The monsoons had settled over Mumbai, turning the lanes of Bhuleshwar into shallow, muddy rivers. But for Harsh, the constant drizzle and the slick, treacherous cobblestones were just another part of the city's rhythm. Business was better than ever. His reputation for quality had spread, and a steady stream of customers now sought him out, bypassing the other stalls with a determined focus.
Ravi's stall, by contrast, had grown quiet. The cheap, shiny devices that had once drawn crowds now gathered a patina of dust and disinterest. But desperation, Harsh had learned in his first life, made people reckless.
It started with whispers. A customer would mention it hesitantly, almost apologetically. "That man, Ravi… he is telling people your devices are just his, but you are selling them for more. He says you are a cheat, just putting your label on his work."
Harsh would just nod, a cold understanding settling in his gut. Ravi wasn't trying to compete on quality or price anymore. He was attacking the one thing Harsh had built: trust.
The final straw came when Mrs. Kapoor, the stern, no-nonsense owner of a nearby general store and one of Harsh's most reliable customers, approached him. She held one of his signature Walkmans, the one with the small, discreet 'H' he etched near the battery compartment.
"Harsh," she said, her voice low and angry. "I bought three of these from you last week for my nieces. Ravi is showing the same model to my customers, for ten rupees less. He tells them you are my nephew and we have a scheme to cheat them. He says your 'H' is just a trick."
Harsh looked at the Walkman in her hand, then towards Ravi's stall. The man was smirking, watching the interaction. He'd moved from whispers to a full-blown smear campaign.
This wasn't just business anymore. This was war.
Harsh knew a simple denial wouldn't work. The market thrived on gossip, and a lie, once released, was hard to catch. He needed to prove it. Publicly. Spectacularly.
He gave Mrs. Kapoor a calm, reassuring smile. "Please, come with me."
He led her, and the small, curious crowd that had gathered, to the space between his spot and Ravi's stall. The drizzle softened to a mist, and the usual market din hushed in anticipation of a showdown.
"Ravi," Harsh said, his voice carrying easily. "Mrs. Kapoor says you are selling my Walkmans. Can you show me one?"
Ravi's smirk widened. He held up a device. It was the same model, yes. But from five feet away, Harsh could see the differences—the slightly different shade of plastic, the cheaper feel of the buttons.
"Of course! Same as yours! But honest price!" Ravi proclaimed.
"May I?" Harsh asked, stepping forward. He took the device from Ravi's hand. He didn't test the sound. Instead, he pulled a small screwdriver from his pocket. With a few deft twists, he popped open the battery cover.
He turned to the crowd, holding the open device high. "My devices use Sony drive belts. See? Black, durable." He pointed inside. "I reinforce the main connection with extra solder. Always. And I use these specific, higher-grade resistors. You can see the green band."
He then took the Walkman he'd sold to Mrs. Kapoor. He opened it with the same practiced ease. The interior was identical to his description.
Then he turned back to Ravi's device. "Now, look at this one." He held it up next to his own. The contrast was stark. A cheap, translucent white drive belt. Solder joints that were globby and cold. A resistor with a different color code.
"This," Harsh announced, his voice ringing with finality, "is a cheap copy. It might work for a week. Maybe two. Then the belt will snap. The connection will fail. You will have wasted your money." He looked directly at Ravi, whose smirk had vanished, replaced by a sickly pallor. "You are not selling my work. You are selling lies. And you are calling an honest woman a cheat to hide your own."
The silence was absolute. Then, it broke.
A wave of angry murmurs swept through the crowd. They felt duped. They had trusted Ravi's lower price, and he had repaid them with fraud and slander.
Mrs. Kapoor drew herself up to her full height, her eyes blazing. "You chor!" she spat at Ravi. "You dare use my name for your cheating?"
The dam broke. Other customers who had bought from Ravi in the past week began shouting, demanding refunds, waving their faulty devices. Ravi was surrounded, his stall jostled, his lies dismantled in front of the entire market.
Harsh didn't say another word. He didn't need to. He had presented the evidence. The market had delivered the verdict.
He walked back to his spot, the crowd parting for him. For the rest of the day, he didn't have to say a word. His sales were not just brisk; they were triumphant. People bought from him not just for quality, but to show their allegiance to the truth.
Ravi packed up his stall early, under a hail of scornful glances and muttered insults. He didn't look at Harsh.
As Harsh counted his earnings that night—his fingers flying through the notes, the total a satisfyingly large sum—he felt no gloating. He felt a grim sense of necessity. The streets had taught him another brutal lesson: trust was your most valuable asset, and you had to be willing to fight, publicly and decisively, to protect it.
He had won. He had slapped down his rival so thoroughly the man might never recover. But the victory tasted like metal and monsoon rain. It was just the first of many such battles to come.