Date: December 28, 2008Time: 7:00 AMLocation: Aritra’s Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat

  The weak morning light crept through the thin cotton curtains of Aritra’s small bedroom, casting pale streaks across the dusty wooden floor. The echoes of st night’s argument still lingered in the corners of the house like stubborn shadows. The shattered photo frame had been swept away, but the sharpness remained—in his mind, and in his heart.

  He y on his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling fan zily spinning above, its rhythmic creak in sync with the pounding in his head. His father’s harsh words repyed like a broken record: “Tui amar shontan hote parbi na.” (You can’t be my son if this is who you’ve become.)

  But there was no time for regrets. No room for emotional wounds to fester. Aritra’s mind was a battlefield, scarred yet unyielding.

  The sharp buzz of his phone cut through the silence like a bde. He reached for it, the screen fshing “Ishita (Sec)”—his secretary’s number.

  His heart tightened. Ishita never called this early unless something was wrong.

  He answered with a curt, “What’s happened?”

  Ishita’s voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of tension beneath her professionalism.

  “Sir, we’ve hit a problem with the factory construction site near Baruipur. The local police, along with some political figures, have halted the work.”

  Aritra sat up straight, his pulse quickening. “Why?”

  “They’re ciming ‘irregur documentation issues,’” Ishita replied, her voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm that hinted at the obvious lie. “But it’s not about paperwork. They’re demanding… compensation.”

  Aritra clenched his jaw. “How much?”

  “About 2 crore INR in total.”

  The number didn’t shock him as much as it should have. Corruption was an old demon in India, lurking in every corridor of power.

  “Who’s behind this?” he asked.

  Ishita’s response was swift, as if she’d anticipated the question. “The demands are coming from three fronts. Inspector Rajesh Dutta from the local police station is asking for 50 khs, ciming it’s for ‘ensuring security.’ Then there’s Councillor Prabir Ghosh from the local municipality—he wants 75 khs for ‘construction clearances.’ The rest, 75 khs, is being funneled to MLA Tanmoy Saha’s office as ‘political goodwill.’”

  Aritra’s fingers tightened around the phone. Political goodwill, they called it—a fancy term for extortion.

  For a moment, he considered fighting back. Taking a stand. But then reality sank in. Time was money, and every day the construction was deyed, he bled both.

  “Pay them,” he said coldly.

  Ishita hesitated, her silence lingering for a brief second. “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Yes. Pay them and get the construction back on track. I don’t care how it’s done. Just make sure the work resumes today.”

  “Understood,” Ishita replied, her voice returning to its usual crispness. “I’ll handle it.”

  The call ended, leaving Aritra staring at the faded ceiling once more.

  Welcome to the real world, he thought bitterly. Where dreams are expensive, and progress costs more than just money.

  Time: 10:00 AMLocation: Baruipur Construction Site

  The construction site near Baruipur, which had buzzed with activity just days ago, now stood eerily silent. Cement mixers y idle, scaffolding half-assembled, and workers loitered in small groups, nervously smoking beedis and whispering about the sudden halt.

  Ishita arrived in a sleek white sedan, her sharp formal attire a stark contrast to the dusty surroundings. She stepped out, her expression unreadable as she approached a cluster of men standing near the temporary site office.

  At the center of the group was Inspector Rajesh Dutta, a stocky man with a thick moustache that seemed to twitch with self-importance. His dark sungsses reflected Ishita’s composed face as she walked up to him.

  “Inspector Dutta,” Ishita greeted coolly. “I believe we have some business to discuss.”

  Rajesh smirked, tapping his baton against his palm zily. “Madam, this isn’t personal. Just standard procedure. You see, ensuring the safety of such a rge construction site isn’t easy.”

  Ishita didn’t bother with pretenses. She pulled out an envelope from her leather bag—thick with neatly stacked notes. She handed it over without flinching.

  “Fifty khs,” she said. “As requested.”

  Rajesh’s smirk widened. “Efficient. I like that.”

  But Ishita wasn’t done. She turned to face another man standing nearby—Prabir Ghosh, the local councillor, dressed in a crisp white kurta, his gold chain glinting in the sunlight. His fake smile faded when Ishita’s cold eyes met his.

  “For your ‘clearances,’” she said ftly, pulling out another envelope. This one thicker—seventy-five khs.

  Prabir chuckled nervously, taking the envelope. “You’re a sharp woman. If only more people understood how things work around here…”

  Ishita ignored him, moving to the st man—an aide representing MLA Tanmoy Saha, a well-known local politician with a reputation for both influence and greed. The aide was younger, slick, with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

  Ishita handed him the final envelope without a word. Seventy-five khs, wrapped in silence.

  As the st envelope changed hands, Inspector Rajesh cpped his hands dramatically. “Well, now that everything’s in order, I think the ‘paperwork issues’ will magically disappear.”

  The workers began moving again, machines roared back to life, and the factory’s skeleton grew taller against the horizon.

  Time: 8:00 PMLocation: Aritra’s Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat

  Aritra stared at his phone, rereading Ishita’s final message:

  “Payments made. Construction resumed. No further issues for now.”

  For now.

  He tossed the phone onto his bed, running his hands through his hair. This wasn’t how he’d envisioned his empire’s foundation. He thought it would be about innovation, strategy, and brilliance. Not bribes and backroom deals.

  But this was the cost of doing business in the real world.

  And Aritra Naskar was willing to pay.

  Because in the end, the empire he was building would be worth every rupee. Even the dirty ones.