The Plan Saptarishi Pandey | Mechanical | B.Tech 3 Mrityunjay M. Borah | Mechanical | B.Tech 4 Tanisha Tambi | Comps | B.Tech 3 It was Tuesday and Ramesh, in his soiled boxers, headed to the washroom with his toiletries. Unbeknownst to him, 1.609 kilometers away, a drone meticulously kept track of his movements. This particular drone was being closely monitored and its data was being analyzed by the ML experts sitting in the bunker of Kavi Medical Store. The well-established data recognition system could detect the yearold shampoo bottle in Ramesh’s hand, almost empty. On Friday, Ramesh mindlessly scrolled through his phone, contemplating the pros and cons of taking a second shower in the same week — which, while not unheard of, would certainly have been unusual. Just then, his phone beeped. It was a new message from KMS: “Plz check out new shampoo at KMS. 40% off for students & free delivery.” To Ramesh, who had spent the better part of the last 2 years doing his level best to be as green as possible, the two incidents might have appeared disconnected. But they were not. Over the past 2 years, several small-scale businesses with progressive leaders had seeped gradually, without notice, into the minds of the nation’s finest engineering undergrads. Foremost amongst these businesses was KMS — the one-stop shop for every need. Using state-of-theart technology, free delivery, and their seemingly innocent sales clerks, KMS was now the first choice for students when it comes to general goods. This enabled it to bypass single-use plastic regulations and profit off the high demand of certain single-use plastics near Valentine’s Day. However, the road to profit had not been a walk in the park. KMS had to resort to what feeble minds might deem as unpalatable. But, in reality, these were completely necessary steps for its golden future and that of its subsidiaries — Bavarchi Xerox and Bunny Dom Stationaries. There were tough decisions to be made, yes, but they were required. KMS, like any other business, needed to ensure the continuity of demand for its cash cows — Ludomos and Dissleri, which is why a special breed
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of Columbian mosquitoes carrying a nonlethal (well, mostly non-lethal) strain of Dengue just had to be released near the hostels. Granted that the marketing stunt with the fake video (which went viral on WhatsApp group chats) might have been taking it a touch too far, but it had the right intentions. In any case, the person in-charge of that fiasco had already been moved to another department and wouldn’t be involved in any further marketing efforts. Bribing the hostel staff with Manchurian Khakhra was easy; the challenge lay in convincing expert researchers to downgrade their teaching abilities in exchange for 10% of profits off the book sales at Bavarchi. They were also ‘convinced’ to teach the same subject from different books, forcing gullible students to purchase all the available books. The expansion from the small nook to the binary Bavarchi earlier in the academic year was a testament to their booming business. These were the thoughts that flew through the mind of KMS’ owner as he sat, reading his red hardcover copy of Mein Kough, with a singular earphone in his right ear. He let out a sigh of relief, safe in his knowledge of being the kingpin. As he pondered upon his moves for the next quarter, his playlist of death metal was interrupted by a shrill bang in his ear, followed by a muffled, ominous voice: “23:37, Murtea café. Bring the package.” These few words were enough to cause him to break out in a cold sweat. With shivering hands and jumpy nerves, he set his book down and started going through his monthly sales report, but not before setting an alarm for 23:00. Rajshekhar Bhai had a seemingly innocuous face. He rode a bicycle to work. No student was ever afraid while casually admitting that they forgot their money back in their rooms, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. After all, who could ever expect someone like
that to be the master puppeteer of the college? To be the one silently pulling the strings, hidden in plain sight. It was 23:35 and Rajshekhar hummed as he walked down the stairs to enter Murtea Café, only to see a few of his henchmen already there. He sat, patiently sipping on his peach iced tea, waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive. Tonight, he would reveal his next grand plan — a plan that would make him the most powerful man in not just the college, but the entire city. Finally, the last of his men, the owner of KMS arrived (a minute late). Rajshekhar made a mental note — “Strike two.” The KMS owner began the meeting by informing Rajshekhar of the discoveries he made on his trip to the Chinese province of Wuhan last month. He then set his suitcase on the table and handed a pair of latex gloves and a safety mask to Rajshekhar, who opened the briefcase with a touch of reverence to reveal his prized possession, a souvenir from China — a dead bat. “I d-did as you asked, but wh-what do you intend to d-do with this?” the owner of KMS stuttered. “This, gentlemen, is the harbinger of a widespread disease-causing virus — the Kareena Virus,” Rajshekhar replied, grinning smugly. “You won’t be affected; in fact, this shall bring in even more money for the likes of you. The only individuals who will be affected by this are the petty students, those stupid little souls who think they can get away by not paying me. The fact that my little virus will also result in the indefinite postponement of their measly excuse for a cultural event, Touch, is just the icing on what I am sure will prove to be a very delectable cake. They will never be able to escape from the Kareena Virus. No one will be Saif.”
