The whispers were a drumbeat now, a steady, ominous rhythm in the back of Harsh's mind. He had the certainty. He had the plan. But the money from the Us column was already spent, converted into Chiman's flimsy receipt. To truly capitalize on the coming storm, he needed more. Much more. He needed to amplify his bet, to turn a smart play into a legendary one.
This meant investors. But not the kind who bought refurbished radios. He needed people with capital, people who could see the logic in his terrifyingly beautiful equation: War = Oil Chaos = Gold Surge.
His first target was Mr. Agarwal, the travel agent who had first voiced his fears. The man had seen the coming disruption firsthand. He was primed.
"Agarwal Uncle," Harsh began, leaning across the man's cluttered desk. "You were right. The disruption is coming. It's not just about plane tickets. It's about everything. The entire world's economy is going to shudder."
Mr. Agarwal nodded gravely, his earlier anxiety plain on his face. "A terrible thing, beta. A terrible thing."
"But in every terrible thing," Harsh pressed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "there is opportunity. When the world shudders, people run to safety. They run to gold. The price won't just rise; it will explode. An investment now, before the first shot is even fired, will multiply. Not by double. By five, maybe ten times."
He laid it out with a passion that was both genuine and calculated. He talked about supply lines, about historical precedents, about the palpable fear on the docks.
Mr. Agarwal listened, his fingers steepled. He saw the fire in the young man's eyes, the compelling logic. And then he saw the boy from Bhuleshwar. The repair-walla. The fear in his own heart curdled into a different emotion: patronizing concern.
"Harsh, beta," he said, sighing as if explaining something to a child. "This is very big, complicated talk. Gold markets… geopolitics… this is for governments and big industrialists. Not for us. My money is for my business. For my family. It is too much risk. Put such thoughts out of your head. Focus on your electronics. That is a good, solid business."
The dismissal was gentle, but it was a door slammed shut. Harsh felt the first trickle of cold frustration.
He tried a different approach. He went to a local grain merchant, a man named Sethji known for his shrewdness and his hidden wealth. Harsh found him supervising the unloading of sacks, his belly straining against his kurta, a gold chain glinting on his chest.
Harsh pitched him not on fear, but on pure, unadulterated greed. "Sethji, a wave is coming. A wave of money. We can ride it. All we need is the nerve to get on the board first."
The merchant listened, his eyes sharp and assessing. He liked money. He liked waves of it even more.
"How much?" he grunted.
Harsh gave him a number. A substantial, but not impossible, sum.
The merchant's eyes narrowed. "And you, a boy, you will manage this investment? You will buy the gold? You will know when to sell?"
"I have a broker. I have a plan," Harsh insisted, his confidence feeling brittle under the man's skeptical gaze.
The merchant laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that shook his belly. "A broker? A plan? I have brokers too. They tell me to buy wheat, to sell rice. They do not tell me to bet on a war in a desert I cannot find on a map!" He clapped Harsh on the shoulder, a gesture that was almost pitying. "You have spirit, boy. But save it for your own business. This game is too big for you."
The frustration turned into a hot coal in Harsh's gut. He was being judged not on his idea, but on his age, on his face, on the dust of Bhuleshwar on his shoes.
In desperation, he thought of the ultimate test: liquidity. He needed to know if his theory had any real-world weight. He took the receipt from Chiman and went to a pawnshop in a slightly better part of town, one that advertised loans against gold.
The shop was dark and smelled of old metal and distrust. A large, surly man with thick glasses sat behind a barred window.
Harsh slid the receipt under the bars. "I have gold with this broker. I need a loan against it. Just a small one."
The pawnbroker picked up the receipt, squinted at Chiman's name, and let out a short, derisive snort. He didn't even read the amount. He slid it back.
"No."
"What do you mean, no?" Harsh said, his temper fraying. "It's gold. You loan against gold."
"I loan against gold I can see. I can touch. I can bite," the man growled, tapping a thick finger on the glass. "Not against a piece of paper from a bottom-feeder like Chiman. For all I know, this is a receipt for a stolen bicycle. Get out."
The finality in his voice was absolute. The ultimate symbol of value and security was, on paper, worthless. The pawnshops laughed at him. His potential investors patronized him. The world was screaming that his certainty was delusion.
He walked back through the market, the whispers of war now sounding like taunts. He was the boy who cried war, and no one was listening. The isolation was complete. He was utterly alone with his knowledge.
He found himself back at the alcove. Deepak and Sanjay took one look at his face and knew. The answer was written in the grim set of his jaw, the defeated slump of his shoulders.
"They think I'm a fool," Harsh said, his voice hollow. "They see my face and they don't hear my words. They just see a crazy kid from the alley talking about things he can't possibly understand."
Sanjay looked down. Deepak was silent for a long moment.
"Then we do it alone," Deepak said finally, his voice quiet but firm.
Harsh looked up.
"We did it alone when we started. With a hundred rupees. We did it alone when the goons came. When the police came. When the ghost came." Deepak met his gaze. "We do it alone now. Our money. Our risk. Our win."
The words were a lifeline. They didn't understand the global markets. They didn't fully believe in the gold surge. But they believed in him. Their faith was a different kind of currency, one that couldn't be devalued by skeptical merchants.
Harsh felt the cold frustration melt away, burned off by a renewed, fiercer determination. They were right. If no one would back him, he would back himself. He would use every rupee he could scrape together from the business, every profit that wasn't instantly devoured by The Ocean and The System.
He would pool his money. He would buy anyway. He would stand alone against the laughter and the skepticism, armed with nothing but the unshakable truth of a future he had already lived.
The rejection wasn't a setback. It was a refining fire. It was him against the world.
And he was all in.
(Chapter End)