The Mumbai sun hadn't yet reached its punishing zenith, but the air in the narrow gully behind Harsh's home was already thick and still. He sat cross-legged on the floor, a disassembled radio between his knees. The sharp, acrid scent of solder hung in the air, mixing with the smell of last night's dal from the kitchen. In his hand, he held not just a soldering iron, but the entirety of his worldly wealth: seven hundred rupees.
The notes were soft, worn by countless hands before his. They felt different from the crisp, impersonal currency of the future. Each one had a history. And now, they were his to command.
A quiet, fierce joy burned in his chest. It wasn't just the money. It was the validation. The knowledge from a lifetime not yet lived had passed its first, critical test in the gritty reality of 1990. He had turned scrap into value. He had created something from nothing.
But the joy was tempered by a cold, sharp understanding. This kind of profit—rupee by rupee, device by device—was a grind. It was physically taxing and territorially dangerous. He couldn't scale this operation sitting on a dirt floor. He needed a system.
The memory of Lamington Road, the nerve center of Mumbai's electronics trade, surfaced in his mind. Not as a customer, but as a predator surveying the herd. That was where the volume was. That was where he needed to be.
---
The noise of Lamington Road was a physical force—a wall of sound made of blaring music from demo speakers, the frantic haggling of traders, and the constant roar of traffic. Harsh moved through the crowds not as a wide-eyed boy, but with a calculated purpose. His eyes scanned the stalls, not for finished goods, but for patterns. Which shops had the longest lines? What items were being bought in bulk by retailers from smaller towns?
He saw it then. A harried-looking shopkeeper from a smaller stall was trying to buy a box of basic pocket radios from a larger wholesaler. The wholesaler waved him off, too busy with bigger clients.
An idea, cold and clear, clicked into place.
He waited for the shopkeeper to step away, frustration etched on his face. Harsh approached him, his posture respectful but confident.
"Sir, are you looking for radios?"
The man, Mr. Iyer, looked down at him, annoyed. "Does it look like I'm buying bananas? Of course I am. But nobody has time for small orders."
"I can get them for you," Harsh said, his voice calm. "Working perfectly. Clean. How many do you need?"
Mr. Iyer scoffed. "You? I need two dozen by tomorrow. Can you do that?"
A week ago, the number would have been impossible. Now, it was a math problem. "What price?"
"Not a paisa more than thirty rupees each."
Harsh did the calculation in his head. He could source broken units for fifteen, maybe less if he bargained hard. That was a fifteen-rupee profit per unit. Times twenty-four. Three hundred and sixty rupees. In one sale.
"It's done," Harsh said, not a trace of doubt in his voice. "I will have them here tomorrow, same time."
Mr. Iyer's skepticism deepened, but a glimmer of hope broke through. "No excuses. If you fail, I will not deal with you again."
The deal was struck without a handshake. The currency here was trust, and Harsh had just been extended a very small, very fragile line of credit.
---
The next sixteen hours were a blur of concentrated effort. He wasn't just a repairman anymore; he was a project manager. He used a portion of his capital to place small orders with three different scrap dealers in Chor Bazaar, playing them off against each other to keep prices low. He enlisted the help of two young boys who loitered near the market, paying them five rupees each to run components between stalls and his makeshift "factory" behind the dyeing shop.
He worked under the faint, buzzing light of a single bulb long after the sun had set, his world reduced to the glow of the soldering iron and the precise alignment of circuits. His back ached, his eyes burned, and the smell of solder felt permanently seared into his nostrils.
But as the pile of finished, tested radios grew, so did the fierce pride within him. He was building something.
The next afternoon, he arrived at Mr. Iyer's stall precisely on time, a cardboard box heavy with twenty-four perfectly functioning radios in his arms.
Mr. Iyer inspected each one, his initial skepticism giving way to pure astonishment. He counted out the seven hundred and twenty rupees without another word, his gaze now holding a new measure of respect.
As Harsh pocketed the money—his capital nearly doubled again in a single day—he felt a presence. He turned.
Ramesh, the burly repairman from Bhuleshwar, was standing a few stalls down, watching him. His arms were crossed, his face a storm cloud. He had seen the entire transaction. The message in his eyes was unmistakable. Harsh was no longer just a nuisance; he was a direct competitor. And he was moving in on their turf.
Harsh met his gaze and gave a single, slow nod. It wasn't a challenge. It was an acknowledgment.
The taste of profit was sweet. But the metallic aftertaste of rivalry was already sharp on his tongue. The game had just leveled up.