The decision sat in Harsh's gut like a stone. For two days, he moved through his life in a daze, the alcove's familiar routines feeling like a play he was acting in. Every soldered joint, every negotiated sale, was a triviality. The only real thing was the terrifying resolve hardening within him.
He had to ask for an audience. Not with the ghost. With the man himself. Venkat Swami.
The idea was so audacious it bordered on insanity. Men like him did not meet with boys from Bhuleshwar. They sent whispers and ghosts. They broke fingers and levied taxes. They did not hold meetings.
But he had no other path. The monopoly was absolute. To survive, he had to make himself visible. He had to transform from a anonymous source of tribute into a person—a useful, interesting person.
He waited for the ghost's next visit, the usual envelope of electronics profits feeling paltry and insignificant in his hand. When the lean man appeared, gliding into the alcove with his usual silent menace, Harsh didn't hand him the money immediately.
"I need to speak to him," Harsh said, his voice quieter than he intended, but clear.
The ghost's dead eyes showed no surprise. No emotion at all. "Speak to whom?"
"Your employer. Venkat Swami." Saying the name aloud felt like a blasphemy.
The ghost was silent for a long moment, his gaze boring into Harsh. "He does not take meetings."
"This isn't about a complaint. It is about a proposition. A new revenue stream. Bigger than gold. Bigger than paint thinner."
The ghost's expression did not change, but the quality of his silence did. It became more focused, more assessing. "He is aware of your... endeavors. Their scale does not yet warrant his attention."
"That's the point," Harsh pressed, leaning forward slightly, the envelope of cash forgotten in his hand. "They could. With his blessing, they could be much bigger. I'm not asking for a favor. I'm proposing an expansion of his existing operations. I can be a... a specialist. Handling the smaller, niche markets that are beneath his main interests, but which can generate significant cumulative profit."
He was pitching himself as a subsidiary. A division of Venkat Swami & Co.
The ghost said nothing. He simply reached out, took the envelope from Harsh's hand, and tucked it away. Then he turned to leave.
Harsh's heart sank. He had been dismissed.
But at the entrance to the alley, the ghost paused. He did not look back.
"Be at the Taj Mahal Tea House. Fort. Tomorrow. Four PM. Sit in the back corner. Order one tea. Do not speak to anyone. Do not be late."
And then he was gone.
Harsh stood frozen, a bolt of pure adrenaline shooting through him. It was not a yes. But it was not a no. It was a test.
The Taj Mahal Tea House was an institution, a place of quiet, old-world elegance where businessmen and lawyers went to talk. It was the polar opposite of the grimy docks and back alleys of Venkat Swami's usual domain. The choice of venue was a message in itself: this was business, not brutality.
The next day, Harsh arrived at ten minutes to four. He wore his best clothes, which still felt cheap and out of place. The air inside was thick with the aroma of expensive tea and the low murmur of discreet conversations. He took the back corner seat, his palms damp.
At exactly four o'clock, a man entered. He was not the ghost. He was older, with a carefully trimmed grey beard and wearing a simple but impeccably tailored kurta. He carried a leather briefcase. He looked like a senior bank manager.
He walked directly to Harsh's table and sat down without asking. A waiter appeared instantly. The man ordered two teas with a quiet authority that required no raised voice.
He placed his briefcase on the table but did not open it. He simply looked at Harsh, his gaze calm, intelligent, and utterly penetrating.
"Your proposition," the man said. His voice was soft, educated, devoid of any rasp or threat. It was more frightening than the ghost's monotone.
Harsh had rehearsed this a hundred times. He laid it out cleanly, without emotion. The impending oil crisis. The specific, underserved industrial niches—the small factories, the chemical plants outside the major industrial zones that would be desperate and willing to pay a premium. His ability to source and distribute smaller quantities through discreet channels, channels that could be made more efficient and secure with the right... infrastructure.
He was careful to never frame it as something he would do for Venkat Swami, but rather through him. He was a tool offering to make itself more useful.
The man listened, sipping his tea. He asked a few questions. Precise, technical questions about supply chains, profit margins, and risk assessment. He was not a thug; he was an accountant. A chief financial officer for a criminal empire.
When Harsh finished, the man was silent for a full minute, finishing his tea.
"The terms would be non-negotiable," the man said finally. "A seventy-thirty split. Gross revenue. We provide the logistical umbrella, the security, the facilitation. You provide the market knowledge and the day-to-day management. You operate with autonomy within your designated lane. You stray from the lane, the consequences will be... financial."
Seventy-thirty. It was worse than the gold. It was ruinous. It was indentured servitude.
But it was also an offer. A contract. He would be a recognized entity within the ecosystem, not just prey.
Harsh didn't hesitate. He had run the numbers. Even with a seventy percent cut for Venkat Swami, the sheer volume he could achieve under their protection would make the thirty percent larger than anything he could make on his own, constantly looking over his shoulder.
"Agreed," Harsh said.
The man gave a single, slow nod. He opened his briefcase, took out a single sheet of paper, and slid it across the table. It was a contract. Simple, brutal, and written in flawless legal English. It outlined the terms, the boundaries of his "lane," and the penalties for divergence. There were no signatures required. Their verbal agreement in this tea house was binding. The paper was just for his reference.
"The first shipment will be arranged. You will be contacted," the man said. He stood up, closed his briefcase, and left as quietly as he had arrived.
Harsh sat there, the untouched tea growing cold in front of him, the sheet of paper feeling heavier than any gold bar.
He had done it. He had willingly walked into the lion's den and put his head in its mouth.
The risk of exposure was now absolute. He was a formal part of Venkat Swami's machine.
He had secured his supply. He had gained a form of protection.
And he had sold his soul for a thirty percent share of his own ambition.
The game had changed forever.
(Chapter End)