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## Chapter 19: The Seeds of Power 2
1 October 1970 — The Ashok Hotel, New Delhi
The morning sun filtered through the finely polished windows of Room 812 at The Ashok Hotel, casting gentle beams over velvet-lined drapes and marble-veined floors. In a city bursting with ministers, lobbyists, and foreign ambassadors, the Ashok stood like a crown jewel—a quiet, unobtrusive fortress of post-independence prestige. It radiated an elite presence that offered what few places in the capital could: anonymity for the powerful.
It wasn't just a hotel. It was a statement of sovereignty.
And now, it served as the tactical headquarters for Karan Shergill.
At nearly ₹500 a night—a staggering sum in 1970—Karan wasn't paying for luxury; he was paying for the vacuum of suspicion. No one suspected that the man in Room 812, who occasionally ordered black coffee and read the Economic Times in the lounge, was systematically rewriting the psychological hardware of the Indian state.
Since arriving in Delhi on 23rd September, Karan had been busy. In Bombay, he had successfully calibrated 16 MPs. In the week he had spent in the capital, he had reached another 18.
Total Calibrated: 34.
But today was the inflexion point. Delhi was the hive, and tonight, Karan was setting a trap of gold and silk.
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### The Salon of the Industrial Kshatriya
The ornate telephone on the side table clicked softly. Confirmation.
Vikram closed his leather-bound notebook. Tonight, he would host a private gathering in one of the hotel's grand ballrooms. Officially, it was an "Informal Policy Salon" to discuss the industrial future of India.
Unofficially, it was an ideological infection.
Forty-five Members of Parliament had confirmed their attendance. These weren't random invites; every guest had been nudged or "recommended" by the 34 MPs Karan had already influenced.
This was the genius of the calibration: once their loyalty was rewritten to Karan's vision of Nationalist Capitalism, they believed it was their own patriotic duty to bring others into the fold.
Karan checked his GP Balance: 3,200 GP.
He knew that mass manipulation wasn't efficient—it lacked the surgical precision required for long-term conviction. He needed the personal touch.
One handshake. One moment of skin-to-skin contact.
To trigger the Memory Manipulation interface.
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### The Ballroom Ritual
The ballroom had been dressed for power.
No banners. No slogans.
Just the rich glow of crystal chandeliers and a dining spread featuring roasted koftas, almond-glazed kebabs, and imported Swiss cheeses.
Karan moved through the room like smoke, dressed in a charcoal-grey Nehru jacket.
He didn't dominate the room—
he curated it.
He wasn't a "Master" to these men—not yet.
He was the Supreme Architect they had "met" in their dreams and false memories.
He approached a socialist MP from Bihar who was debating the merits of central planning. Karan leaned in, placing a steady hand on his shoulder while offering a fresh glass of claret.
[Skill Triggered: Memory Manipulation]
Inside the man's mind, Karan didn't argue.
He bypassed logic and went straight for the soul.
He planted a memory of a crumbling village, followed by a vision of that same village transformed by a Shergill Factory—where the sons of farmers were trained as "Industrial Warriors."
He reframed the MP's socialism into Nationalist Collectivism:
the belief that the state's only purpose was to protect the "National Champion" corporations that would, in turn, protect the people.
The MP blinked, his eyes glazing for a microsecond before snapping back with a new, fierce light.
"You're right, Shergill," he muttered. "Slogans don't fill stomachs. Steel does."
Karan moved on.
He touched the forearm of a veteran minister from Uttar Pradesh.
He brushed the shoulder of a rising leader from Tamil Nadu.
To each, he gave a variation of the same seed:
The Duty of the Kshatriya
> "Power is not for the person," he whispered into their subconscious.
"It is for the Preservation. We build the Forge to protect the Faith."
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### The Tally of a Revolution
By 11:30 PM, the "Salon" was winding down.
Karan had made physical contact with 42 of the 45 attendees.
The final three were cornered near the exit, where Karan personally handed them their coats—his fingers brushing theirs in a final, decisive sweep.
Operation Complete: 45 minds calibrated. 45 visions aligned.
Karan stood at his window as the guests departed in their black Ambassadors. He looked at his ledger and updated the count:
Initial Core: 34
Tonight's Calibration: 45
Total Calibrated MPs: 79/260
He had reached nearly 30% of his target, and it wasn't even November.
Political parties would not know these MPs had shifted.
R&AW wouldn't catch the signals.
Even Indira Gandhi's inner circle would only see a Parliament that was suddenly, inexplicably… efficient.
They would mistake this newfound discipline for their own leadership.
Karan leaned back into his velvet armchair and marked the next phase in his book:
> Project Parliament Influence: 79/260
GP Cost for tonight: 450 GP
Current GP Balance: 2,750 GP
He closed the book.
Tomorrow was October 2nd — Gandhi Jayanti.
But Karan didn't think of the spinning wheel.
He thought of the S-27 Pinaka engines roaring to life in Gorakhpur.
He thought of the 79 men who would now ensure that no bureaucrat, no union, and no foreign power would ever stand in the way of the:
Shergill Group
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