The power was a heady thing. For a few weeks, Harsh let himself believe it. The constant flow of goods from Venkat Swami's network, the deference from once-rival vendors, even the wary respect from local toughs—it all built a fragile illusion of control. He was Harsh Bhai, the king of his tiny, grimy castle.
But castles built on sand shift with the tide. And the tide was turning.
The first warning was subtle. A regular customer, a shop owner from Dadar, hesitated before placing his usual order of refurbished radios.
"Is everything all right, Ramesh Bhai?" Sanjay asked, noticing the man's unease.
The shop owner glanced around the alcove nervously. "It's just... talk, you know? People are saying things. Asking where all this new stock is coming from so fast. They say the customs men have been asking questions on the docks lately. Just... be careful, boys." He placed a smaller order than usual and left quickly.
The words landed like a stone in Harsh's gut. Customs men. The one government agency that lived and breathed paperwork, the kryptonite to his entire operation built on false invoices and "misplaced" goods. He pushed the fear down. It was just talk. Rumors were cheap in Mumbai.
The illusion held for a few more days. Then, the ghost came for his weekly collection. The transaction was as silent and cold as ever. But as the man in the white kurta turned to leave, he paused. It was a minute hesitation, so slight Harsh almost missed it.
"The flow of goods is good," the ghost rasped, his back still turned. It was the first unsolicited thing he had ever said. "My employer is pleased. Ensure it remains... smooth. Do not attract attention."
Then he was gone. The warning was clear. Venkat Swami's protection was not absolute. It existed only as long as Harsh remained a quiet, profitable subsidiary. The moment he became a liability, that protection would vanish. He was a valuable cog, but a disposable one.
The final blow came on a humid Friday morning. A young boy, no more than twelve, approached the alcove. He was clean, too clean for the market, dressed in stiff new clothes that looked uncomfortable.
"You are Harsh Patel?" the boy asked, his voice rehearsed.
"I am," Harsh said, wiping grease from his hands.
The boy thrust a small, crisp, white envelope at him. "For you."
Before Harsh could ask who it was from, the boy turned and scampered away, disappearing into the crowd.
The envelope was of good quality paper. There was no name on the outside. Harsh's fingers, suddenly clumsy, tore it open.
Inside was a single, typewritten line on an otherwise blank sheet.
Your presence is required at the Customs Office, Apollo Bunder. Monday, 10 AM. Ask for Officer Desai.
There was no letterhead. No signature. Just those cold, impersonal words.
(And this is second time i recieved it, first time i recieved this but I ignore it but this time)
The noise of the market faded into a distant hum. The triumphant feeling of power evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow dread. The entire world seemed to shrink down to that single piece of paper.
This was it. The one thing he could not bribe, bluff, or fight his way out of. This was not a rival shopkeeper or a local goon. This was the cold, implacable machinery of the state. Officer Desai wasn't demanding a street-level bribe; he was summoning Harsh for an audience. This was about the origin of his goods, the phantom shipments of "Arun Patel Imports," the entire house of cards.
He was exposed.
All of it—the money, the influence, the respect—was a shimmering mirage. And with one typed sentence, a customs officer had threatened to blow it all away.
Deepak and Sanjay were watching him, their tools frozen in their hands. They saw the blood drain from his face, saw the paper trembling in his hand.
"Harsh Bhai?" Sanjay's voice was small. "What is it?"
Harsh couldn't speak. He just handed them the note.
The silence that fell over them was heavier than any that had come before. The cliffhanger of their rise was not a person or a threat they could see. It was a time and a place. Monday, 10 AM. Apollo Bunder.
The risk of exposure was no longer a risk. It was an appointment.
(Chapter End)