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Chapter 17 - Profit Surge

The monsoons returned with a vengeance, turning the streets of Mumbai into swirling rivers of brown water and discarded dreams. But inside the alcove behind the dyeing shop, a different kind of storm was brewing—one of controlled, lucrative chaos. The three JVC VCRs were gone, sold into the eager hands of the aspiring elite. The profit from that single, dangerous deal was more than Harsh had made in his entire first month of repairing radios.

It was a narcotic rush of success, but Harsh didn't have time to get high on it. Shetty's next shipment had arrived. This time, it wasn't just three units. It was a crate. A sealed, unmarked wooden crate that two of Shetty's silent dockworkers deposited just inside the alcove with a heavy thud.

The contents gleamed under the single bare bulb: a dozen slim Casio calculators, their LCD screens dark and promising. Five Sony Walkmans, sleeker and newer than any he'd ever repaired. And nestled in custom-cut foam, three pristine digital watches with alarms and stopwatches—technology that felt like it had fallen from the future.

The risk was a physical presence in the cramped space, a fifth member of their team. Every foreign brand name was a potential prison sentence. But so was poverty. So was irrelevance.

"We can't sell these here," Sanjay whispered, his voice full of awe and fear as he held a calculator. "In Bhuleshwar? They'll know. Someone will talk."

"He's right," Deepak added, his usual calm replaced by a deep unease. "This is not for the streets. This is for... them." He nodded toward the south, toward the gleaming high-rises and wide, clean boulevards that felt a world away.

Harsh looked at their faces, pale in the dim light. He had brought them into the fire. Now he had to lead them through it.

"Exactly," Harsh said, his voice cutting through the tension. "We are not street hawkers anymore. We are distributors of desire." He picked up a calculator, pressing a button. A neat, blue digit 0 appeared on the screen. "Sanjay, your English is good. You look... respectable in a clean shirt. You will take two calculators and a watch to the college. Not to the students. To the commerce professors. Tell them it's a sample from a new import supplier. A one-time price for academics."

He then turned to Deepak. "You look solid. Honest. You take the Walkmans to the music shops in Fort area. Not the big ones. The smaller ones, the ones the rich college kids think are 'cool' and 'underground.' You are a wholesaler. You have a limited batch. No questions asked."

He kept the remaining stock for himself. His target was the most ambitious, most status-hungry of all: the young junior executives in their first jobs at foreign banks, the ones who spent their entire paychecks on looking the part.

The next seventy-two hours were a masterclass in targeted psychological warfare. Harsh didn't sell products; he sold exclusivity, and he sold a story.

Sanjay, nervously adjusting a borrowed shirt, found a young economics professor correcting papers in a dusty office. "Sir, my uncle's company is testing the Indian market," he recited, the lie Harsh had crafted feeling strange on his tongue. "We are offering a special price to esteemed faculty. For feedback, you understand?" The professor, intrigued by the sleek device and the flattery, bought two.

Deepak, his innate seriousness mistaken for professional confidence, walked into a small music store. "I have five units. Japanese import. The sound quality is twenty percent better than the local models. You can sell them for a hundred rupees more. I know you can." The shop owner, sensing a rare opportunity, bought three on the spot.

Harsh himself haunted the lobbies of office buildings just after five o'clock. He didn't approach crowds. He picked his targets—the young men wearing cheap suits but expensive ambition.

"Excuse me, sir," he said to one, falling into step beside him. "I couldn't help but notice your watch. Very nice. But for a man in your position, perhaps something more... functional?" He subtly flashed the digital watch on his own wrist, its red digits counting the seconds. "Chronograph. Alarm. Water-resistant. The kind of thing they wear in Singapore. My father's company imports a few. I have one left."

The young executive's eyes widened. He didn't see a street kid; he saw a connection. A chance to own a piece of the international life he craved. The transaction was quick, discreet, and for a staggering amount of cash.

The crate emptied at a speed that was terrifying and exhilarating. Money flowed back in, not in a stream, but in a flash flood. Rupee notes of all denominations filled the tin box under the floorboard until it overflowed. They had to find a new hiding place, then another.

One evening, just a week after the crate had arrived, the four of them sat in the alcove. The monsoon rain hammered on the corrugated metal roof, a deafening drumbeat that drowned out the city. In the center of their circle was a pile of money so large it seemed unreal. Harsh had just finished counting it.

He looked at their faces—Deepak's steady gaze, Sanjay's excited energy, even Raju and Vijay, who had been guarding the door with a new sense of importance.

"This," Harsh said, his voice barely audible over the rain, "is from one crate. One. Shetty has more. Many more."

The number he had just counted was more than his father earned in a year. It was a fortune born from risk and ruthlessness. The fear of Ganesh, of the police, it all melted away in the face of that tangible, paper mountain.

They were no longer just surviving. They were winning. The profit wasn't just money; it was a drug, and they had all taken the first, addictive hit. The dangerous deal had paid off, and it had changed them all forever. The hunger in their eyes was no longer for food, but for the next crate, the next score, the next dizzying surge of profit. The game had escalated, and there was no going back.

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