The walk to Apollo Bunder on Monday morning felt like a march to the gallows. The crisp white note from Officer Desai burned in Harsh's pocket, a weight far heavier than the thick wad of cash he carried—his intended "donation." He had rehearsed a dozen scenarios, from pleading ignorance to outright denial, but each one crumbled under the cold gaze of his imagination.
The customs house was as imposing as he remembered. The air inside was still and cool, smelling of old paper and slow-moving authority. He gave his name at the front desk and was waved through with a disinterested gesture to the same sparse office on the second floor.
Officer Desai was exactly as Harsh remembered: sharp, intelligent, and utterly unreadable behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He did not look up from the file on his desk when Harsh entered.
"Mr. Patel. Sit."
Harsh sat, the wooden chair hard and unforgiving. He said nothing, waiting. The silence stretched, a tactical weapon Desai wielded with precision. Finally, the officer closed the file and looked up, his gaze analytical.
"Your paperwork is a tragedy, Mr. Patel," Desai stated, his voice flat. No anger, no accusation. Just a simple, devastating fact. "A fire in a records office in Singapore. A most convenient fire. It destroys all evidence, does it not? It creates plausible deniability."
Harsh's mouth went dry. This man had already done his homework. Denial was pointless.
Desai continued, his tone that of a lecturer. "The easy path would be to seize your inventory. To launch an investigation that would tie you up in courts for years. It would be a clean, bureaucratic solution. But it is also... messy. It creates paperwork for me. It upsets the delicate balance of commerce."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto Harsh's. "I am a practical man. I believe in solutions that benefit all parties. The government requires its due. I require order. And you require... freedom from inconvenience."
He let the word hang in the air. Inconvenience. A ridiculously mild term for the total ruin he could unleash.
"What is the solution, sir?" Harsh asked, his voice respectful, playing the part of the willing student.
"A contribution," Desai said, the word smooth and practiced. "Not a bribe. A bribe is crude. A bribe is for street-level constables and petty clerks. This is a donation to a departmental welfare fund. A recognition that the complex machinery of international trade sometimes requires private-sector lubrication to function smoothly."
The euphemisms were a masterclass in corruption. Harsh understood. This was not Malvankar's straightforward greed. This was something higher, more sophisticated, and far more expensive.
"The fund's requirement is five percent of your gross revenue. Paid monthly. In return, your paperwork will be considered in order. Your shipments will be expedited. Your business will be... invisible to the more tedious aspects of our oversight."
Five percent. On top of Venkat Swami's twenty. The math was a vice. But the alternative was unthinkable.
Harsh didn't hesitate. He saw the lesson clearly. This wasn't a negotiation. It was an invoice. He reached into his inner pocket and drew out the envelope of cash he had brought—a significant amount, meant to be a one-time "gift."
"I understand, sir," Harsh said, sliding the envelope across the desk. "A donation for this month. To show my commitment to a... smooth process."
Desai didn't touch the envelope. He didn't even look at it. His eyes remained on Harsh. "The fund does not accept cash. It is administered through a bank. I will have the account details sent to you. This is a professional arrangement, Mr. Patel. We will keep it professional."
The lesson hit Harsh like a physical blow. This was not a back-alley handshake. This was a direct debit on his life. A monthly fee for his freedom. A corporate structure for his crime.
He slowly pulled the envelope back, his face burning with a mixture of shame and a strange, reluctant respect for the sheer scale of it. "Of course. My mistake."
Desai gave a single, curt nod. "See that it is not a mistake that is repeated. You may go."
The meeting was over. Harsh stood on unsteady legs and walked out. The blinding Mumbai sun felt alien after the cool, clinical air of Desai's office.
He had gone in expecting a shakedown. He had received an education.
The lesson was clear: Money alone wasn't power. It was a tool. True power was the system itself—the laws, the paperwork, the officials who could bend it, and the price they charged for doing so. He had been playing checkers with street thugs while men like Desai played chess with the entire board.
He had bought his safety, not with a fistful of cash, but with a promise of a monthly tribute. The risk of exposure was gone, replaced by a permanent, costly leash from a different master.
He hadn't just paid a bribe. He had paid tuition. And the lesson was one he would never forget.
(Chapter End)