May 23, 1971
The arrest of Appa Saheb Deshmukh was not a quiet legal procedure; it was a carnival.
Outside the sprawling Deshmukh mansion, a crowd of thousands had gathered—the same crowd that Appa had once manipulated with money and liquor. Now, they pressed against the police barricades, shouting for blood.
The gates opened. Flashbulbs from twenty cameras popped simultaneously, creating a blinding strobe effect.
Commissioner V.K. Kulkarni, wearing his most stern, "law-abiding" face, led the way. Behind him, two constables dragged a man who looked like a ghost.
Appa Deshmukh was handcuffed. His white kurta was rumpled, his Gandhi cap missing. He looked smaller, frailer. As he stepped out, a roar went up from the crowd.
"Chor! Chor!" (Thief!) "Deshmukh Murdabad!"
A rotten tomato flew from the crowd and splattered against the police jeep, missing Appa by inches. Appa didn't flinch. He stared straight ahead, his eyes dead. He knew the game. He had played it for thirty years. Today, the dice had simply rolled against him.
"Commissioner!" A reporter from The Times of India shouted. "Is it true that you found illegal gold biscuits in the house?"
"We found significant evidence of disproportionate assets," Kulkarni declared loudly for the cameras. "The law is equal for everyone. No matter how powerful."
Rudra watched this scene from the backseat of his car parked down the street. He watched Kulkarni—the man who had taken those very gold biscuits as a bribe—now posing as the crusader of justice.
"Irony is dead," Rudra whispered, lighting a cigarette. "Let's go, Balwant."
While Appa surrendered with grim dignity, Suresh Deshmukh had no such spine.
Five miles away, on the Nagpur-Wardha highway, a police checkpoint flagged down a speeding Fiat Padmini.
"Papers!" the constable shouted.
The driver—Suresh—was sweating profusely. "I... I am in a hurry. Medical emergency."
"Open the trunk."
"No need! Here, take this..." Suresh tried to shove a wad of cash into the constable's hand.
But Vilas Rao's student cadres were watching. Two young men on motorbikes, who had been tailing Suresh from the city, pulled up.
"Officer!" one student shouted. "That man is Suresh Deshmukh! He is fleeing with the bank files!"
The constable's eyes widened. He drew his baton. "Step out of the car!"
Suresh panicked. He tried to floor the accelerator, but the car stalled. The police dragged him out screaming. They opened the trunk.
It wasn't medical supplies. It was three suitcases stuffed with cash, jewelry, and the ledgers of the Deshmukh Transport Company—the proof of every bribe paid since 1965.
Suresh wept on the tarmac, dust coating his silk shirt. The Prince of Corruption had fallen.
The sun was setting when Rudra's car finally rolled into the Pratap Wada.
The atmosphere inside was unrecognizable. For months, the house had felt like a bunker under siege. Now, the heavy wooden doors were wide open. Neighbors were pouring in with sweets. The servants were laughing.
When Rudra stepped out, a hush fell over the courtyard.
He looked battered. A bandage was taped over his left eyebrow. He walked with a slight limp where the assassin had kicked him. His suit jacket was torn.
"Rudra!"
Sumitra dropped the tray of sweets she was holding and ran to him. She didn't care about the guests. She grabbed his face, checking his eyes, his wounds.
"You are hurt... oh god, you are bleeding..."
"I'm fine, Aai," Rudra winced as she touched his bruise. "Just a scratch."
Vijay Pratap stood behind her, his eyes red. He walked up and hugged his son—a tight, crushing hug that spoke of a father's terrifying relief.
"We heard about the factory," Vijay whispered. "The police told us. A hitman... inside the B-Wing?"
"He's in custody, Baba. It's over."
Then, the crowd parted.
Bhau Saheb limped forward. He stopped in front of Rudra. He looked at the bandage, then at Rudra's eyes. He saw the toll the day had taken. He saw the loss of innocence that was the price of this victory.
Bhau Saheb didn't say a word. He simply raised his hand and placed it on Rudra's head in a traditional blessing.
"The city is celebrating," Bhau Saheb said, his voice thick with emotion. "They are chanting my name. They are saying justice has won."
"It has," Rudra said softly.
"But I know," Bhau Saheb looked deep into his grandson's eyes. "I know who held the sword. I know who bled for this."
He turned to the gathered family and neighbors.
"My grandson!" Bhau Saheb's voice boomed. "Rudra Pratap! Remember this name. Today he saved his family. Tomorrow, he will save this country!"
The courtyard erupted in cheers. "Rudra Bhau ki Jai!"
Later that night, after the guests had left and the excitement had died down, the family sat in the living room. It was quiet, peaceful.
Sumitra was applying turmeric paste to Rudra's ribs. "You are not going to the factory for a week," she ordered sternly. "You will rest. You will eat."
"I have a contract to fulfill, Aai," Rudra smiled weakly.
"The contract can wait," Vijay said, pouring whiskey into two glasses—one for himself, one for Rudra. It was the first time he had offered his son a drink. A rite of passage.
"So," Vijay asked, sitting back. "What happens now? Deshmukh is gone. His assets are frozen. His mills will be auctioned."
Rudra took a sip of the whiskey. It burned pleasantly.
"We buy them," Rudra said simply. "The auction will happen in three months. The banks will want to recover their bad loans quickly. We will pick up his ginning presses, his transport fleet, and his land for thirty paise on the rupee."
"And then?" Bhau Saheb asked from his armchair.
"Then we consolidate," Rudra said. "We merge everything into one entity. Pratap Industries Limited."
He looked at the map of India on the wall.
"Nagpur is too small for us now. The war is coming in December. By January, I want us to have an office in Bombay and a liaison in Delhi. We are going national."
Bhau Saheb smiled, closing his eyes. "National. From a dusty wada in Mahal to the capital of India. You dream big, boy."
"I don't dream, Dada ji," Rudra replied, the blue glow of the System flickering invisibly in his peripheral vision. "I execute."
[System Alert][Objectives Achieved: Survival, Wealth Generation, Political Dominance.][Rewards Calculated...][System Level Up -> Level 3 Imminent.]
Rudra closed his eyes. The pain in his ribs was a reminder that he was alive. The silence in the house was a reminder that he was safe.
The Deshmukhs were history. The future belonged to the Prataps.
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Author: inkstory
Writing fiction stories for the community. I cross-post all my chapters to Webnovel and Royal Road at the same time, so you can read wherever you're most comfortable. Don't forget to follow and leave a review!
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