Chapter 1: The Cart's First Cry
The Mumbai dawn broke with a reluctant groan, the sky a smear of gray over Dharavi's patchwork rooftops. Arjun Kade rolled out of his thin mat, the concrete floor cold against his back, and rubbed sleep from his eyes. The six thousand rupees from the Yantra sale sat in a tin box under his bed, a fragile fortress against the slum's endless demands. His sister, Meera, coughed weakly in the corner, her frail frame a silent accusation. Medicine cost two hundred rupees a dose, and the last bottle was empty. Rent was due in three days—five hundred rupees—and the local goon, Chotu Bhai, had doubled his "protection" fee to a hundred. The money wouldn't stretch far.
Arjun stretched, his patched kurta creaking, and glanced at the rickshaw cart he'd bought with half the cash. Its faded green paint peeled like old skin, but it was his—two wheels, a canopy, and a dream. Vikram had laughed when Arjun unveiled it yesterday, calling it a "rolling disaster," but he'd agreed to help sell snacks near Churchgate station. The plan was simple: vada pav, bhajiyas, maybe chai if they could afford a stove. Profits would be slim—fifty rupees a day, if luck held—but it was a start. Arjun Enterprises, he'd dubbed it, a name whispered to himself like a prayer.
He shook Vikram awake, the lanky joker snoring on a borrowed mat. "Up, yaar! We've got a business to launch." Vikram groaned, his neon-green shirt crumpled, and sat up, rubbing his head. "Five more minutes, boss. Or at least a chai."
"No chai, no time," Arjun said, tossing him a rag. "Clean the cart. I'll get the batter ready." He mixed chickpea flour with water and spices in a dented bucket, the familiar rhythm calming his nerves. Meera shuffled over, her cough rattling. "Bhaiya, don't overwork. The medicine—"
"I'll get it today," Arjun lied, forcing a smile. Her trust stung more than the goons' threats. He handed her a glass of water, then hauled the cart outside, Vikram stumbling behind with a tray of half-chopped onions.
The streets buzzed as they wheeled the cart to Churchgate, the morning rush a sea of commuters and hawkers. Arjun parked near the station entrance, the cart's creak drawing curious glances. He set up a makeshift sign—"Arjun's Bites: Cheapest, Tastiest!"—scribbled on cardboard. Vikram arranged the bhajiyas, his grin wide. "Ready to be rich, bhai? I'll charm the crowd."
"Charm, not scare," Arjun shot back, lighting the portable burner. The first customer, a harried office clerk, approached. "Vada pav, ten rupees?" Arjun nodded, frying the batter with practiced hands. The clerk paid, muttering, "Better be good," and walked off. The day began—ten rupees here, twenty there, the tin box slowly filling. By noon, they'd earned sixty rupees, a triumph marred by the cost of ingredients: forty rupees gone.
Vikram juggled onions to entertain a group of schoolboys, earning laughs and a twenty-rupee tip. "See? I'm a marketing genius," he boasted, bowing. Arjun chuckled, but his mind tallied expenses. The burner needed fuel—fifty rupees a canister—and Chotu Bhai's fee loomed. Profits were a mirage.
Mid-afternoon, trouble arrived. A rival vendor, Raju Bhai, rolled up with his own cart, its red paint gleaming. Raju, a burly man with a permanent scowl, glared at Arjun. "New kid, huh? This is my spot. Move, or I'll move you." His cronies cracked knuckles, drawing a small crowd.
Arjun stood firm, heart pounding. "Public road, bhai. First come, first served." Raju sneered, shoving the cart. It tipped, spilling batter, and Vikram yelped, dodging a flying bhajiya. "You'll pay for that!" Raju barked, lunging. Arjun ducked, instincts from slum fights kicking in, and shoved back, toppling Raju into his own cart. The crowd cheered, but Raju's cronies advanced, fists raised.
Before blows landed, a whistle pierced the air. A traffic cop, bored and bribe-hungry, strolled over. "Fight's over, boys. Five hundred fine, or I call the station." Arjun's stomach sank—half his Yantra money gone in a flash. Raju smirked, paying the cop a hundred, and retreated, promising revenge. Arjun handed over the fine, his hands trembling. Net profit: minus three hundred rupees.
