October 8, 1970
The dawn did not bring light to the Pratap Mills; it brought a blockade.
Rudra was awakened by the frantic ringing of the telephone. It was Balwant.
"Malik! Don't come to the main gate. They are here."
"Who?"
"Everyone. The Union. The opposition party workers. Goons from the slums. There are five hundred of them. They have blocked the trucks. They are shouting slogans against Bhau Saheb."
Rudra dressed quickly, his face grim. He grabbed his car keys, but before he could leave, he heard a commotion in the courtyard.
Bhau Saheb was already there, leaning on his cane, his back straight as a rod. He was shouting at the servants to open the main gate of the Wada.
"Dada ji, wait!" Rudra ran down the stairs. "It's a trap. They want a confrontation."
"They are calling me a thief in my own constituency!" Bhau Saheb roared, his eyes blazing with a fury Rudra had never seen. "I will not hide behind walls like a coward."
The gates opened.
Outside, a chaotic sea of people waved black flags. The air was filled with chants: "Gaddar Pratap Murdabad!" (Down with Traitor Pratap!) and "Chor Hai, Chor Hai!" (He is a thief!).
When Bhau Saheb stepped out, the crowd surged forward, but stopped a few feet away. The aura of the old freedom fighter still held power.
"Who calls me a traitor?" Bhau Saheb bellowed, his voice cracking like a whip. "I spent six years in British jails! I marched with Netaji! Who among you has the courage to look me in the eye and say it?"
For a moment, the mob wavered. The hired goons looked uncertain.
Then, a stone flew from the back of the crowd.
It struck Bhau Saheb on the shoulder. He staggered back, gasping in pain.
"Dada ji!" Rudra and Vijay rushed forward, shielding him.
"This is just the beginning, old man!" a voice screamed from the crowd—a local thug on Appa Deshmukh's payroll. "Read the news! The truth is out!"
Rudra grabbed his grandfather and pulled him back inside the gates. Balwant slammed the iron doors shut as more stones clattered against the metal.
The Poisoned Ink
Inside the safety of the main hall, Bhau Saheb sat heavily on the swing, clutching his bruised shoulder. But the physical pain was nothing compared to what Vijay was holding in his hands.
It was a copy of The Nagpur Chronicle, the leading newspaper owned by the Deshmukh faction.
HEADLINE: THE MISSING INA GOLD — PRATAP'S SECRET FORTUNE?
Exclusive Report: Documents surfaced today allege that MLA Bhau Saheb Pratap, formerly a lieutenant in the INA, misappropriated funds meant for the freedom struggle in 1945. Sources claim this 'blood money' was used to build the Pratap Textile Empire...
"Lies," Bhau Saheb whispered, his face draining of color. He took the paper, his hands shaking violently. "I gave everything. My youth. My blood. I came back from Burma with nothing but the clothes on my back."
"We know, Baba," Vijay said, his voice choking. "Everyone knows."
"Do they?" Bhau Saheb looked up, his eyes wet. "Look outside, Vijay. They are throwing stones. They believe it. A lie printed in black and white becomes the truth for the common man."
The old lion seemed to shrink. The accusation struck at the very core of his identity. If he wasn't a patriot, he was nothing.
Rudra watched his grandfather crumble. A cold, dark rage began to coil in his gut. This wasn't business anymore. This was a hitjob.
"They control the narrative," Rudra said quietly. "Appa Deshmukh owns the Chronicle. He owns the printing press. He decides what history is."
Rudra snatched the newspaper from his grandfather's hands and ripped it in half.
"Then we change the history writer."
An hour later, in the study, Rudra poured a glass of water for his father. Vijay looked defeated.
"The police won't help, Rudra. The Commissioner is in Appa's pocket. The mill is closed. The trucks with the Army shipment can't leave. If we miss the delivery date, the Delhi contract is cancelled."
"We will handle the trucks later," Rudra said, pacing the room. "First, we stop the bleeding. We need a voice, Baba. We cannot fight ink with silence."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we need our own newspaper. Today."
Vijay looked at him as if he were mad. "Start a newspaper? It takes months to get a license, to buy a press, to hire journalists..."
