The FUTURE page in Harsh's ledger was no longer a sterile log of numbers. It had become a living thing, a map of the storm he saw brewing on the horizon. The columns for OIL and GOLD were no longer just headings; they were prophecies in ink, each new entry a confirmation of the world tilting toward the chaos he knew was coming.
His research became an all-consuming ritual. The alcove's dim light burned late into the night, not over circuit boards, but over weeks-old international newspapers bought from a vendor near VT Station. He'd hunch over them, a ruler underlining every mention of "Kuwait," "Saudi Arabia," and "UN sanctions." The static-laced voices from the short-wave radio were his constant companions, the BBC announcer's plummy tones detailing diplomatic failures and military posturing.
He was no longer just Harsh the repair-walla, or even Harsh the emerging wholesaler. He was becoming a strategist studying a global battlefield, and his weapons were foresight and capital.
The first tangible ripple hit closer to home than he expected. A regular customer, Mr. Agarwal, who owned a small travel agency, came in not for a radio, but to talk, his face drawn with anxiety.
"It's all anyone is talking about," Agarwal said, accepting the cup of tea Sanjay offered. "My brother-in-law is a purser on a merchant ship. His route is to the Gulf. They've been told to prepare for… disruptions. War is coming, Harsh Bhai. And when it comes, the price of everything will go mad. My God, even the price of a plane ticket…"
The man's fear was palpable, a product of genuine, firsthand information. It wasn't a broker's whisper; it was a tremor from the epicenter. Harsh listened, his face a mask of sympathetic concern, while his mind filed the information away. Disruptions. Madness.
After Agarwal left, Deepak, who had been listening quietly, shook his head. "War in the Gulf. It feels a world away. What does it have to do with us?"
"Everything," Harsh said, his voice quiet but absolute. He tapped the FUTURE ledger. "The world runs on oil, Deepak. If the tap is turned off in the Gulf, the price will explode. And when people get scared, when currencies look shaky, they run to one thing." His finger moved to the other column. "Gold."
Sanjay frowned, looking from the ledger to the pile of calculators waiting to be repaired. "So we should… what? Buy a barrel of oil? A brick of gold? With what money? The Us money is for the business. For tools. For expansion here."
This was the core of the conflict. His team's world was the alcove. Their ambitions were measured in square feet and inventory turnover. His vision had expanded to encompass global markets and geopolitical shocks.
"The tools we need now are not just soldering irons," Harsh argued, a new intensity in his eyes. "The best tool is being right when everyone else is wrong. This…" he gestured at the radio, now crackling with a report on rising tension, "…is our biggest opportunity. Bigger than VCRs. Bigger than anything we've ever done."
He was struggling to bridge the gap between his certainty, born of lived memory, and their understandable skepticism. To them, it was a gamble. To him, it was inevitability.
The following day, the whisperer, Chiman the broker, found him again. This time, there was no casual pretense. The man's sharp eyes were gleaming with avarice.
"The dance is beginning, Harsh Bhai," Chiman said, his voice a low, urgent hiss. He didn't bother with pleasantries. "The price moved ten rupees per gram today. Ten! The big players in Zaveri Bazaar are starting to sniff around. They feel it too. The fear is a smell, and it is in the air." He leaned in closer. "The window is closing. The smart money gets in early. The foolish money gets in late."
This was the push Harsh needed. The confirmation from the market itself. The tremor was becoming a quake.
He made his decision. That night, he counted the money in the Us column. It was a significant sum, the fruit of weeks of discipline and austerity. Every rupee represented a sacrifice, a repaired calculator, a negotiated discount. It was meant for a new soldering station, maybe even a small storage space.
He was about to bet it all on a glint of yellow metal and a memory of a war.
He looked at Deepak and Sanjay. Their faces were a mixture of confusion and loyalty. They didn't understand, but they trusted him. The weight of that trust was heavier than any bribe he'd ever paid.
"This is not a gamble," he said, though it felt like the biggest gamble of his life. "This is a calculation. I need you to trust me."
He didn't wait for their agreement. He couldn't afford to. The next morning, he met Chiman in a cramped, smoky back office near Zaveri Bazaar, the air thick with the scent of incense and greed. Harsh placed the stack of cash on the desk. It was every rupee from the Us column.
"Gold," Harsh said, his voice not betraying the churn in his gut. "As much as this will buy. Not jewellery. Twenty-four carat. In whatever form you can get it."
Chiman's eyes widened slightly at the amount. It wasn't fortune-shaking wealth, but it was a substantial bet for a young man from Bhuleshwar. He counted the money with practiced speed.
"A wise move, Harsh Bhai," the broker said, a oily smile spreading across his face. "You will not regret it. The price will rise. It is certain."
Harsh didn't smile back. "Just get me the gold."
He walked out of the office, his pocket feeling lighter, his future feeling infinitely heavier. He had just planted his flag on a distant, dangerous shore. He had taken the first, terrifying step out of the alley and onto the global stage.
The mini-twist from the broker's whisper had been the final catalyst. The setup for the next arc was complete. The money was in play. All that was left to do was wait for the world to catch up to the future he already knew.
He stared at a gold shop on his way home, its window gleaming with chains and bangles. He wasn't preparing for his first BIG investment anymore.
It was already made.