The idea was a fragile thing, a seed planted in barren, dangerous ground. The paint factory in Chembur was his target, but to reach it, he needed a source. He couldn't just knock on the back door of an oil refinery. The "closed shop" Rane had described was a fortress.
His only leverage was his success. The gold trade, though ultimately controlled by Venkat Swami, had proven his nerve and his foresight. He needed to use that reputation as a currency.
He started with the only person he knew who operated in the grey spaces between the legitimate and the illicit: Chiman, the broker. He found him in his cramped office, still smelling of the cheap perfume he used to cover the scent of greed.
"Chiman," Harsh said, dispensing with any greeting. "I need to talk to someone. Someone who moves things. Not gold. Bigger things."
Chiman looked up, his eyes wary. The cleared debt had changed their dynamic. Harsh was no longer a desperate boy; he was a client of unpredictable size. "Bigger than gold? What things?"
"Industrial things. Chemicals. Solvents. The things that come from oil."
Chiman let out a low whistle and sat back, steepling his fingers. "You are jumping into a very deep well, Harsh Bhai. The men who deal in that... they are not like me. They are not like your ghost. They are... businessmen. With ties. Overseas ties. It is a different world."
"Those are the men I need to talk to," Harsh pressed, his voice firm. "I have capital. I have a market. I need a supply. Tell them that."
He was bluffing. His capital was a fraction of what would be needed, and his "market" was a single, struggling paint factory. But he spoke with a confidence he didn't feel, the same confidence that had convinced Deepak and Sanjay to follow him into the abyss.
Chiman studied him for a long moment, seeing past the young face to the fierce ambition beneath. He saw a potential new revenue stream. Or a potential disaster. Either way, it was interesting.
"I might know a man," Chiman said slowly, choosing his words with care. "He is not based here. He is an NRI. From the Gulf. He has... connections to the supply. He is looking for new distribution channels in India. Discreet ones."
An NRI. A Non-Resident Indian. It made sense. The ones with the access to the source wouldn't be based in the grimy back alleys of Mumbai; they'd be in the air-conditioned offices of Dubai or Kuwait, leveraging their connections and foreign passports.
"Set up a meeting," Harsh said.
"It will be expensive," Chiman warned. "His time is valuable. And he will want to see proof of your... seriousness."
Harsh understood. He went to the private vault—a nondescript building in Kalbadevi where he was led to a small, cold room after providing a code given by the ghost. He retrieved a single, heavy gold bar from the stash. It was a portion of his remaining capital, a tangible piece of his credibility.
The meeting was set for a private room in a five-star hotel near Nariman Point, a world away from Bhuleshwar. Harsh wore his best clothes, but they felt like a costume. The plush carpets, the silent, air-conditioned halls, the polite, uniformed staff—it was a different planet.
The man, Mr. Nair, was nothing like he expected. He was soft-spoken, impeccably dressed in a suit that cost more than Harsh's scooter, and had the calm, weary demeanor of a seasoned banker. He didn't look like a smuggler. He looked like the manager of a smuggler.
"Mr. Patel," Nair said, his handshake firm and dry. "Chiman speaks highly of your... foresight." His eyes flicked over Harsh, taking in his youth, assessing him with a dispassionate precision that was more unnerving than the ghost's dead stare.
"He is too kind," Harsh replied, forcing his voice to stay even. "I see an opportunity. India is facing an industrial crisis. Those who can secure supply will be rewarded."
"Securing supply is not the problem," Mr. Nair said smoothly, sipping his mineral water. "The problem is logistics. Customs. Transportation. 'Facilitation'." He said the last word with a faint, cynical smile. "The market is there. The product is there. The space between them is filled with... complications."
He was describing Venkat Swami's empire without ever saying the name.
"I understand complications," Harsh said. "I have experience in navigating them." He didn't elaborate. He let the unspoken reference to his gold operation hang in the air.
Mr. Nair nodded slowly. "So I hear. But oil is a different beast. It is bulk. It is visible. The stakes are higher. The players are... less forgiving."
He was testing him. Gauging his understanding of the risk.
"I am not proposing to move tankers," Harsh said, laying out his carefully rehearsed pitch. "I am interested in specific byproducts. Industrial solvents. In smaller, manageable quantities. There is a manufacturing niche that is about to be starved. I want to feed it."
Mr. Nair's eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly. It was a smarter, more nuanced approach than he had expected. This wasn't a thug trying to hijack a shipment; it was a strategist looking for a corner of the board to claim.
"It is an interesting proposition," Nair conceded. "The risk profile is different. But the 'facilitation' required is still significant. The ports are watched. The routes are controlled."
This was the moment. The dangerous part.
"I have a relationship with the current... stakeholders at the docks," Harsh said, choosing his words with immense care. "A partnership. I believe they would see the value in diversifying their streams of commerce. Especially if it is managed discreetly and profitably."
He was essentially offering to become Venkat Swami's sub-contractor for a tiny slice of the oil trade, without Venkat Swami's knowledge or permission. It was a breathtakingly risky move.
Mr. Nair was silent for a long time, staring at his glass. He understood the subtext perfectly. He was being asked to partner with a young, ambitious proxy who was potentially playing both sides.
"Your capital?" Nair asked finally.
Harsh reached into his briefcase and placed the heavy gold bar on the polished teak table between them. It sat there, gleaming dully under the soft hotel lighting, a statement more powerful than any words.
Mr. Nair looked at it, then back at Harsh. A slow, calculating smile touched his lips. "A show of seriousness. Good."
He leaned forward. "I will have a proposition drawn up. Quantities. Prices. Delivery points. The first shipment will be a test. Small. If it goes smoothly, we can discuss scale."
It was a yes. A conditional, dangerous, potentially suicidal yes.
Harsh had made his first Gulf contact. He had entered into a risky partnership. He had taken the first step into the oil trade by offering to betray the very devil who had saved his life.
He walked out of the hotel into the blinding Mumbai sun, the agreement feeling like a live grenade in his pocket. He had his foot in the door.
Now he had to make sure the door didn't slam shut and crush him.
(Chapter End)