Chapter 4: The Bargain of Ashes
Arjun Kade stood motionless as the VedaCorp van's headlights glared into the smoky dusk, the scarred woman's threat—"The relics, boy, or your slum burns"—echoing in his ears. The ruins of his cart smoldered behind him, a blackened skeleton of wood and metal, its canopy shredded by Raju's brick. Meera's cough pierced the tense silence from inside the shack, her frail form a silent plea for the medicine he couldn't afford. The tin box, his dwindling hope, held thirteen hundred rupees—barely enough for rent, let alone Chotu Bhai's next demand or Meera's next dose. His ribs ached from Raju's goons, his arm throbbed from the VedaCorp baton, and his spirit teetered on the edge of collapse.
The scarred woman stepped forward, her suit pristine despite the slum's grime, her eyes cold as she scanned him. "Last chance, slum rat. Hand over the Yantras, or we torch Dharavi tonight." Her companion, a hulking man with a stun baton, cracked his knuckles. Vikram edged closer, his neon-green shirt a stark contrast to the gloom, whispering, "Bhai, we're dead!" Priya gripped her laptop, her jaw tight, but her glance at Arjun held a flicker of resolve.
Arjun's mind raced. The three Yantras from the Bandra heist were stashed under his mat, worth six thousand on the black market—his last card. Handing them over meant survival, but it also meant surrendering his fight. Keeping them risked everything. He forced a grin, blood still crusting his lip. "No relics here, madam. Just ash and ambition." The scarred woman's smile was a blade. "Then you'll burn with it." She signaled, and the van's doors creaked open, revealing more agents.
"Run!" Priya hissed, yanking Arjun's arm. They bolted, Vikram tripping over a crate but scrambling up, the agents' shouts fading as they wove through Dharavi's alleys. The van's engine roared, but the slum's labyrinth saved them. Panting, they ducked into Uncle Ramesh's stall, the old man stirring from his nap. "Trouble again, boys?" he muttered, pouring chai. Arjun slumped, the Yantras' weight in his pocket a cruel tease. "VedaCorp wants blood," he said, sipping the warm liquid.
Priya set her laptop on the table, her fingers flying. "They're escalating. The relics are tied to some corporate secret—maybe a merger leverage. We need to move them fast." Vikram groaned, rubbing his knee. "Move them? We can't even move ourselves, bhai! Cart's gone, rupees are gone!" Arjun's laugh was hollow. "We rebuild. Again."
Rebuilding was a pipe dream. The spare cart from Ramesh was gone, and a new one cost five thousand—half his Yantra haul. Meera's medicine was two hundred per dose, rent five hundred, Chotu's fee two hundred more. Selling the Yantras meant six thousand, but black-market dealers took a cut, leaving maybe four thousand. Borrowing was an option, but loan sharks in Dharavi charged fifty percent interest. Arjun's head spun, the rupees a noose tightening around his neck.
The next morning, he gathered Vikram and Priya at the shack's ruins. "We sell the Yantras today," he decided. "Get four thousand, buy a cheap cart, start over." Vikram raised an eyebrow. "And Raju? VedaCorp? They'll eat us alive." Priya nodded. "I'll find a buyer—discreet. But we need a distraction." Arjun's mind clicked. "The street kids. Pay them fifty rupees to cause chaos at Crawford Market."
They set out at noon, the sun beating down on Dharavi's dusty lanes. Priya hacked into a local chat group, spreading a rumor of free food at the market, while Arjun handed fifty rupees to a gang of urchins. "Make it loud," he instructed. The kids grinned, scattering with whoops. At Crawford, the plan worked—chaos erupted as vendors shouted, kids darted, and a crowd formed. Arjun slipped to Gold Tooth, the dealer, showing two Yantras. "Four thousand each," he bargained. Gold Tooth squinted, then nodded. "Three thousand, cash. VedaCorp's sniffing—risky business."
Arjun haggled, settling on three thousand five hundred per piece—seven thousand total. The exchange was quick, the rupees crisp in his hands, but a shadow loomed—Raju's goon watching from a stall. Arjun pocketed the cash, signaling Priya and Vikram to move. They weaved through the crowd, but the goon shouted, "Thief!" Raju's men closed in, fists raised. Vikram tripped one with a dramatic fall, shouting, "Not my face, yaar!" Priya elbowed another, her laptop bag swinging. Arjun ducked a punch, the seven thousand clutched tight, and they broke free, hearts pounding.
Back in Dharavi, Arjun counted the haul—six thousand after the kids' pay. He sent two hundred to Meera's medicine, leaving five thousand eight hundred. Rent took five hundred, Chotu's fee two hundred, leaving three thousand one hundred. A cheap cart cost three thousand from a scrap dealer, leaving a hundred rupees—barely a meal. The new cart was a rusty relic, its wheels wobbling, but it was theirs. Vikram christened it with a bhajiya toss. "To new beginnings, bhai!"
The first day back at Churchgate was a slog. The cart's creak drew pitying looks, and Raju's undercut prices to three rupees, forcing Arjun to match. Earnings were thirty rupees, minus twenty for fuel, a net loss. Customers thinned, wary of Raju's glares, and a goon spat on the cart, smirking. Arjun cleaned it, his hands trembling, the hundred rupees a cruel joke. Vikram tried juggling, earning a ten-rupee tip, but the day ended at minus ten rupees.
That night, Priya visited, her laptop glowing. "VedaCorp's furious. They're offering bounties for relic thieves—five thousand per tip." Arjun's stomach dropped. "We're targets." She leaned closer, her voice soft. "We could use it. Sell fake relics, draw them out." Her confidence sparked something in him, her proximity a warmth he ignored. "Risky," he said, "but worth a shot."
The plan formed over Uncle Ramesh's chai. They'd craft fakes—wooden discs painted with Yantra patterns—using fifty rupees of paint. Vikram would peddle them at Bandra, Priya would leak a tip to VedaCorp, and Arjun would watch for buyers. The next day, they set up, Vikram's charm drawing a crowd. A suited man approached, flashing cash. "Five thousand for the lot," he offered. Arjun nodded, pocketing the money, but the man's badge gleamed—VedaCorp.
"Trap!" Priya shouted, hacking the man's phone to jam it. Arjun grabbed Vikram, and they ran, the agent's baton missing by inches. They ducked into an alley, the five thousand safe, but the van's roar followed. Back at the shack, Arjun counted—eight thousand three hundred total. Meera's medicine took two hundred, leaving eight thousand one hundred. Rent and Chotu's fee claimed seven hundred, leaving seven thousand four hundred. A better cart cost six thousand, leaving fourteen hundred.
The new cart rolled out, sturdier but still creaky. Raju's retaliation came swift—a slashed tire, costing two hundred to fix, dipping the tin to twelve hundred. VedaCorp's van appeared again, the scarred woman's voice cold. "Last warning, boy. The relics—or we burn it all." Arjun froze, Vikram paled, Priya clutched her laptop. The threat hung heavy, the rupees a fragile shield.