The morning sun, already fierce, cut through the thin curtains of Harsh's room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He sat on the edge of his rope cot, the rough weave familiar under his palms. He pulled the crumpled notes from his pocket—one hundred and forty-five rupees. The sight of it sent a jolt through him. It was proof. It had worked.
But the feeling was short-lived, quickly smothered by the heavy, familiar atmosphere of the house.
"Harsh! Breakfast is getting cold!" His mother's voice, sharp with worry, sliced through from the kitchen.
The small dining area felt cramped. The smell of mildly burnt poha and strong, milky chai filled the space. His father was already seated, his posture rigid, his face a mask of quiet resignation as he scanned the morning paper. The headlines spoke of political instability, of a rupee under pressure. Harsh saw the future in those lines; his father saw only today's worries.
His mother placed a plate in front of him, her eyes searching his face. "You didn't sleep well," she stated, a mother's accusation that required no evidence.
"I was thinking, Ma," he said, avoiding her gaze by focusing on his food.
His father lowered the paper with a deliberate rustle. The sound was like a warning shot. "Thinking? Or wasting time? I saw you come in late yesterday. Your hands were dirty." His voice was low, a rumble of disappointment. "This tinkering… this radio nonsense. It is a distraction."
"It's not nonsense, Papa," Harsh said, keeping his voice respectful but firm. "I made some money yesterday."
A tense silence fell. His mother's hand fluttered to her chest. "Money? How? From where?"
"By fixing things. Selling them. It's honest work."
"Honest?" His father's laugh was a short, bitter sound. "Sitting on the footpath like a beggar, haggling over scraps? That is not work for my son. That is what you do when you have no choice." He leaned forward, his eyes intent. "Mr. Joshi in the accounts office has agreed to look at your application. A government job, Harsh. A pension. Security. That is a future. This… this is a boy's game."
The words were bars of a cage, built with love and fear. Security. Pension. The very things he had run from in his first life.
His mother placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Beta, listen to your father. The streets are not for people like us. There are bad elements. Goondas. What if someone cheats you? What if they hurt you? My heart cannot take this worry."
Harsh looked at their faces—etched with the exhaustion of a lifetime of playing it safe, of following the rules, only to be left with nothing but fear. They couldn't see the tidal wave of change that was coming. But he could.
"I understand your worry," he said, choosing his words carefully. "I promise I will be careful. I won't talk to any bad people. This is just… to learn about business. Practical knowledge. What good is book learning if I can't use it?"
His father's jaw tightened. He saw not ambition, but rebellion. Not strategy, but recklessness. He shook his head, the argument lost for now but far from over. "Just remember who you are. Don't bring shame to this family chasing shortcuts."
The meal ended in a stiff silence. Harsh helped clear the plates, the weight of their expectations a physical pressure on his shoulders. He slipped out quietly, the two hundred rupees feeling both like a triumph and a secret crime.
---
The streets of Bhuleshwar were a living, breathing entity. The morning rush was in full swing, a chaotic ballet of survival. The air was thick with the scent of frying oil, overripe fruit, and diesel fumes. He moved through the crowds, his senses heightened, seeing everything with new eyes.
He wasn't just Harsh, the son of a clerk anymore. He was a hunter. And the market was his jungle.
His feet took him back to the electronics repair lane. The symphony of soldering irons and tapping hammers was the sound of opportunity. He watched the men—their skilled, resin-stained fingers giving life to dead circuits. His eyes scanned the discard piles beside each craftsman, seeing not junk, but raw material.
He approached the same repairman from yesterday, who looked up with a wry grin. "Back so soon, future Ambani? Here to buy more of my 'pension'?"
Harsh managed a smile. "Maybe. What's the best price you can give me for that lot?" He pointed to a heap of radios and tape players that looked beyond hope.
The man spat to the side. "For you? Fifteen each. And that is a gift. They are more parts than machine."
Harsh's mind calculated. He bargained gently, not for a lower price, but for a few extra components—a handful of resistors, some wire. The man agreed with a shrug, amused by the boy's strange specificity.
With his new bundle of broken dreams tucked under his arm, Harsh found his spot against the sun-warmed temple wall. The world narrowed to the circuit board in his hands. Time lost meaning. There was only the puzzle of connection, the delicate dance of tracing a broken path and building a new one. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes. His fingers, still soft, protested against the unfamiliar work, developing tiny nicks and cuts.
But one by one, the machines whirred back to life. A radio crackled to life with a news broadcast. A tape player began to spin, its gears clicking in a perfect rhythm. The feeling was addictive. It was creation. It was power.
Selling them was a different game. He learned to read people. The college student wanted something cheap and cool; he sold him a Walkman for forty rupees. The shopkeeper wanted reliability for his backroom; he bargained harder for a sturdy radio, finally settling for fifty. He was learning their language, the subtle dance of negotiation.
As he counted his profit—another sixty rupees—under the shade of a large banyan tree, he felt a gaze on him. He looked up.
A young boy, no older than fourteen, loitered near a paan stall. He wasn't a customer. He was watching Harsh with a cold, assessing look. When he saw Harsh notice him, he didn't look away. He just smirked, then turned and whispered something to the paan-wallah, who glanced over with dismissive curiosity.
A cold trickle, unrelated to the heat, ran down Harsh's spine. This was the other lesson the streets taught. Success drew attention. And not all of it was good.
He returned home as the sun began to dip below the crowded rooftops, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The weight of the coins in his pocket was a comfort.
Dinner was a quiet affair. His father avoided looking at him. His mother kept serving him extra helpings, her silent language of anxiety. They could smell the change on him—the scent of solder, of sweat, of the outside world.
Later, lying on his cot, Harsh stared at the slowly rotating fan. The journal entry from the original chapter flashed in his mind—Knowledge is useless without action. He understood that now, in his bones.
He could hear the city breathing outside his window—a restless, hungry giant. It was full of danger, yes. But it was also full of music. And he was just learning how to listen.
The first steps were taken. The first money was made. The first enemy had been spotted.
The real game was about to begin.