The problem of their success was a safe full of forbidden fruit. The money was there, tangible and vast, yet utterly useless. It was a dragon's hoard they couldn't spend, a secret that threatened to suffocate them with its sheer, silent weight. The fear was a constant, low hum beneath the frantic activity of their days—a fear of the taxman, of rival gangs, of the police hierarchy above Malvankar, of the shadowy "employer" who might still be watching.
It was Sanjay, of all people, who inadvertently offered the first solution. He came back from a sales run not with money, but with a complaint. "The manager at the bank in Fort," he grumbled, kicking at a crate. "He looks at my clothes, at the dust on my shoes. He makes me wait for an hour just to change a hundred rupees into smaller notes. He thinks because I am a street seller, my time is worthless."
Harsh stopped what he was doing. The comment was a key turning in a lock he hadn't known existed. The bank manager. A man of respect. A man who dealt in money as a matter of course. A man who might, for the right incentive, forget to ask certain questions.
The plan that formed was not about spending the money, but about laundering their respectability.
The next morning, Harsh didn't go to the alcove. He went to the public baths, scrubbing the permanent grime of solder and market dust from his skin and nails. He put on the one set of clothes he owned that weren't frayed at the cuffs—a simple white shirt and a pair of dark trousers, both pressed to sharp creases by a nearby ironing-wallah paid a small fortune for his discreet speed. He carried not a toolbox, but a simple, leather satchel Deepak had procured from the Chor Bazaar. Inside was not scrap, but a neatly bundled stack of five thousand rupees.
He looked like a college student from a good family. It was a costume, but it was a powerful one.
The New Bharat Bank was a temple of quiet efficiency. The air was cool, smelling of polished wood and fresh ink. The ceiling fans whirred softly. People spoke in hushed tones. To Harsh, it felt more alien and intimidating than any dockyard deal with Shetty.
He asked to see the manager, Mr. Iyer. When the secretary asked for his name, he didn't hesitate. "Harsh Patel. My father has an account here." The lie was smooth, delivered with a calmness he didn't feel.
Mr. Iyer was a man in his fifties, with a carefully trimmed moustache and eyes that had seen a thousand petty frauds. His office was small but imposing, a cage of respectability.
"How can I help you, Mr. Patel?" Iyer asked, his tone neutral, already categorizing him.
Harsh placed the satchel on the desk but didn't open it. "My father is in imports, sir. Small electronics. He's asked me to open an account to manage some of the day-to-day cash flow. He finds carrying large amounts… inconvenient."
Iyer's eyes flicked to the satchel, then back to Harsh's face. He saw a well-spoken, clean young man. He did not see the street rat from Bhuleshwar. The costume was working.
"Of course," Iyer said. "We have several options. What kind of volume are we discussing?"
Harsh opened the satchel. The stack of five-thousand rupees was not the largest part of their hoard, but it was substantial. Iyer's eyes didn't widen, but his professionalism became a fraction more attentive. This was not petty cash.
"It varies," Harsh said, echoing the vague, confident language he'd heard businessmen use. "Some weeks are better than others. My father values discretion and efficiency."
The words discretion and efficiency were a specific kind of code. Iyer heard them. He understood that "father" might not be entirely literal, and that the "imports" might not have passed through customs. But five thousand rupees was a significant deposit. And a steady stream of such deposits… that was a relationship.
"I see," Iyer said, a slow smile spreading across his face. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure we can find a solution that suits your father's needs. We pride ourselves on service."
The transaction was completed with a chilling smoothness. Forms were filled with fictitious details. Harsh became the son of a businessman named Arun Patel. The money, stained with the sweat and risk of the alley, was accepted without a single question about its origin. It was transformed, right there on the polished desk, into a number in a ledger. Into legitimacy.
Walking out of the bank, the sun felt warmer on his face. He hadn't just deposited money; he had deposited a version of himself. A respectable, plausible version. He had bought the first brick of a financial fortress.
And with that first brick laid, the dam of self-denial broke. The money was no longer a trapped, dangerous beast. It was a tool.
He didn't go back to the alcove. He walked to a different part of town, where a row of second-hand vehicle dealers operated. He wasn't looking for new. He was looking for solid. Reliable.
He found it in the form of a Bajaj Chetak scooter. It was five years old, its cream-colored paint was chipped in places, and the seat had a small tear neatly stitched up. But the engine, when the dealer started it, purred with a healthy, confident thrum. It was perfect.
The negotiation was swift. He paid in cash from a different bundle in his satchel, but this time, the cash felt different. It felt spent. The dealer handed over the keys and the registration papers, his eyes already moving to the next customer.
Harsh stood next to the scooter, the key cold and real in his hand. He swung his leg over the saddle, a motion that felt both alien and deeply right. He turned the key and kicked the starter. The engine sputtered to life, its vibration a steady, powerful thrum between his legs.
The ride back to Bhuleshwar was a revelation. He wasn't walking. He wasn't sweating in a crowded bus. He was moving, cutting through the traffic with a quiet, potent authority. The wind whipped past his ears, drowning out the city's noise. For the first time, he was above the fray, separate from the crowd. The feeling was intoxicating. It was freedom. It was power.
He parked the scooter at the mouth of the alley, the engine's dying putter sounding like a declaration of war on their former poverty.
The reaction was everything he imagined and less.
Deepak looked up from his soldering, his eyes widening. He said nothing, just gave a slow, appreciative nod. Sanjay whooped, running his hands over the handlebars. "We're a proper company now!" he yelled.
But it was Raju and Vijay whose reaction struck Harsh the most. They stared at the scooter not as a vehicle, but as a miracle. They touched the chrome handlebars with reverent fingers, as if afraid it would vanish.
Harsh felt a surge of pride so fierce it was almost painful. This was his doing. His vision. His risk.
The feeling lasted until he got home.
He pushed the scooter into the narrow space beside their building, a tangible monument to his success. His mother, coming out to shake a mat, saw it. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Harsh? What is this? Whose is this?"
"It's mine, Ma," he said, the pride still warm in his chest.
Her face, instead of lighting up with joy, crumpled into a mask of pure anxiety. "Yours? How? How can you afford this? A scooter costs thousands!" Her voice dropped to a terrified whisper. "Beta, what have you done? Please tell me you haven't done anything… wrong."
His father appeared at the door, his face ashen. He didn't look at the scooter; he looked at Harsh, his eyes filled with a dread that was far more powerful than any anger. "A government clerk's son does not buy a scooter," he said, his voice hollow. "Where is the money from, Harsh? The truth."
The taste of luxury turned to ash in his mouth. The scooter, his symbol of triumph, was now a beacon of suspicion and fear in the one place he craved acceptance. He had outsmarted the market, the gangsters, and the bank, but he had no story for his parents that could bridge the chasm between their world and his.
He stood there, the key still in his hand, caught between two lives. The cliffhanger was no longer external. It was domestic, and it cut deeper than any threat from the streets.