The familiar, grimy confines of the alcove were beginning to feel like a cage. The system Harsh had built was a beautiful, efficient machine, but it was starving. Meena could only supply so much. The piles of sorted components were shrinking faster than they could be replenished. The hunger in Deepak's and Sanjay's eyes was no longer just for money; it was for more work, more challenges. Harsh knew the solution wasn't in Bhuleshwar or Chor Bazaar. It was in the whispers, the stories he'd overheard from the old-timers—the railway scrap auctions.
But how did a sixteen-year-old boy with grease under his fingernails gain entry to that world? It was a closed circuit, a game for established players with trucks and capital, not for a kid with a couple of helpers.
His answer came in the form of Prakash Rao, a man who supplied Meena with the best of her stock. Rao wasn't a scrap dealer; he was a vulture of a higher order. He frequented the auctions, bought in bulk, and then broke the lots down for smaller vendors like Meena. He was a middleman, but a respected one, with a sharp eye and a weary cynicism that hung on him like a well-worn coat.
Harsh found him at a tea stall near the docks, a world away from the electronics markets. Rao was a thick-set man with a calm demeanor, sipping his chai and watching the chaotic port activity with an air of detached amusement.
Harsh approached, his pulse hammering against his ribs. This was a different kind of negotiation.
"Mr. Rao?" Harsh began, his voice respectful but clear.
Rao turned, his eyes taking in Harsh in one swift, appraising glance. He didn't look annoyed, just curious. "Do I know you, boy?"
"You supply Meena, the components seller in Chor Bazaar. I buy from her. My name is Harsh."
A flicker of recognition. "The boy who fixed Ravi's wagon." A slow smile played on his lips. "I heard about that. What do you want? If you need more stock, talk to Meena."
"It's not enough, sir," Harsh said, deciding on blunt honesty. "I have a team now. We can handle volume. Meena's supply is a drip. We need the source."
Rao's eyebrows rose slightly. He took a slow sip of his chai. "The source is not for children. The auctions are... messy. The men there have been doing this since before you were born. They have trucks. They have muscle. What do you have?"
"I have a system," Harsh replied, his voice gaining steel. "I can repair what they see as junk. I can turn their trash into profit faster than anyone else. But I can't do it with scraps from a middleman." He let the implication hang in the air. I need to cut out the middleman. I need to cut out you.
Instead of getting angry, Rao laughed, a genuine, rumbling sound. "You have nerve, I'll give you that. You think you can just walk into the yards and start bidding?"
"No, sir," Harsh said. "That's why I'm talking to you. I need a guide. An introduction. Not a partner. A consultant."
Rao leaned back, intrigued. "A consultant? Fancy word for a street rat. What's in it for this consultant?"
"Information," Harsh said. "You know what gets sold. You know the prices. But you don't know what's truly valuable inside those broken shells. I do. Tell me which auctions to hit, what lots to look for, and I'll tell you what to buy for yourself that others will overlook. The real gems hidden in the trash."
It was a masterstroke. He wasn't offering money he didn't have; he was offering exclusive knowledge, a currency Rao understood was rare.
Rao was silent for a long moment, studying Harsh. He saw past the young face to the sharp mind operating behind it. He saw the two serious-looking boys waiting respectfully in the background—Deepak and Sanjay. This wasn't a kid with a dream; this was a nascent operation.
"The Central Railway yard," Rao said finally, his voice dropping. "Every second Thursday. The stuff from old government offices, universities. Not just old fans and typewriters. Sometimes, good electronics. But it's a zoo. The regulars are jackals."
"How do I get in?" Harsh asked.
"You don't look like a buyer. You look like a helper. So, be a helper." Rao pointed a thick finger at him. "You show up with a notepad. You look like you're there to note prices for a bigger player. Me. If anyone asks, you work for Prakash Rao. You watch. You listen. You do not bid. You understand? Your first time, you are a ghost."
Harsh nodded, a thrill coursing through him. He was in.
"Next Thursday. Be there at seven. Sharp. Don't wear your good clothes," Rao said, turning back to his chai, the conversation clearly over.
The following Thursday morning, the air at the Central Railway yard was thick with diesel fumes, dust, and a tense, aggressive energy. It was a sprawling graveyard of metal and machinery under a pale, early morning sky. Men with hardened faces and calculating eyes clustered around piles of scrap—twisted steel, old furniture, and, in one corner, the promised land: stacks of outdated office equipment and electronics.
Harsh, clutching a battered notepad, stuck to the periphery like Rao instructed. He saw it all. The quick, almost invisible gestures that signaled a bid. The sharp, guttural calls of the auctioneer. The way the veterans sized up a lot not by its surface appearance, but by its weight, its brand, the faintest clues of what might be inside.
He saw a pallet of bulky, dust-caked computers from a university lab. The other bidders dismissed them as obsolete, heavy metal. But Harsh's future knowledge screamed: Gold! The power supplies in those are robust, full of high-quality capacitors and transformers. The keyboards alone have mechanical switches worth a fortune to collectors one day.
He made a note, his hand trembling slightly with excitement.
Then came a lot of water-damaged audio equipment from a radio station. The casing was warped, the speakers rusted. The bidding was lethargic. But Harsh saw past the damage. The internal circuitry, if salvaged, was professional grade. The mixer boards alone were a treasure trove of high-end potentiometers and rare chips.
He noted it all, his mind racing, calculating repair costs, resale value, profit margins. He was no longer just seeing junk; he was seeing deconstructed money.
As the auction wound down, he found Rao near the exit, talking with another dealer.
"Well, ghost? See anything you liked?" Rao asked, a mocking glint in his eye.
Harsh handed him the notepad. He pointed to two specific lots. "The computers. Don't let the bulk fool you. The components inside are top-tier. You can part them out for five times what they'll go for. And the radio equipment. The water damage is superficial. The guts are solid. A goldmine."
Rao looked at the notes, then back at Harsh, the mockery replaced by a slow-dawning respect. The boy hadn't been overwhelmed. He'd been analyzing.
"Alright," Rao grunted, tucking the notepad into his pocket. "Maybe you're not completely useless. We'll see."
Walking out of the yard, the rising sun warming his face, Harsh felt a seismic shift. He had unlocked the supply chain. The river of scrap was now within his reach. He had the knowledge to mine it, and he had just gained a precarious foothold at its source.
The hunger in his belly was finally met with a feast of possibility. He knew what to do next. He just needed the capital to do it. The game had just expanded onto a much larger, much more dangerous board.