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Chapter 7 - First Negotiation Battle

The monsoon humidity had arrived early, clinging to the skin like a wet shirt. In Chor Bazaar, the dampness amplified the smells—the wet earth, the rust on metal, the faint, sweet rot of decaying paper. Harsh moved through the crowded lanes with a new awareness. His recent profits were a target on his back, and this market was a jungle where everyone could smell fresh blood.

His target wasn't a pile of scrap today. It was a man.

Everyone knew of Rahim Chacha. He wasn't a scrap dealer; he was a vulture. He sat at a strategic crossroads in the market, his stall piled high with electronics that were just a little better than the rest. He had a keen eye for quality and a ruthless talent for exploiting desperation. He'd buy a near-perfect radio from a widow for a pittance and sell it for triple to a repairman like Ramesh-ji. He was the middleman who squeezed profit from both ends.

And today, Harsh saw his chance. A railway porter had just unloaded a crate of damaged goods from an auction—a jumbled mix of Japanese calculators and stereo components. Rahim Chacha was already there, his voice a low, wheedling drone as he pointed out every scratch and flaw, driving the price down.

Harsh didn't interrupt. He waited, leaning against a nearby pillar, watching the dance. He saw the porter's shoulders slump in defeat as Rahim Chacha named his final, insulting price.

As Rahim turned away, smug in his victory, Harsh moved.

He approached the porter, who was counting the few notes with a grim expression. "How much did he offer you for the entire crate?" Harsh asked quietly.

The porter looked up, surprised. "Two hundred rupees. Said it was all junk."

Harsh looked into the crate. Beneath the top layer of debris, he saw the clean lines of a Sansui amplifier. A single working unit from that brand could sell for five hundred rupees. The crate was a treasure trove.

"I'll give you three hundred," Harsh said. "Right now."

The porter's eyes widened. But before he could answer, a hand clamped down on Harsh's shoulder. It was Rahim Chacha, his face dark with anger.

"What is this, boy? Poaching my deal after I've done the hard work of negotiation?"

Harsh gently but firmly removed the man's hand. "There was no deal, Rahim Chacha. He wasn't happy with your price. I made a better offer. This is a market, isn't it?"

A small crowd began to gather. A challenge to Rahim Chacha was rare entertainment.

Rahim's eyes narrowed into slits. "You have no idea who you are dealing with. This is my ilaka. My territory. You do not swoop in like a crow."

"Then make a better offer," Harsh replied, his voice calm but loud enough for the gathering crowd to hear. He was no longer just talking to Rahim; he was performing for the market. "The man has a right to the best price. If your offer is fair, you have nothing to fear from me."

It was a masterstroke. He had framed himself as the champion of the little guy, painting Rahim as the greedy oppressor. The porter stood a little taller.

Rahim Chacha was cornered. If he walked away, he lost face. If he matched the price, his profit margin vanished. His jaw worked silently for a moment.

"Three hundred and twenty!" he spat out, the words clearly painful.

"Three fifty," Harsh countered immediately, not even blinking. He pulled the notes from his pocket, making a show of the thickish wad of cash. It was most of his capital, but the bluff was everything.

The crowd murmured. This was better than a cinema show.

Rahim Chacha stared at the money, then at Harsh's unwavering gaze. He saw something there that unsettled him—not the desperation of a street boy, but the cold calculation of a seasoned player. He was used to bullying; he didn't know how to fight a strategist.

With a sound of disgust, he turned and stormed back to his stall, shooing away the onlookers.

The transaction was completed in silence. The porter handed over the crate with a look of stunned gratitude. As Harsh struggled to lift it, a young man from the crowd—inspired by the show of defiance—stepped forward to help him carry it.

The walk back to his spot was a victory march. He had won. But it was a costly victory. He had spent a huge chunk of his money and made a powerful enemy.

For the rest of the day, he worked with a focused intensity, sorting through the crate. The Sansui amplifier was, as he'd hoped, a gem. He also found three perfectly good scientific calculators and a box of high-quality wiring.

He didn't repair anything. He sold the components individually to the very repairmen Rahim Chacha supplied, cutting out the middleman. He sold fast and for cash, turning his three-hundred-and-fifty-rupee investment into nine hundred rupees by sunset.

The profit was immense, but the real win was intangible. The market had watched a young boy outmaneuver its most cunning shark. Whispers followed him as he left.

Did you see? The Patel boy… he stood up to Rahim. He paid a fair price. He has guts.

He had gained more than money. He had gained a reputation. And in the jungle of Bhuleshwar, reputation was a currency more valuable than rupees. It was a shield. And he was going to need it.

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