"Great start," Vikram muttered, salvaging the cart. Arjun forced a laugh. "First battle, yaar. We'll win the war." But the weight of loss pressed hard. He sent Vikram to buy more flour, spending another fifty rupees, while he cleaned up. The tin box held two thousand rupees now, a fraction of his needs.
That evening, Priya appeared, her leather jacket and laptop bag out of place amid the slum's dust. "Heard you sold a Yantra," she said, smirking. "VedaCorp's agents are sniffing around. Smart move, or stupid one?"
Arjun's pulse quickened. "Smart if I turn it into more. You here to gloat or help?" Her eyes sparkled, challenging. "Help, if you've got a plan. I tracked VedaCorp's relic buys—thousands of rupees per piece. They're desperate."
"Desperate's my middle name," Arjun quipped, offering her a bhajiya. She took it, her fingers brushing his, a jolt he ignored. "I need more relics. Can you find sellers?"
"Risky," she said, chewing. "But I'll dig. What's in it for me?"
"Story of the year," he echoed her prologue words, grinning. "And a cut if I hit big." She laughed, a sound that warmed the humid air. "Deal. But watch your back—VedaCorp plays dirty."
Dirty was an understatement. The next day, Arjun's cart tire was slashed, a note pinned to it: "Stay out—Raju." Repair cost a hundred rupees, eating into profits. Customers thinned, wary of the tension, and Chotu Bhai doubled his fee again—two hundred now. Arjun argued, but the goon's knife gleamed. "Pay, or your sister's medicine stops," Chotu sneered. Arjun paid, his jaw tight, the tin box dipping to eighteen hundred.
Vikram suggested a loan shark, but Arjun refused. "We'll earn it clean." They expanded the menu—pav bhaji, risking another hundred on ingredients—but sales stalled at forty rupees a day. Raju's cart thrived nearby, his prices undercut by muscle, not skill. Arjun's hands blistered from frying, his sleep fractured by Meera's coughs. The Yantra's sale felt like a distant dream, its six thousand rupees a fleeting hope.
A week in, a break came. Priya returned with a lead: a black-market dealer near Sion, selling a batch of relics. "Fifty thousand potential," she said, "but guarded. Need a plan." Arjun's mind raced. Fifty thousand could buy a proper stall, pay debts, secure medicine. But the risk—VedaCorp, Raju, goons—loomed large.
He gathered Vikram and Priya at the cart after midnight, the slum quiet. "We hit Sion tomorrow," he said. "Vikram, distract. Priya, hack their security. I'll negotiate." Vikram groaned. "My charm against goons? You owe me chai." Priya smirked. "And I want data on VedaCorp. Let's make it worth it."
The plan was shaky. Arjun's savings—eighteen hundred—wouldn't cover a bid, but his hustle had to count. He practiced his pitch, imagining a stall empire, Meera healthy, Priya's respect. The cart's creak was his heartbeat, the rupees his lifeline. Struggle was his teacher now, and every rupee a lesson.
The next morning, they set out. Sion's market was a maze of tarps and shadows, the dealer a wiry man with a gold tooth. "Relics, eh? Ten thousand each, minimum bid," he growled. Arjun's heart sank—his cash was a joke. Vikram flirted with a guard, Priya hacked a tablet, but the dealer spotted them. "Scam artists! Out!"
A chase ensued, Arjun dodging crates, the eighteen hundred clutched tight. Priya's hack triggered an alarm, and goons closed in. Vikram tripped, laughing, "Told you I'd distract!" Arjun hauled him up, Priya covering their retreat. They escaped, empty-handed, the rupees still theirs but the dream deferred.
Back in Dharavi, Arjun slumped by the cart, the tin box mocking him. Meera's cough worsened, Chotu's fee loomed, and Raju's threat lingered. "We're broke again," Vikram sighed. Priya patted Arjun's shoulder. "You tried. That's something."
Arjun nodded, the Yantra's memory a faint echo. No magic, no gods—just grit. He'd find another way, another relic, another rupee. The hustle wasn't over; it was just beginning.