The note from the customs officer was a cold shard of ice in his pocket, but Harsh forced himself to bury the fear deep. Survival in these waters required a different kind of strength now. It required projecting an aura of unshakable control, even if he felt like he was balancing on a razor's edge.
He never made it to the customs office. Instead, he sent a message back via the same too-clean boy, a simple reply typed on a scrap of paper: "Arun Patel is out of town on business. Will contact upon return to settle matters." It was a stall, a gamble that Officer Desai's "practical" nature would prefer a delayed but certain bribe over immediate, messy action. The gamble held. The silence from Apollo Bunder continued.
And in that silence, Harsh's new reality began to truly unfold.
The alcove was now a different kind of hub. The flow of goods from Venkat Swami's warehouses was a torrent. It wasn't just damaged items; it was overstock, last season's models, and goods that had "fallen off the manifest." Harsh, Deepak, and Sanjay were no longer just repairmen; they were processors, refurbishers, and distributors on a scale they'd never dreamed of.
The power shift in the market was immediate and palpable.
One afternoon, a familiar hulking shape darkened the entrance. Ganesh was back, but the nervousness was gone, replaced by a new, almost formal deference.
"Harsh Bhai," he said, his voice a low rumble. "A word?"
Harsh looked up from a circuit board, his expression neutral. "If you're here to buy, we have stock. If you're here for something else, be quick. We're busy."
Ganesh actually shuffled his feet, a strangely childlike gesture from the man who had once terrorized them. "It is about buying, Bhai. But not for me. There is a... function. A wedding. My dada's son. We need... many things. Tape players for music. Calculators for gifts. Good ones. I told them to come to you. You are the man for this now, everyone knows this."
It wasn't a request. It was a referral. Ganesh, the local enforcer, was now steering business to him. The thug who had smashed his stall was now his marketing agent. The irony was so thick Harsh could almost taste it.
He worked out a bulk deal for Ganesh, a price that made the goon's eyes light up with satisfaction. As Ganesh left, promising to send his cousins to pick up the order, he paused.
"That man... the one in the white kurta," Ganesh said, not looking at Harsh directly. "He is not a man to be played with. But you... you are still here. And you are growing. This is noticed."
It was the closest thing to a warning and a compliment rolled into one. Harsh had earned a measure of respect, not through fear, but through a perceived association with power. He was under Venkat Swami's umbrella, and everyone could see it.
The phenomenon repeated itself. Smaller vendors who had once viewed him with jealousy now approached with a new, wary respect. They didn't just want to buy; they wanted to know if he could get more. Could he get a consistent supply of Japanese calculators? Was there any way to get ahold of those refurbished Walkmans for their own shops?
Harsh, seeing the opportunity, began to formalize it. He became a wholesaler. He would sell to these smaller vendors at a margin thinner than his direct sales, but the volume was immense. The alcove's reputation shifted from "the genius repair-walla" to "the place to get good stock."
One evening, as he was locking up, a man approached. He was lean, with sharp eyes and the calloused hands of a dockworker. He didn't look like a customer.
"You are Harsh Patel?" the man asked, his voice low.
"I am."
"The name is Rane. I work the night shift at Dock 12. I hear you pay fair prices for... misplaced goods." He let the offer hang in the air, a dangerous, tantalizing thread.
This was it. The ultimate sign that his position had changed. The ecosystem was now coming to him. He wasn't just taking from Venkat Swami's table; others were trying to bring him scraps, hoping to get a piece of his action.
Harsh looked at the man, Rane. This was a deeper, more dangerous game. Dealing directly with dockworkers behind Venkat Swami's back was a gamble that could get a man killed. But it was also a potential source of intelligence, a way to perhaps one day loosen the leash.
"Not here," Harsh said finally, his voice quiet. "And not now. If you have something specific, something small, leave a message with the chaiwalla at the corner. Use the name 'Arun.' I'll find you."
It was a non-committal answer, but it was enough. Rane nodded once, a quick, sharp movement, and melted back into the evening crowd.
Harsh stood alone, the key to the alcove cold in his hand. He felt a strange, electrifying sensation. It wasn't happiness. It was something darker, more potent.
It was power.
A dangerous, borrowed, precarious power—but power nonetheless. Goons sought his products. Competitors sought his supplies. The underworld was beginning to flow through his stall. He had become a nexus.
He had wanted to build an empire. This wasn't it, not yet. But it was the first, real, intoxicating taste of it. He had started with a hundred-rupee note and a soldering iron. Now, even the shadows were starting to whisper his name.
The taste was bitter, laced with fear and extortion. But he could not deny its potency. He wanted more.
(Chapter End)