The lock-up garage smelled of dust, motor oil, and the sharp, acrid tang of the five sealed drums. They stood in the center of the concrete floor like monoliths, a tangible manifestation of their terrifying gamble. The close call at the checkpoint had left them all shaken, a constant reminder that their newfound "protection" was a double-edged sword that could cut them just as easily as it shielded them.
Now came the next test: turning the contraband into cash.
The paint factory in Chembur was a sad, sprawling complex of faded buildings and rusted pipes. A sign outside, once proud, now read "Shree Lakshmi Paints & Chemicals," the lettering peeling and forlorn. The air, even from the street, carried a faint, sickly-sweet chemical smell overlaid with despair.
Harsh went alone. He wore his best clothes, but they felt like a poor disguise. He wasn't a industrialist; he was a alleyway hustler walking into an office.
The manager, Mr. Dalal, was a man etched in worry. He sat behind a cluttered desk in a glass-walled office that looked out over a silent, still production floor. The machinery was clean but idle. He looked up as Harsh entered, his eyes tired and suspicious.
"Yes? What is it? I am very busy," he said, though the empty factory behind him screamed otherwise.
Harsh didn't bother with pleasantries. Time was a currency he couldn't waste. "I understand you are having sourcing difficulties, Mr. Dalal. With the X-12 solvent."
Mr. Dalal's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
"My name is Harsh. I represent a new supply channel. I have five drums of high-grade X-12 solvent. Available immediately."
A flicker of desperate hope crossed the manager's face, quickly suppressed by deep-seated skepticism. "Impossible. My usual supplier in Gujarat has nothing. The ports are choked. Everyone is hoarding. Who is your supplier?"
"That is confidential," Harsh said, his voice calm. "The product is not. You can test it. Today. If it meets your specifications, we can discuss price."
The audacity of it—a teenager offering to solve an industrial supply crisis—was so staggering that it bypassed Mr. Dalal's skepticism and went straight to his desperation. He had orders to fill, a workforce to pay, a bank breathing down his neck. He had no other options.
He called in his chief chemist, a elderly man with stooped shoulders and glasses thick as bottle bottoms. They followed Harsh back to the lock-up in the manager's own car, a nervous, silent journey.
In the garage, the chemist took a sample from one of the drums. The testing kit came out. Droppers, vials, a small burner. The air filled with the smell of alcohol and anxiety. Harsh, Deepak, and Sanjay watched, their futures hanging on the color change of a liquid in a test tube.
The chemist grunted, holding a vial up to the bare lightbulb. He nodded, once, to Mr. Dalal. "It is good. Better than the last shipment we had from Gujarat. Higher purity."
The relief on Mr. Dalal's face was palpable. Then the business face slammed down. "The price?" he asked, his voice tight.
Harsh named a figure. It was thirty percent above the pre-crisis market rate. A brutal, opportunistic price.
Mr. Dalal flinched. "That is robbery!"
"It is availability," Harsh corrected him, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "You can refuse. My next meeting is with a factory in Thane in two hours. They have been calling me daily."
It was a bluff of epic proportions. There was no meeting in Thane. But Harsh had seen the desperation in the man's eyes. He knew he held all the cards.
Mr. Dalal stared at the drums, then at Harsh's impassive face. He was cornered. He needed this to keep his doors open. The war had made beggars of businessmen.
"Fine," he spat out, the word tasting like defeat. "But I want it delivered tonight. And if the quality is inconsistent, the deal is off."
"Tonight," Harsh agreed.
The transaction was completed in cash, in the lock-up garage. Thick stacks of high-denomination notes, more liquid wealth than they had ever held at one time. Mr. Dalal counted it out with trembling hands, his face a mask of resentment and relief.
When the manager and the chemist drove away, leaving them alone with the empty drums and the money, the silence in the garage was absolute.
Sanjay let out a whoop that echoed off the concrete walls, a release of pure, undiluted triumph. He grabbed Deepak and did a little jig. "We did it! Harsh Bhai, we did it!"
Deepak, usually so reserved, was grinning, a real, proper grin that reached his eyes. He picked up one of the stacks of cash, feeling its weight. "The profit... it is more than we made in three months with the electronics."
Harsh didn't join the celebration. He stood still, looking at the money piled on an overturned crate. He had done it. He had successfully executed the first step. He had identified a need, secured a dangerous supply, and extracted a premium price.
But the victory felt hollow. The profit was immense, but a significant portion of it was already earmarked—a cut for Mr. Nair's next shipment, a larger "donation" for Desai to cover the checkpoint incident, and the ever-present, looming share for Venkat Swami that the ghost would inevitably claim for facilitating the use of "his" docks, even indirectly.
He wasn't building wealth; he was a middleman in a chain of extortion. The money passed through his hands, but most of it never stayed.
He had gotten the oil, or at least, a refined piece of it. He had felt the first taste of crude power. It was potent. It was addictive.
But it was also filthy, and it left a bitter aftertaste.
He looked at Deepak and Sanjay's celebrating faces. They saw the mountain of cash. He saw the quicksand it was built on.
"Pack it up," he said, his voice quiet, cutting through their joy. "We're not done. This was just the first one. Nair will want more orders. The ghost will want his share. This..." he gestured to the money, "...isn't ours. It's just fuel. For the next gamble."
The celebration died down. The reality of their situation settled back over them, heavier than the cash. They had taken a bite of the forbidden fruit. Now they were forever bound to the tree it grew on.
The first taste of crude was a success. But it only made him thirstier for the real thing: not just money, but true independence.
(Chapter End)