The British had called it administration.
Vikramaditya knew it for what it was — division.
In 1905, Lord Curzon split Bengal into two: East and West. East, majority Muslim. West, majority Hindu.
They said it was for better governance.
But it was to break the spine of unity.
And now, in 1915, Vikram would unbreak it.
Bengal was not just a land.
It was a heartbeat.
Poets, printers, revolutionaries, farmers — all drawn from its soil.
Yet ever since the partition, the lines had hardened. Temples on one side. Mosques on the other. Schools divided. Jobs distributed with bias.
A quiet, pulsing wall had formed.
Not made of bricks.
But of doubt.
And Vikram knew the only way to erase a wall of doubt… was to walk through it.
He entered Calcutta in the winter of 1915.
No parades. No armed guard. Just a cart carrying grain, pulled by two oxen.
He took residence in the backroom of a half-burnt warehouse near the Hooghly.
From there, he began.
First, he touched a postman.
A 52-year-old who walked the same route between East and West Bengal every day. Through his Magicnet link, Vikram saw the city — not just its streets, but its silences:
Which neighborhoods no longer shared vendors
Where interfaith marriages had disappeared
Which shops quietly refused service
He created a mental map of hate.
Then began breaking it — corner by corner.
He started with food.
He subsidized delivery of bulk grain to East Bengal — but under the names of Hindu grain merchants. At the same time, he provided spice stock to West Bengal — through names sourced from Muslim trader networks.
People ate without realizing who fed them.
But their bodies remembered the hunger fading.
And hunger respects no religion.
Next, he used music.
Through Magicnet, he extracted melodies from a Baul singer in Jessore, fused it with devotional rhythms from Nabadwip.
The result?
A haunting tune that was played at public wells and dharamshalas.
Nobody could name it. But it caught fire.
Boys in Muslim caps hummed it. Girls in red bindis danced to it.
Sound broke what speech could not.
Then came stories.
Vikram launched a silent campaign of handwritten pamphlets — tales of old Bengal when kings ruled without faith-based bias, when Sufi saints and Brahmin sages shared mangoes and moonlight.
The writers? Former students linked via Magicnet. The ink? Mixed with rose essence to ensure familiarity.
When read, these stories didn't feel political.
They felt like memory.
Meanwhile, he began identifying radicals.
Not just those preaching hate. But those quietly steering it — schoolteachers, minor clerics, local bureaucrats.
He didn't kill them.
He erased specific memories during sleep.
A mosque leader who had once taught that Hindus were enemies — now believed he'd taught peace for decades.
A Brahmin who forbade sharing food with Muslims — now remembered preparing biryani for both.
Vikram rewrote not just policy, but people.
But some required sterner touch.
One night, a secret meeting of Muslim League agitators was held in Khulna. Vikram, dressed as a mute fakir, entered.
He carried no weapon. Just a pot of ghee.
Before dawn, five men had vanished. Their homes later found empty. No signs of struggle.
Their families were compensated. Their neighbors received better rations.
And their names were never spoken again.
He sent Sthirakaya into madrasas and Sanskrit pathshalas — not to teach, but to listen. To gather the rhythms of resentment. Then he adjusted salaries, shifted jobs, introduced joint holidays, and installed street games that made children from both communities touch and laugh.
He understood the truth:
If the young could be made to hold hands, the old would soon forget why they clenched fists.
Magicnet extended deeper in Bengal than anywhere else. Over 9,000 users by mid-1915.
Whispers moved faster than telegraphs. Healing moved faster than doubt.
And when British officers tried stirring unrest — through false arrests or instigated temple fights — Vikram's plants had already replaced the magistrates, the witnesses, the evidence.
Every spark failed.
Every riot fizzled.
By autumn, something remarkable began.
People from East began walking West again. And vice versa.
Not in marches. But quietly. For trade. For weddings. For school admissions.
The line was still drawn on the British maps.
But on the streets?
It was gone.
Vikram took no credit.
But one night, while walking past the banks of the Hooghly, he saw something.
Two boats docking. One carried clay idols of Durga. The other, boxes of dates and lanterns for Ramadan.
And in the middle, a group of boys — one Hindu, one Muslim, one from a tribal family — sharing jaggery.
They didn't notice him.
They didn't need to.
Because he hadn't done this for them to know.
He had done it so they'd forget it had ever been otherwise.