The money changed everything and nothing. The tin box under the floorboards was now a lead weight of potential, but the daily grind continued. The monsoons began to relent, leaving the city steaming and vibrant. The success with Shetty's imported goods had opened a new, high-risk, high-reward channel, but Harsh knew he couldn't abandon his roots. The steady, predictable profit from repairing and selling electronics was his foundation, his legitimate cover, and his first love. It was honest work.
It was on one of these return trips to his roots that he saw her.
He was at the edge of the university campus, a place he'd identified as fertile ground for selling upgraded Walkmans. He had a new batch, meticulously refurbished, their sound quality crystal clear. He'd just finished a sale to a group of boisterous engineering students when his eyes caught a flash of quiet deliberation a few feet away.
A young woman was standing at a small bookstall, her focus entirely on the pages of a thick, well-worn textbook. She wasn't like the other students. There was an intensity to her, a lack of the casual frivolity that surrounded her. Her hair was tied back in a simple plait, and she wore a modest, clean salwar kameez, but her posture was straight, her intelligence almost visible like a aura.
She was beautiful, but it was her seriousness that held his gaze.
As if sensing his stare, she looked up. Her eyes, large and dark and impossibly perceptive, met his. For a second, Harsh, who had faced down gangsters and corrupt policemen without flinching, felt a jolt of pure, uncalculated nervousness. He looked away, fumbling with the Walkman in his hand, suddenly feeling every bit the street vendor he was.
He heard her pay for the book and then, to his surprise, her shadow fell over his small display.
"How much?" she asked. Her voice was calm, melodic, but direct.
He looked up. "For which one?"
She pointed to the unit he was holding, a higher-end Sony model he'd spent hours perfecting. "That one. Does it work well? The sound isn't tinny?"
It was a technical question. Not 'is it cheap?' but 'is it good?'
"It's the best I have," he said, his own voice sounding rough to his ears. He handed it to her, along with the headphones. "See for yourself."
She took them with a careful grace. She didn't just put them on; she inspected the ear pads for cleanliness first, a small act that spoke volumes. He slipped a cassette of classical instrumental music into the player—Ravi Shankar's sitar. It was a test of clarity and depth he used for discerning customers.
She closed her eyes as the first notes filled her ears. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. It was a smile of appreciation, of someone who understood quality. She listened for a full minute, lost in the music, while Harsh stood there, utterly captivated.
She opened her eyes and took the headphones off. "It's very good. Better than the ones in the electronics store. How much?"
"Seventy rupees," he said, naming a fair price that was still a healthy profit.
She didn't haggle. She simply nodded, opened a small, practical purse, and counted out the money. Her hands were slender, but there was a strength to them.
"I'm Priya," she said, handing him the cash. "I'm a physics student. I need it for language tapes. The labs are too noisy."
"Harsh," he replied, feeling the name was utterly inadequate. "I… fix them."
"I can see that," she said, her eyes flicking to his hands, which were stained with a permanent shadow of solder and grease. It wasn't a criticism. It was an observation. "It's a good skill."
An awkward silence fell between them. The usual market banter, the quick sales pitches, all evaporated from his mind.
"You could probably charge more," she said finally, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "On campus. For quality like this."
It was a business observation. Sharp. Astute.
"Maybe I will," he said, finding his footing again. "Now that I have a consultant."
She smiled properly then, and it transformed her face. It was bright and intelligent and completely disarming. "Consider it a professional fee included in the price." She turned to go, then paused. "I'm here most evenings. Studying. If you… have more stock."
And then she was gone, weaving her way through the crowd, the textbook tucked under her arm, the Walkman in her hand.
Harsh stood motionless for a long moment. The transaction was over, but the air felt charged, different. He had just made one of the most profitable sales of his day, and it felt like the least important part of the interaction.
Deepak, who had been observing from a discreet distance, walked over. "New customer?"
Harsh just nodded, still watching the spot where she'd disappeared.
"She didn't try to bargain," Deepak noted, a rare note of curiosity in his voice.
"No," Harsh said softly. "She didn't."
He packed up his things a short while later, his mind replaying the encounter on a loop. He saw her careful hands, her intelligent eyes, her directness. She wasn't like anyone he'd met in this time. She had a gravity, a seriousness of purpose that mirrored his own, yet it was untarnished by the griminess of his world.
For the first time since he'd woken up in 1990, a thought entered his mind that had nothing to do with business, survival, or strategy. It was a simple, terrifying, exhilarating thought.
He wanted to see her again.
The ambition in his gut, usually a cold, hard knot of calculation, warmed by a single degree. The empire he was building suddenly had a new, faint dimension. It wasn't just for power or wealth anymore. A part of it, a small, newly awakened part, wondered what someone like Priya might think of it.