"I didn't say start one. I said buy one."
Rudra stopped pacing. "Is there a paper in Nagpur that hates the Deshmukhs? Or one that is dying?"
Vijay thought for a moment, rubbing his forehead. "There is... Dainik Vajra (The Daily Thunderbolt). It's an old nationalist paper. Used to be popular in the 50s. The editor, Madhav Rao, is an honest man—too honest. He refused to take bribes from the Coalition, so they cut off his government ads. He's bankrupt. I heard he's closing the press next week."
"Perfect," Rudra said. "Honest, desperate, and armed with a printing press."
Rudra grabbed his checkbook.
"Where is his office?"
"In Sitabuldi. But Rudra, it's a ruin. The machinery is rusted."
"I don't care if he prints on banana leaves," Rudra snapped. "I just need his masthead. Call Balwant. We are going out the back exit."
The office of Dainik Vajra smelled of rot and old lead ink.
Madhav Rao, a man with disheveled hair and thick spectacles, sat amidst piles of unsold papers. He looked up when Rudra entered.
"If you are here to collect the rent," Madhav sighed, "I need two more days."
"I am not the landlord," Rudra said, placing a briefcase on the desk. "I am Rudra Pratap."
Madhav stiffened. "The son of the 'Gold Thief'? I saw the Chronicle headline. Get out. I run a clean paper. I don't take money from criminals."
Rudra didn't flinch. "So you believe it too? You, a journalist, believe that Bhau Saheb Pratap—who lived in a mud hut until 1955—stole gold?"
Madhav paused. He looked at Rudra's eyes. He saw the same fire that Bhau Saheb was famous for.
"I don't believe it," Madhav muttered. "But what I believe doesn't matter. The Chronicle prints 50,000 copies. I print 2,000. My voice is a whisper."
"I can give you a megaphone," Rudra said.
He opened the briefcase. Stacks of cash. ₹50,000.
"I want to buy Dainik Vajra. 100% equity."
"You want to buy my integrity?" Madhav scoffed.
"No. I want to buy your anger," Rudra replied sharply. "You hate the Deshmukhs because they choked your business. I hate them because they slandered my grandfather. We have the same enemy."
Rudra leaned in.
"I will clear your debts. I will upgrade your press. I will pay your staff double. And in return, you will print the truth. Not my truth. The actual truth. You investigate the Deshmukhs. You dig into their land deals. You dig into their fake contracts. And you print it on the front page."
Madhav looked at the money, then at his silent printing press.
"And if I find dirt on you?" Madhav challenged.
"Then you print that too," Rudra lied flawlessly. "But right now, the target is Deshmukh."
Madhav stood up. He extended a hand stained with ink.
"Deal. But we need paper. The suppliers have boycotted me."
[System Alert][Asset Acquired: Dainik Vajra (Media House).][Condition: Poor.][Immediate Need: Raw Material (Newsprint).][System Solution Available: 'Emergency Supply Drop' via Ghost Logistics.]
Rudra shook the hand. "You start writing the rebuttal, Madhav. I will get you the paper."
That night, while the rioters still camped outside the Pratap Mill, the rusty machines of Dainik Vajra roared to life for the first time in months.
Rudra used the System to secure two tons of newsprint from a surplus depot in Madhya Pradesh, delivered within hours.
The headline was drafted by Madhav Rao, fueled by coffee and vengeance, with Rudra editing for maximum impact.
HEADLINE: THE LIARS OF NAGPUR — WHO IS AFRAID OF BHAU SAHEB?
Sub-heading: Deshmukh Faction manufactures fake 'INA Scandal' to hide their own land grabbing scam near Wardha Road.
Rudra stood by the press, watching the first copy roll out. The ink was wet. It smelled like victory.
"Tomorrow morning," Rudra told Madhav, "I don't want this sold at newsstands. I want it distributed for free. Every tea stall. Every bus stop. Every doorstep. Flood the city."
"And the rioters?" Madhav asked.
"Let them scream," Rudra said, his eyes cold. "By noon, they will have something else to talk about."