The gold profit was a lifeboat, not a shore. It kept them from drowning in their debts, but they were still adrift in Venkat Swami's ocean. The thick envelopes of cash that flowed out to the ghost and to Officer Desai were a constant, painful reminder of their servitude. The private vault was secure, but it was a gilded cage, its combination known to their jailer.
Harsh's mind, freed from the immediate terror of bankruptcy, began to churn again. He'd conquered one peak, only to find himself on a plateau dominated by predators. He needed to keep moving. The FUTURE ledger, which had been solely dedicated to GOLD, now beckoned for a new heading.
He found his answer in the same newspapers that had heralded the gold surge. The headlines had shifted. The initial shock of the war was now giving way to analysis of its economic fallout. And one word was repeated with grim inevitability: OIL.
"Oil Prices Set to Skyrocket as Gulf Conflict Disrupts Supply." "Indian Economy Braces for Fuel Shock." "Kuwaiti Fires: A Environmental and Economic Catastrophe."
The math was even more brutal and beautiful than gold. Every factory, every vehicle, every generator in the struggling, industrializing nation of India ran on the stuff. It was the lifeblood of the economy, and the heart that pumped it was under siege.
The gold trade had been about fear. The oil trade was about necessity. It was a bigger, more fundamental game.
But venturing into oil was like deciding to hunt tigers after mastering rats. The gold trade was illicit, but it was a retail operation. Oil was wholesale. It was the domain of giants, of tankers and pipelines and political contracts. The infrastructure was immense, the capital requirements astronomical, and the players were not street-level brokers like Chiman.
They were Venkat Swami.
The ghost's words echoed in his mind: "It is not a time for small thinking." It wasn't advice. It was a forecast. Venkat Swami was already in the oil game. The docks were his. The smuggling routes were his. The political protection was his. He was undoubtedly already positioning himself to make a killing from the coming crisis.
To enter the oil trade was to walk directly into the dragon's lair and propose a partnership. The thought made Harsh's blood run cold.
He spent days in a state of agitated research, piecing together the fragments of information he could gather. He learned the basics: crude oil was refined into petrol, diesel, kerosene. It was traded in barrels. The prices were set on a dizzying global market.
But getting his hands on it? That was the impossible part.
He tried to find a crack, a back door. He sought out Rane again, on the docks.
"Oil, Harsh Bhai?" Rane laughed, a harsh, nervous sound. He looked around before speaking. "Forget it. That is not for people like us. That is a… closed shop. Very closed. The big ships, they are met by the big men. The paperwork is perfect. The payments are… enormous. Anyone who tries to siphon off a barrel ends up feeding the fish. The monopoly is absolute."
The monopoly is absolute. The words confirmed his fears. The oil trade was Venkat Swami's crown jewel. There would be no dealing with independent dockworkers or shady brokers. There was only one door, and it was guarded by the ghost.
The sheer scale of the opportunity was maddening. He could see the tidal wave of profit building, a wave that would make the gold surge look like a ripple. But he had no boat to ride it. He was stuck on the beach, watching.
One evening, as he was poring over a week-old financial paper, a specific article caught his eye. It wasn't about the price of crude. It was about the byproducts. It mentioned the industrial solvents, the plastics, the fertilizers that were all derived from petroleum. And it mentioned a small, struggling paint factory in Chembur that was facing closure due to the impending shortage and cost of its key chemical feedstock.
A spark ignited in Harsh's mind. He couldn't buy a barrel of oil. But what if he didn't need to? What if he could get just a tiny, diverted stream of one specific byproduct? Not from a tanker, but from a smaller, more manageable link in the chain?
He wasn't thinking like a smuggler anymore. He was thinking like an industrialist. He wasn't trying to compete with Venkat Swami; he was trying to find a niche the giant had overlooked.
The mafia had a monopoly on the ocean. But maybe, just maybe, he could find a puddle they considered too small to notice.
It was a dangerous, delusional hope. But it was the only one he had. The gold had given him a taste of true power. He couldn't go back to just fixing radios.
He needed to find a way into the oil trade. He had to face the mafia monopoly. Not with a fight, but with a gambit so audacious they might just let him have his tiny corner of the kingdom.
He closed the newspaper. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach. But it was now mixed with a thrilling, terrifying sense of purpose.
The next wave was coming. And he would find a way to ride it, or die trying.
(Chapter End)