Success, Harsh was learning, was a scent. It clung to you, unmistakable and provocative, and in the crowded, competitive ecosystem of the Mumbai markets, it drew every kind of attention. The alcove was no longer just a repair shop; it was a phenomenon. The steady stream of customers, the quality of the goods that passed through—some obviously new and imported—and the sheer volume of cash that changed hands did not go unnoticed.
The respect he had earned was now curdling into something uglier, more green-eyed: envy.
It started as a low hum, a background noise of muttered speculation. He'd catch snippets of conversation as he passed through Chor Bazaar or Lamington Road.
"…must be smuggling, nothing else…" "…who is his father?Some big politician?" "…too lucky,that one. It won't last."
The other repairmen and stall owners, men who had spent decades eking out a meager living, watched his rise with a mixture of awe and resentment. They saw the results, not the sixteen-hour days, the calculated risks, the intricate web of deals, or the constant, grinding pressure. They saw only the scooter, the new tools, the confident set of his shoulders. To them, it wasn't hard work; it was sorcery.
Prakash Rao, his scrap supplier, confirmed it one afternoon as Harsh inspected a new lot of components. The older man spoke in a low rumble, not looking up from his ledger.
"They talk, you know," he said, his voice barely audible over the market's din.
Harsh didn't need to ask who. "Let them talk."
Rao glanced up, his eyes serious. "Talk is cheap. But too much talk, and it becomes a story. And stories have a way of reaching ears that shouldn't hear them." He tapped the side of his nose. "They say you have a magic touch. That you can turn rust into gold. Men start to wonder why their own touch doesn't work the same. They don't like that feeling."
The most dangerous envy, however, came from those on his level. Not the street-level rivals like Ravi, but the other semi-established players. Men like Kersi, a Parsi dealer with a large, airy shop on Lamington Road who specialized in refurbished radios and record players. Kersi was old money, in market terms. His family had run the shop for two generations. He was used to being the king of mid-range audio.
Harsh's operation, with its flood of sleek, modern Walkmans and calculators, was a direct threat. Kersi couldn't match his prices or his supply. So he began a different kind of warfare: the warfare of reputation.
Harsh first felt it through his customers. A college student returned a perfectly functional Walkman, her face embarrassed.
"My uncle said I shouldn't buy from you," she mumbled, avoiding his eyes.
"Why?" Harsh asked, though he already knew.
"He… he knows a shop owner. Mr. Kersi. He says your goods are… stolen. That they'll have no warranty. That the police might come."
The lie was clever. It didn't attack the quality; it attacked the source, playing on the middle-class fear of scandal and illegality.
Another time, a man looking for a calculator for his office listened to Harsh's pitch, then shook his head. "Kersi's Emporium said they're getting a shipment of the same model next week. Officially imported. With a proper bill. It's safer, no?"
Kersi was using his established, "respectable" reputation as a weapon. He was painting Harsh as a fly-by-night operator, a risky bet.
The gossip became more pointed. Whispers of "customs raids" and "police crackdowns" began to circulate, always traced back to Kersi's circle of associates. There was never any truth to them, but they created a chilling effect. Potential customers would hesitate, their desire for a good price warring with their fear of trouble.
Harsh watched it happen, a cold anger building in him. He had fought off thugs with iron rods. He had outnegotiated smugglers. He had built a network from nothing. And now he was being attacked not with force, but with whispers. It was a virus, and it was infecting his hard-won customer base.
He couldn't fight it with facts. Marching into Kersi's shop to deny the claims would only make him look defensive, validating the rumors. He couldn't use Malvankar; this wasn't a matter for a lathi charge. This was a battle of perception.
His counterattack was subtle and brutal. He didn't mention Kersi's name. He didn't deny anything.
Instead, he doubled down on his own narrative. He had Sanjay, now presenting himself as a polished sales representative, hand out professionally printed—though entirely fake—"warranty cards" with every major purchase. The cards, printed by his man in Kalbadevi, looked official, adorned with a logo and a confident guarantee.
"Fully guaranteed for six months," Sanjay would say smoothly. "Our workshop is right here. We're not going anywhere."
He began offering "demonstration days" in the alcove, showcasing the superior sound quality of his Walkmans against older, bulkier models. He wasn't just selling a product; he was selling an experience, a taste of the future.
And then, he deployed his most powerful weapon: his existing customers. He identified his happiest, most vocal clients—like Mrs. Desai, the widow—and gave them a small "referral discount." They became his evangelists, spreading a counter-narrative of quality and value, their word-of-mouth praise far more credible than any sales pitch.
The envy didn't disappear. If anything, it grew hotter, more frustrated. But it became impotent. Kersi's whispers were drowned out by the satisfied chatter of Harsh's growing customer base. The attempts to paint him as a shady operator failed against the tangible reality of his good products and better service.
Harsh stood at the mouth of his alley one evening, watching the traffic flow. He saw a well-dressed man walk straight past Kersi's Emporium without a glance and head purposefully towards his alcove. The man had been sent by a friend. The network was working.
He had faced the market's envy and had not just survived; he had weaponized it. Their resentment was a backhanded compliment, a proof of his ascent. But he knew the looks Kersi gave him from across the street were not of defeat, but of a hatred that had been banked, not extinguished. Envy was a slow-burning fire. And Harsh knew that in the tinder-dry world of the Mumbai markets, any spark could make it flare up again, hotter and more dangerous than before. The whispers had stopped for now, but the silence they left behind was somehow more threatening.