Chapter 5: The Weight of Scrap
Arjun Kade stood frozen as the VedaCorp van's headlights pierced the dusk, the scarred woman's voice—"The relics, boy, or we burn it all"—ringing like a death knell. The new cart, its tire freshly slashed by Raju's goons, leaned precariously against the shack's mud-smeared wall, a fragile symbol of his faltering dreams. Meera's cough had grown harsher overnight, her frail body trembling under the threadbare blanket, a silent demand for the medicine he couldn't secure. The tin box, his dwindling lifeline, held twelve hundred rupees—fourteen hundred minus the two hundred for the tire repair. Rent loomed at five hundred, Chotu Bhai's fee at two hundred, and Meera's medicine at two hundred per dose. The math was a guillotine, slicing through his resolve.
The scarred woman stepped closer, her suit unmarred by the slum's dust, her eyes glinting with menace. "You've got guts, slum rat, but not brains. Where are the Yantras?" Her companion, the hulking agent, twirled his stun baton, the crackle of electricity punctuating the silence. Vikram shifted behind Arjun, his neon-green shirt a beacon of nervous energy, muttering, "Bhai, they mean it!" Priya clutched her laptop, her fingers poised, but her gaze met Arjun's with a steely determination.
Arjun's mind churned. The last Yantra from the Bandra heist was hidden under his mat, worth two thousand on the black market—his final bargaining chip. Surrendering it might buy time, but it would end his fight. Keeping it risked annihilation. He wiped sweat from his brow, forcing a crooked grin. "No relics here, madam. Just scrap and stubbornness." The scarred woman's laugh was icy. "Then watch your world turn to ash." She raised a hand, and the van's doors opened, agents spilling out with torches.
"Move!" Priya shouted, shoving Arjun sideways. They darted into the alley, Vikram stumbling but recovering, the agents' footsteps thundering behind. A torch flared, singeing the shack's edge, and Meera's cry cut through the chaos. Arjun's heart clenched, but Priya dragged him on, Vikram trailing with a panicked, "Not the home, yaar!" They lost the pursuers in Dharavi's maze, collapsing behind Uncle Ramesh's stall. The old man stirred, pouring chai with a grunt. "You kids are magnets for trouble."
Arjun sank onto a crate, the Yantra's weight in his pocket a mocking presence. "They'll be back," he said, sipping the warm liquid. Priya opened her laptop, her face grim. "VedaCorp's ramping up. Relic bounties are at ten thousand now. We're marked." Vikram groaned, rubbing his shin. "Ten grand to rat us out? We're broke, bhai!" Arjun's laugh was bitter. "Then we get creative."
Creativity was a luxury he couldn't afford. The cart was crippled, a new one cost six thousand, and his twelve hundred wouldn't stretch. Meera's medicine was overdue, her cough a ticking clock. Selling the Yantra meant two thousand, but dealers took a cut, leaving maybe twelve hundred after expenses. A loan was suicide—loan sharks demanded collateral he didn't have. Arjun's head pounded, the rupees a chain binding him to the slum.
The next morning, he rallied Vikram and Priya at the shack's ruins. "No more carts," he declared. "We start a repair hustle—fix bikes, rickshaws, anything. Use the tools we've got." Vikram raised an eyebrow. "Repair? With what, bhai—your charm?" Priya smirked. "I can source parts online, cheap. But we need a pitch." Arjun nodded. "Street-side service, ten rupees a fix. Word of mouth will spread."
They scavenged tools—wrenches, a battered pump—from neighbors, trading fifty rupees for a loan. Arjun set up near Churchgate, a sign scrawled on cardboard: "Arjun's Fixes—Fast, Cheap!" Vikram juggled a wrench to draw attention, earning laughs and a first customer—a rickshaw driver with a flat tire. Arjun patched it in fifteen minutes, pocketing ten rupees. The day brought thirty fixes, three hundred rupees, minus fifty for parts—a net two hundred fifty. Hope flickered, but Raju's shadow loomed.
Raju rolled up, his red cart gleaming, goons in tow. "Stealing my turf again, rat?" he snarled, kicking over Arjun's tool box. Wrenches scattered, and a goon shoved Vikram, who tripped with a theatrical, "Not the face, yaar!" Arjun lunged, tackling Raju, but a fist caught his jaw, splitting his lip anew. The crowd dispersed, and a traffic cop appeared. "Fifty rupees fine," he barked. Arjun paid, the tin dipping to four hundred, his rage simmering.
Priya arrived, her laptop bag swinging. "Raju's a pest, but VedaCorp's worse. They raided a dealer last night—lost a Yantra batch." Arjun wiped blood, her concern warming him. "We sell the last one," he said. "Two thousand, buy a cart." She nodded. "I'll find a buyer. Discreet."
That night, they met Gold Tooth at Crawford Market, the urchins causing chaos again for fifty rupees. Arjun handed over the Yantra, bargaining to two thousand. Gold Tooth counted the cash, but a VedaCorp agent loomed, the scarred woman's voice cutting through. "Thief!" Arjun bolted, Vikram tripping a guard, Priya hacking a phone to jam it. They escaped, the two thousand safe, but the van's roar followed.
Back in Dharavi, Arjun counted—six thousand four hundred total. Meera's medicine took two hundred, leaving six thousand two hundred. Rent and Chotu's fee claimed seven hundred, leaving five thousand five hundred. A sturdy cart cost five thousand, leaving five hundred. The new cart rolled out, its wheels steady, but Raju's retaliation was swift—a rock through the canopy, costing two hundred to fix, dipping the tin to three hundred.
VedaCorp struck again. Agents raided the shack, torching a neighbor's roof, Meera screaming. Arjun fought, but a baton stunned him, the scarred woman snatching a fake relic. "You're out of tricks," she sneered. They fled, the slum smoldering, Vikram panting, Priya clutching her laptop. Arjun's vision blurred, the three hundred rupees a taunt. A van's horn blared, and the scarred woman leaned out. "Next time, it's your sister."