Chapter 2: The Shadow of the Cart
The Dharavi dawn crept in like a reluctant guest, the sky a dull orange over the slum's tangled rooftops. Arjun Kade sat cross-legged by his rickshaw cart, the tin box of earnings—eighteen hundred rupees—open before him, a pitiful sum against the mounting tide of needs. Meera's cough had worsened overnight, her frail frame shivering under a threadbare blanket. Two hundred rupees for medicine, five hundred for rent, two hundred for Chotu Bhai's latest "protection" fee—nine hundred gone before the day began. The cart's tire, slashed by Raju's goons, cost another hundred to patch, and the Sion debacle had left him empty-handed. Profit was a ghost, and Arjun's dreams of Arjun Enterprises felt like a child's fantasy.
He rubbed his bleary eyes, the weight of the night's failure pressing on his shoulders. The black-market chase in Sion had been a bust—fifty thousand rupees slipped through his fingers, and Priya's hacked alarm had nearly landed them in jail. Vikram's bruised ego from tripping over a crate didn't help, though his laughter had lightened the mood. Arjun forced a grin, determined to push forward. The cart was his lifeline, and he'd fight for it, rupee by rupee.
Vikram stumbled out, his neon-green shirt wrinkled, yawning dramatically. "Bhai, you look like a goat chewed you. Another all-nighter?" He plopped down, snatching a cold bhajiya from yesterday's batch.
"Counting losses," Arjun said, tossing him a rag. "Help me clean. We're back at Churchgate today." Vikram groaned but complied, wiping the cart's canopy. "Raju's gonna love this. That shove you gave him? He's plotting revenge, mark my words."
"Let him try," Arjun muttered, mixing batter with hands that trembled from exhaustion. Meera shuffled over, her voice weak. "Bhaiya, don't skip meals for me." He squeezed her hand, hiding the guilt. "I won't, chhoti. Today's a fresh start."
The streets buzzed as they wheeled the cart to Churchgate, the morning rush a chaotic dance of commuters and hawkers. Arjun set up, the cart's creak a familiar complaint, and Vikram juggled onions to draw a crowd. The first hour brought thirty rupees—two vada pavs and a bhajiya—but Raju's red cart rolled up, its presence a dark cloud. Raju, burly and scowling, parked close, his cronies leering. "Back again, slum rat?" he taunted, undercutting Arjun's price to five rupees a piece.
Customers drifted to Raju, lured by the bargain. Arjun's jaw tightened, but he held his tongue, frying at ten rupees, relying on quality. Vikram tried charming a group of college girls, earning a fifty-rupee tip, but Raju's goons jeered, splashing water on the cart. "Accident," one smirked, as batter diluted. Arjun wiped it down, losing twenty minutes of sales. By noon, earnings were forty rupees, barely covering fuel.
Midday, trouble escalated. Raju's cronies tipped the cart, spilling oil and batter. Arjun lunged, shoving one back, but a fist caught his cheek, splitting his lip. Vikram tackled another, shouting, "Not the face, yaar!" The crowd scattered, and a whistle cut through—another traffic cop. "Fifty rupees fine, or jail," the cop barked. Arjun handed over the day's earnings, blood trickling down his chin. Raju laughed, retreating with his intact cart.
"Brilliant," Vikram muttered, righting the cart. Arjun spat blood, forcing a laugh. "First war wound. We'll bounce back." But the tin box was empty, debts unpaid. He sent Vikram to buy cheap flour—fifty rupees gone—while he patched the cart, his hands shaking. The struggle was a vise, tightening with every rupee lost.
That afternoon, Priya arrived, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing at his bruised face. "Raju again?" she asked, handing him a tissue. "You're a mess, Arjun."
"Part of the charm," he quipped, wincing as he dabbed his lip. Her concern softened her smirk, a warmth he tucked away. "Got a lead," she said. "VedaCorp's relic hunt hit a warehouse in Worli. Small batch, maybe ten thousand worth. But their agents are thick."
Arjun's pulse quickened. Ten thousand could cover medicine, rent, Chotu's fee—with leftovers. "How do we get it?" he asked, leaning closer. Her fingers brushed his as she handed him a printout, a jolt he ignored. "Stealth," she said. "I'll hack their cameras. You and Vikram grab the goods. Split fifty-fifty."
"Risky," he admitted, but the rupees danced in his mind. "We're in." Vikram groaned from the cart. "More running? My legs hate you, bhai!" Priya laughed, the sound a rare balm. "You'll survive, clown."
The plan formed over chai at Uncle Ramesh's stall, the old man chuckling at their bruises. "Young fools," he said, "but gutsy." They'd hit Worli at dusk, when security thinned. Arjun's savings—eighteen hundred—were a pitiful stake, but his hustle had to count. He practiced his pitch, imagining a stall empire, Meera's health, Priya's grin.
Dusk fell, and they reached Worli's warehouse district, a maze of crates and shadows. Priya's laptop glowed, her fingers flying. "Cameras down in three… two… one." Vikram whistled low, scouting the perimeter, while Arjun slipped inside, heart pounding. The relics—small Yantras and beads—sat in a crate, unguarded. He stuffed his bag, counting six pieces, estimating six thousand at black-market rates.
Footsteps echoed. VedaCorp agents, their suits sharp, stormed in, the scarred woman from Bandra leading. "Thief!" she shouted, raising a stun baton. Arjun bolted, Vikram tripping a guard, Priya's hack faltering. A baton grazed his shoulder, pain searing, but he leapt crates, the bag heavy. Priya's voice crackled through a headset. "Exit left—go!"
He burst into the alley, Vikram and Priya close behind, the agents' shouts fading. The bag held three Yantras—three thousand, maybe more. Back in Dharavi, they collapsed by the cart, breathless. "We did it," Vikram panted, grinning. Priya counted the haul. "Three pieces, fifteen hundred each on the low end. Four thousand, five hundred split."
Arjun took two thousand, Priya two, Vikram five hundred. "Medicine first," he said, pocketing his share. But Chotu Bhai loomed, his knife gleaming. "Two hundred, now." Arjun paid, the tin box dipping to eighteen hundred again. Meera's medicine cost two hundred more, leaving him with fourteen hundred—rent still unpaid.
The night deepened, and Raju's cart rolled past, a Molotov cocktail arcing toward Arjun's. He dove, the cart igniting, flames licking the canopy. Vikram shouted, Priya grabbed a bucket, but the damage was done—cart ruined, profits ash. Arjun stared, fists clenched, the fifteen hundred rupees a cruel joke. Raju's laughter echoed as he vanished.
Priya touched his arm. "We'll rebuild." Vikram nodded. "Yeah, bhai, we're tougher than this." Arjun forced a smile, the Yantra memory a faint echo. No magic, just grit. But as he turned, a VedaCorp van screeched up, the scarred woman stepping out. "The relics, boy. Or your slum burns."