The air in the alcove stayed thick with tension long after Ganesh and his men had melted back into the market's chaos. Raju and Vijay were visibly shaken, their earlier productivity replaced by a nervous energy as they fumbled with components. Deepak's jaw was set in a hard line, his soldering iron held a little too tightly. Sanjay paced the small space like a caged animal.
"He will be back," Sanjay finally burst out, his voice tight with anxiety. "He will come back tonight, with more men, and break everything! We should pack up. We should leave."
"And go where?" Deepak asked, his voice low and grim. "This is all we have."
"He is right, Harsh Bhai," Raju whispered, his eyes wide. "Ganesh is not a man who forgets. He will make an example of us."
Harsh stood still, his mind racing faster than Sanjay's pacing. The lie about Constable Malvankar had been a stopgap, a sheet of paper over a crack in a dam. The pressure would build again. He had bought a day, maybe two. He needed to turn that paper into steel.
He thought of the future knowledge that was his true advantage. It wasn't just about market trends and stock tips. It was about people. It was about the hidden fractures in the system, the petty corruptions and unspoken rules that governed the underbelly of the city. He remembered the name Malvankar not from a major scandal, but from a smaller, forgotten news snippet about a constable known for his "arrangements" with small businesses in his precinct. A man who preferred a steady, quiet stream of income over dramatic, unpredictable shakedowns.
"We are not leaving," Harsh said, his voice cutting through the panic. It was calm, leaving no room for argument. "We are going to make sure he never comes back."
The three boys stared at him. The plan, formed in the white-hot forge of necessity, was audacious. It was also incredibly dangerous.
"Deepak, with me. Sanjay, you and Raju pack everything valuable into the two crates. Be ready to move it if we don't return."
"Return from where?" Sanjay asked, fear warring with curiosity.
"From paying a visit to Constable Malvankar," Harsh said, the words hanging in the air.
The local police chowky was a squat, stained concrete building that smelled of sweat, stale incense, and cheap bureaucracy. A lone ceiling fan pushed the thick air around in a futile effort. Constable Malvankar was at his desk, a large man overflowing his uniform, his mustache impeccably groomed. He was filling out a form with an air of profound boredom.
Harsh approached, Deepak a silent, nervous shadow behind him.
"Constable Malvankar?" Harsh began, his tone respectful.
The constable looked up, his eyes immediately assessing them for a threat, finding none, and settling on mild annoyance. "What is it? Lost your bicycle?"
"No, sir. My name is Harsh Patel. I have a small electronics repair workshop in Bhuleshwar. Near the dyeing shops."
Malvankar's eyes flickered with a hint of recognition. He knew the area. Knew the businesses. Knew the "tax" that was unofficially levied there. "So? Get a license if you don't have one. Not my department."
"A man named Ganesh visited me today," Harsh continued, his voice steady. "He said I needed to pay five hundred rupees a week for protection. For peace of mind."
Malvankar's expression didn't change, but a new wariness entered his eyes. This was his turf. His revenue stream. An outsider like Ganesh moving in was poaching. "Ganesh? Don't know him. You should file a complaint." It was a dismissive, standard response.
"I told him no," Harsh said, and this time he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I told him I was already under the protection of Constable Malvankar. That you were my mother's cousin and took a personal interest."
Malvankar's pen stopped moving. His eyes locked onto Harsh's, boring into him. The air in the room grew colder. This was no longer a boy reporting a crime; this was a player making a move.
"That," the constable said slowly, his voice dangerously quiet, "is a very stupid thing to say."
"It kept him away for now," Harsh replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. "But it's a lie that only works if you decide to make it the truth."
"And why would I do that?" Malvankar asked, a cynical smile playing on his lips. "For the good of my heart?"
"For a percentage," Harsh said. The words were out, bald and uncompromising. He was no longer a victim; he was making an offer. "A small, regular percentage. Less than what Ganesh would take. A hundred rupees a week. For your official… unofficial… protection. You get a steady income from a growing business. Ganesh is kept off your turf. And I get to work in peace."
He laid it out not as a bribe, but as a business proposition. A partnership.
Malvankar was silent for a full minute, staring at Harsh as if seeing him for the first time. He saw past the young face to the cold, calculating mind. The boy wasn't begging for help; he was negotiating a merger. He was offering a better, more stable deal than the thuggish Ganesh ever could.
A hundred rupees a week was nothing to sneeze at. It was clean, predictable, and it came with the added benefit of asserting his dominance over an upstart goon.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Malvankar's face, revealing surprisingly white teeth. "You are a bold boy, Harsh Patel." He leaned back in his creaky chair. "Fifty rupees. And we never speak of this again. You have a problem, you send a message. You do not come here. Understood?"
It was a negotiation. Harsh had expected it. "Seventy-five, sir. My business is new, but it will grow. Your investment will grow with it."
Malvankar chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Sixty. Final offer. Don't push your luck."
"Done," Harsh said. He produced three crisp twenty-rupee notes from his pocket and placed them on the desk. "For this week, and next."
Malvankar didn't touch the money immediately. He just looked at it, then back at Harsh, the respect in his eyes now unmistakable. The boy had nerve, foresight, and cash on hand. A dangerous combination.
"Consider yourself protected," Malvankar said, finally sweeping the notes into a drawer. "Now get out of my chowky."
Walking out into the blinding afternoon sun, Deepak let out a huge breath. "I thought he was going to arrest us."
"He's a businessman," Harsh said, the adrenaline finally receding, leaving him drained but victorious. "We just made him a better offer."
When Ganesh's men did return two days later, they were met not by frightened boys, but by a different kind of presence. A beat cop, one of Malvankar's men, was casually leaning against the wall near the alcove, sipping tea. He didn't say a word to the thugs. He just looked at them, nodded slowly, and took another sip.
The message was received. They left and never returned.
Harsh had countered the threat. He had turned a lie into truth, not with fists, but with cunning and a calculated payout. He had acquired a dangerous patron, but he had secured his territory. The cost was a new kind of debt, but it was a price he was willing to pay. For now. The game had changed again. He was no longer just playing against rivals; he was playing with the system itself.