The notes were a crumpled, vibrant mosaic on the rough cotton of his bedsheet. A symphony of green tens, blue fives, and the occasional flash of a red hundred-rupee note. The air in Harsh's small room was still, heavy with the day's humidity and the sharp, honest scent of solder that clung to his fingers. He didn't need to count. He'd already done it three times. But he did it again, his touch reverent, smoothing each bill, stacking them into a neat, square brick.
One thousand rupees.
The number echoed in the silent room, a tangible monument to his first ten days. From a single, crisp hundred to this. A tenfold return. It was more money than he'd ever held in his life—in this life. In his past life, it would have been a forgotten sum, a rounding error on a monthly utility bill. Here, it was a fortress.
A slow smile spread across his face, not of joy, but of fierce, grim satisfaction. He had done it. He had navigated the chaotic currents of Bhuleshwar, outmaneuvered a rival, and turned scrap into capital. The first, most dangerous leg of the journey was complete.
From the adjacent room, he could hear the low, worried murmur of his parents' voices. They knew he was making money. They saw the occasional new item of food he brought home, the small packet of superior tea for his father. But they didn't know the scale. The amount on the bed was a secret, a hidden world they could not comprehend. To them, a thousand rupees was a potential down payment on a sarkari naukri, a bribe to secure a future of quiet servitude. They would see it as an end.
Harsh saw it as a spark.
He carefully divided the hoard. Two hundred rupees went into a small, rusting tin box he hid beneath a loose floorboard—his emergency fund, his escape valve. The rest, eight hundred rupees, was his war chest. His ammunition for the next phase.
He lay back on the thin mattress, the weight of the day settling into his muscles. The image of Ravi's defeated face flashed behind his eyes. It should have felt better. It should have felt like a triumph. Instead, it felt like a warning. The petty rival was vanquished, but the victory had only revealed a larger truth: success made you a target. The bigger he grew, the bigger the enemies would become. The local goons who demanded 'protection,' the corrupt havaldars who turned a blind eye for a price, the bigger sharks in markets like Lamington Road who would see a rising competitor as a threat to be crushed, not a boy to be indulged.
A thousand rupees was a milestone, but it was also a line in the sand. He was no longer just surviving. He was building. And you couldn't build an empire on a street corner, looking over your shoulder for the next Ravi.
The ambition that had been a quiet hum in the back of his mind now roared to life. It was no longer enough to repair devices. He needed a system. He needed scale. The whispers of the railway scrap auctions, the bulk deals on Lamington Road—they were no longer just ideas. They were the next mandatory moves on the board.
He thought of the two young boys he'd occasionally paid to run errands. They were sharp, hungry, and loyal to whoever put food in their stomachs. They could be more than messengers. They could be his hands, his eyes, the beginnings of a team. A real operation.
A vow solidified in the darkness, cold and hard as steel. This was not the peak. This was the foundation.
Outside, the city hummed its endless, indifferent song. But inside that small, humid room, a silent pact was made. The thousand rupees was proof of concept. The empire started now.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to plan. The maps of Chor Bazaar, Lamington Road, and the dockyards began to overlay in his mind, a blueprint of the future. The first mini-milestone was reached. The next one awaited.