The change was immediate and absolute. The morning after his new "partnership" with Malvankar was ratified over glasses of syrupy chai, the atmosphere in Bhuleshwar shifted on its axis. The usual, low-level hum of petty extortion and looming threat that had been the background noise of Harsh's life simply vanished.
The thugs who had smashed his stall and cornered him in the dark weren't just warned; they were made an example of. Word spread through the market's invisible grapevine with the speed of lightning. Ganesh's crew had been picked up by Malvankar and his men. Not a roughing-up in an alley, but a formal, brutal arrest. They were dragged through the main thoroughfare in handcuffs, a public spectacle designed to send a single, unambiguous message: Harsh Patel's operation was under new management. The protection was no longer a shaky understanding; it was an iron-clad guarantee.
The effect on business was electric.
With the shadow of random violence lifted, Harsh's focus could finally expand beyond mere survival. The pipeline from Shetty, once a trickle of nerve-wracking, high-value deals, became a floodgate. The next crate wasn't three VCRs; it was ten. Along with them came sleek Sony Walkmans that hadn't even hit the official market, their buttons still stiff with newness. There were boxes of Casio calculators, their LCD screens gleaming, and digital watches so thin they felt like secrets on the wrist.
The alcove was no longer just a repair shop; it transformed into a buzzing distribution hub. The organized chaos of before was replaced by a military-like precision, born from the necessity of handling volume and value that was previously unimaginable.
Deepak became the master of inventory, his calm demeanor perfect for logging each item, his solder-smudged fingers now carefully recording serial numbers and costs in a ledger Harsh had bought. Sanjay's energy was channeled into sales, but no longer on the street. He became a door-to-door salesman for the elite, his patter polished, his clothes cleaner, targeting the homes of junior executives in Worli and Breach Candy, his bag full of dreams wrapped in plastic and cardboard.
Raju and Vijay graduated from mere sorters to logistics managers. They devised a system of runners—other street kids paid in coins and snacks—to ferry messages between Shetty's dockyard contacts, the alcove, and Sanjay's sales points. They created a map of the city in their heads, marking safe routes and drop-off points.
Harsh was the nerve center. He negotiated with Shetty, his confidence now unshakable, leveraging his new sales volume to demand better prices. He managed the cash, the lifeblood of the operation. The money didn't just pour in; it cascaded.
The middle class of Mumbai, hungry for a taste of the foreign luxury they saw in films and magazines but couldn't afford at showroom prices, flocked to him. A bank clerk could now own a calculator that made him feel like a Wall Street banker. A college student could play a Walkman on the local train, the tinny music from its headphones a badge of coolness. A young wife could surprise her husband with a VCR, making their tiny apartment a private cinema.
Harsh's prices were still high, a significant markup from his cost, but they were a fraction of the legitimate retail price. He wasn't just selling electronics; he was selling status, and he was selling it fast.
The cash became a physical problem. The tin box was a laughable relic. He bought a small, fireproof strongbox, then another. He devised a system of hiding places—beneath loose floorboards, behind a false wall in the alcove, even burying watertight containers in the hard-packed earth behind the dyeing shop at night. Counting the money became a nightly ritual that took hours. The stacks of rupees grew so high they had to be bundled with paper strips. The sheer physicality of it was intoxicating. This wasn't numbers in a ledger; this was weight, substance, power.
One evening, a week into the new regime, they gathered in the alcove after dark. The day's take was spread on the new workbench. It wasn't a pile; it was a landscape of green, blue, and red notes. The air smelled of ink, solder, and sweat.
No one spoke. The only sound was the rhythmic whisper of Harsh's thumb counting the final stack. He finished, wrote a figure in the ledger, and looked up.
His face was grim. There was no smile of triumph.
"We have a problem," he said, his voice quiet.
The others looked at him, alarmed. Had Shetty cheated them? Had Malvankar demanded more? Had the police raided someone else?
Harsh gestured at the mountain of cash. "This," he said. "This is the problem."
They stared, uncomprehending.
"We can't bank it. Not this much. Not without questions we can't answer," he explained. "We can't spend it. Not in big amounts. If I buy a new scooter tomorrow, everyone will know. The income tax wallahs will know. Malvankar's superiors might know. The man in the kurta will definitely know."
The profit boom had arrived. But with it came the terrifying, second-order problem of success: how to hide it. They were drowning in cash, and the weight of it was pulling them under. The cliffhanger of violence had been replaced by the cliffhanger of prosperity. Their newfound wealth was a beacon, and they had nowhere to hide its light. The empire was generating a fortune, and that fortune was now its greatest vulnerability.