The days following the raid were a study in controlled desolation. The alcove was a tomb of broken dreams and spilled motor oil. Harsh, Deepak, and Sanjay worked with a grim, silent efficiency, not to rebuild, but to simply clear the debris. Each shattered component they swept away felt like a piece of their future. The numbness in Harsh's chest was a shield against the despair that threatened to swallow him whole.
His parents had heard the rumors, of course. The story of a police raid on the "tutor's" workshop had spread through the chawls with the speed of lightning. Their silence at home was heavier than any accusation. His father's eyes held a grim "I told you so" that was worse than any shouted lecture. His mother moved through the rooms like a ghost, her prayers taking on a new, desperate intensity. The lie that protected them was straining at its seams, and the truth was too terrible to contemplate.
The only thing that kept Harsh from complete surrender was the cold, hard diamond of his anger. It had a name: Kersi.
The raid hadn't been random. It was too precise, too targeted. Sawant's words echoed: "We have information." Only someone with inside knowledge of his operation—and a deep-seated jealousy—could have provided it. Kersi's whispers had failed. His reputation attacks had failed. So he had escalated to a nuclear option, using his supposed "respectability" to call down the official wrath of the state.
Harsh wasn't just angry; he was vengeful. He would not just recover. He would ensure Kersi never recovered.
But he needed proof. Not for the police. For the court of public opinion—the only court that truly mattered in the Mumbai markets.
He put his entire damaged network on a single task: find me a radio, a tape deck, anything recently sold by Kersi's Emporium that had failed. He wasn't interested in simple repairs. He was looking for a specific kind of failure. A pattern.
It was Mr. Agarwal, the shopkeeper whose faith Harsh had once rewarded with quality, who brought him the key. He arrived at the ravaged alcove looking sheepish, holding a beautiful, wood-cased Grundig radio.
"I am a fool, Harsh Bhai," he said, shamefaced. "After the raid… I thought, maybe you were in trouble. So I went to Kersi. I paid a premium for this. 'German engineering,' he said. 'Top quality.' It worked for four days."
Harsh took the radio. It was heavy, solid. The casing was impeccable. He opened the back panel. Inside, it was a horror show.
Amidst the vintage, robust German tubes and transformers, a cheap, modern circuit board had been brutally grafted into the system. The soldering was a bird's nest of cold, globby joints. Wires were haphazardly spliced. It was a Frankenstein monster of an audio device, designed not to last, but to dazzle long enough for the sale to be final.
It was the same signature hack-work he'd seen before. But this time, it was in a high-ticket item. This was fraud on a different scale.
A plan, cold and perfect, clicked into place. This wasn't just about exposing a rival; it was about reclaiming his own reputation by becoming the champion of the cheated customer.
He spent the next 48 hours in a state of focused mania. While Deepak and Sanjay continued cleaning, Harsh worked on the Grundig. He didn't just repair it. He restored it. He sourced period-correct capacitors, replaced the shoddy board with hand-wired point-to-point wiring, and meticulously cleaned every contact. He made it not just functional, but magnificent.
He also had Deepak, whose solder work was artistry, create a perfect, framed display of the defective component next to a properly made one. A visual masterpiece of对比.
On the morning of the third day, he moved his operation. He didn't set up in his alley. He set up a small table directly in front of Kersi's Emporium on Lamington Road, at the peak of the shopping rush.
He didn't shout. He simply placed the gorgeous Grundig radio on the table, alongside the display of the two circuit boards. Mr. Agarwal stood beside him, a nervous but determined witness.
The crowd gathered slowly, curious about the spectacle. Kersi, from behind his counter, watched with a smug, dismissive smile, thinking Harsh was begging for scraps.
Then, Harsh began to speak. His voice was calm, clear, and carried the weight of undeniable truth.
"People of Lamington Road!" he called out. "You value quality! You value your hard-earned money! But are you getting what you pay for?"
He pointed to the Grundig. "This is a beautiful radio. A classic. Sold by a reputable shop for a reputable price." He let the words hang. Then he opened the back panel, using a small amplifier so the crowd could see inside on a mirror he'd set up.
A gasp went through the crowd. The brutal, shoddy work was undeniable.
"This," Harsh said, his voice dripping with contempt, "is what is inside. Cheap junk. Soldered by a blind monkey. Designed to fail just after the warranty period. This is not a refurbishment. This is a scam."
He then held up the display, showing the perfect, neat soldering next to the globby mess. "This is quality. This is what you deserve."
Then, he did the unthinkable. He turned on the radio he had restored. The rich, warm sound of a classical violin piece flowed out, pure and powerful. It was audio proof of his skill and Kersi's fraud.
The crowd's murmur turned into an angry roar.
Kersi rushed out of his shop, his face a mask of fury and panic. "Lies! He is planting evidence! He is a criminal the police raided!"
"The police raided me on a tip," Harsh shot back, his voice cutting through Kersi's bluster. "I wonder who gave them that tip? A man afraid of competition? A man who knows his own business is built on cheating his customers?"
It was the masterstroke. He connected the dots for everyone.
The dam broke. Other customers who had bought from Kersi began pushing forward, waving their defective devices, shouting their stories. The scene descended into chaos. Kersi was surrounded by a furious, betrayed mob demanding refunds.
Harsh didn't say another word. He packed his things with slow, deliberate movements. He had not just defended himself; he had fed Kersi to the wolves of his own making.
He looked at Kersi, who was trying to retreat into his shop as the crowd jostled him. Their eyes met for a final time. In Kersi's, Harsh saw the utter ruin of a lifetime's work. In Harsh's, Kersi saw only cold, final judgment.
The downfall was total. It was merciless. It was exactly what the market demanded.
As Harsh walked away, the furious sounds of Kersi's demise fading behind him, he felt no joy. Only a grim sense of necessity. The rival was vanquished. The playing field was cleared. The path ahead was bloody, but it was open. He had survived the raid and turned it into a weapon.
The empire was wounded, but its king was still standing. And now, everyone knew it.