The surly pawnbroker's laughter seemed to follow Harsh all the way back to Bhuleshwar, a mocking echo in the crowded, indifferent streets. The rejection wasn't just a refusal of credit; it was a rejection of his entire premise, a dismissal of his hard-won certainty. He felt stripped bare, his secret knowledge rendered useless because no one would believe the messenger.
The alcove felt different when he returned. The air was thick with the unspoken. Deepak and Sanjay didn't need to ask; his face, a mask of cold fury and simmering frustration, told them everything.
"They think I'm a child," Harsh said, his voice low and tight. He wasn't looking at them, but at the grimy wall opposite, as if he could see through it to the skeptical faces of Agarwal, the grain merchant, the pawnbroker. "They see these clothes, this stall, and their minds snap shut. They don't hear the idea. They only see... this." He gestured vaguely at the cramped space, the piles of electronics, the essence of his humble origins.
Sanjay shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe... maybe they have a point, Harsh Bhai. It is a big risk. A war... it is not a thing to bet on."
"It's not a bet!" Harsh's voice sharpened, cracking like a whip in the small space. He finally turned to them, and the intensity in his eyes made Sanjay flinch. "It is a fact. As real as this soldering iron. As real as the rupees we earn. They are the ones who are blind. They are the ones gambling by doing nothing!"
The outburst hung in the air. Deepak, who had been silently cleaning a circuit board, set it down with a quiet, deliberate click. He looked from Harsh's heated face to Sanjay's worried one.
"Then we do it alone," Deepak said, his voice a calm, steady contrast to Harsh's fervor.
Harsh stared at him. "With what? The money is gone. It's already with Chiman."
"Not all of it," Deepak said. He walked over to a hidden crevice in the alcove's wall, a spot only they knew about, and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. He unfolded it on the table. It was a stack of rupees, smaller than the one they'd given Chiman, but significant. Their emergency fund. The money for a bad week, for a broken tool, for a sudden bribe. The absolute last resort.
Sanjay's eyes widened. "Deepak, no! That's our safety net!"
"What safety?" Deepak asked, his voice still quiet, but with a new, iron core. "If Harsh Bhai is wrong, we are finished anyway. The ghost will tire of us. Desai will find a reason to shut us down. We will be back to where we started, with or without this money." He looked at Harsh. "But if he is right... this," he pointed to the modest stack, "becomes a mountain."
He was leveraging their last shred of security on Harsh's vision. It was the ultimate act of faith.
Harsh looked at the money, then at Deepak's resolute face, and finally at Sanjay's terrified one. The weight of their absolute, terrifying trust settled on him, heavier than any threat from Venkat Swami. This wasn't just his gamble anymore. It was theirs.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, the anger and frustration bleeding away, replaced by a cold, diamond-hard resolve. They were right. The world was against them. So be it.
"Alright," Harsh said, his voice now deathly calm. "We do it alone." He picked up the bundle of notes. It felt different from the previous stack. This one was soaked in their collective fear and hope. "We buy more. We squeeze every rupee from the business. We eat simpler. We walk instead of taking the scooter. Every paisa goes into gold."
It was a vow of austerity, a war footing. They would become ghosts in their own lives, channeling every ounce of energy and resource into this single, terrifying play.
The next week was a masterclass in frugality. Harsh became a ruthless economizer. He renegotiated with Meena for an even steeper bulk discount, sacrificing a little quality for a much lower price. He instructed Deepak to cannibalize non-essential parts from unsalvageable devices. He sent Sanjay to sell their wares farther afield, to markets where they could command a few rupees more, despite the longer travel time.
They lived on vada pav and cheap chai, their meals a silent testament to their new mission. The scooter sat unused, saving precious rupees on petrol. Every coin was pinched, every opportunity to save was seized with a desperate fervor.
It was a grim, joyless process. The thrill of the hustle was gone, replaced by the grim mechanics of accumulation. They weren't building anymore; they were stockpiling.
Harsh returned to Chiman, not with the confidence of a visionary, but with the grim determination of a soldier delivering supplies to the front lines. He placed the new, smaller, harder-won stack of cash on the broker's desk.
Chiman raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. "You are a determined boy, I will give you that. The price has moved up, you know. Your earlier purchase already looks smart."
"I'm not here to look smart," Harsh said, his voice flat. "I'm here to buy. As much as that will get me."
He walked out with another flimsy receipt. It felt no more substantial than the first. But now, two of them were tucked away in the alcove's hiding place. Two promises against a future of chaos.
He had struggled to convince investors. No one had believed a 19-year-old. The pawnshops had laughed at him. He had pooled his money against all advice, against all logic, against the mocking laughter of the entire city.
He stood at the entrance of the alcove, watching the monsoon clouds gather over Mumbai, dark and heavy with impending rain. The whispers of war were now a constant drumbeat in the news. The tension was a wire stretched to breaking point.
He was alone. But he was all in. And as the first drops of rain began to fall, he felt a strange sense of peace. The doubt was gone. There was no turning back.
The world was about to catch fire, and he had just poured every last drop of his life's fuel onto the flames.
(Chapter End)