban looked Dubey in the eye. "Authorize the purchase. All of it. The Moon of Baroda is the priority, but I want everything on that shadow list."
"Everything, sir?" Dubey blinked. "The cost..."
"Is irrelevant compared to the cost of losing our soul. But listen to me carefully, Dubey. This cannot look like the Republic of India is buying it. If they smell a government, they will gouge us. They will think it's a desperate act of nationalism."
Anirban leaned forward. "Create a front. A wealthy eccentric. Perhaps a private collector from South America or a proxy for a European royal. Use the Swiss lawyers. Pay the asking price, maybe negotiate a little to make it look authentic, but secure the assets."
"Understood," Dubey said, taking notes rapidly.
"Once the transaction is complete," Anirban continued, visualizing the logistics, "The Moon comes to me. Secure transport. I want it in my hand before I leave American soil. The rest of the artifacts... crate them. Label them as industrial machinery or textiles. Ship them via a neutral freighter to Bombay. Inform Patelji personally. Tell him these are coming under the DCI mandate. He will know what to do with them. He will build the vaults."
"And if the sellers get suspicious?"
"They are black marketeers, Dubey. They don't have a conscience, they have greed. Feed the greed, and they won't ask questions. Just make sure the paperwork is ironclad so they can't claim we stole them back later."
Dubey nodded, closing the file. "I will cable the orders to the New York station the moment we land. We will have the Moon before the week is out."
"Good. Dismissed."
Dubey stood up, saluted, and left the cabin, the heavy door clicking shut.
Anirban was alone again. He looked at the photo of the diamond one last time before closing the folder.
Recovering the diamond was the easy part. It was just money.
The hard part was the next step.
He swiveled his chair to look out the window again. The clouds were breaking, revealing the dark, churning ocean below.
How do I cook the Indian film industry?
He couldn't just nationalize it; that would create boring, Soviet-style propaganda that no one would watch. Art needed freedom to breathe, but it needed a skeleton to stand on.
He needed to create an ecosystem.
"I need to kill the star system before it is born," he mused.
In his timeline, the 'Superstars' became bigger than the stories. They held the industry hostage. They demanded fees that drained the production budgets, leaving nothing for writers, set designers, or visual effects.
He needed a studio system, like the one Hollywood had in the 40s, but with Indian characteristics. Studios that owned the talent, that invested in technology, that prioritized the script.
He pulled a fresh legal pad towards him.
Action Plan: Operation Chitrakatha.
Technology Transfer: While he was in the US, he wouldn't just be buying weapons. He needed Technicolor cameras. He needed sound mixing equipment. He needed the best lenses. He would offer tax breaks to German and American technicians to come to India and teach at a new institute. A real Film and Television Institute of India, established in 1948, not 1960.
Financing: The underworld mafia had destroyed Bollywood in the 90s by becoming the primary financiers. Anirban would cut that head off now. He would set up a National Arts & Cinema Bank. Low-interest loans for filmmakers, but with strings attached—strict auditing, no black money, and a mandate to produce quality.
The Narrative: He wouldn't censor, but he would incentivize. Grants for scripts that explored Indian history, Indian mythology, Indian science. He would make it profitable to tell Indian stories, so they wouldn't feel the need to rip off It Happened One Night or The Magnificent Seven.
The Distribution: Theaters. India needed thousands of them. He would link it to the infrastructure projects. Every new planned city, every railway hub, would have a cinema hall. Control the screen, control the mind.
Anirban smirked. He would make Bombay the cultural capital of the East, not by accident, but by design. He would crush the nepotism in its cradle. If a producer's son wanted to act, he would have to go through the Institute just like the farmer's son.
The 'Moon of Baroda' would be the first victory. A symbol. When he eventually unveiled it, it wouldn't be on the neck of an American actress. It would be in a museum in Delhi, or perhaps worn by an Indian ambassador representing the strength of the Republic.
The plane banked slightly, beginning its initial descent pattern toward New York.
Anirban capped his pen. The UN was waiting. The British were waiting. The Americans were waiting.
They thought they were dealing with a fledgling nation, begging for a seat at the table.
They had no idea that the man coming to dinner intended to buy the restaurant.