The banker's draft was a paradox. It was the largest sum of clean, legitimate money Harsh had ever earned. He could deposit it openly, show his parents, and finally give some truth to the lie of his "tutoring" success. Yet, it felt dirtier than any stack of cash from a diesel deal. It was a leash, woven from silk instead of chain, but a leash all the same.
He deposited the money. He bought his mother a new sari and his father a better radio, offering a vague story about a "consultancy bonus" from a "satisfied industrial client." Their pleased, slightly bewildered acceptance was a new kind of ache. He was building a life on a foundation owned by someone else.
The alcove thrived. The reputation of "Harsh Bhai" as a reliable electronics wholesaler grew. Orders came in from smaller cities in Maharashtra—Pune, Nashik, Nagpur. Sanjay managed the sales with hungry ambition, and Deepak's repair work remained flawless. It was everything Harsh had once dreamed of.
But the shadow of Sigma Electro-components, and the man behind it, loomed over everything.
A week after the banker's draft arrived, a new visitor came to the alcove. He was a sharp-faced man in a polyester shirt, carrying a cheap briefcase. He didn't look like a customer.
"You are Harsh Patel?" the man asked, his eyes scanning the operation with a bureaucratic disdain.
"I am."
"I am from the Municipal Corporation. Licensing department." He flipped open a notepad. "There have been complaints. Unregistered commercial operation. Electrical code violations. Fire hazard." He ticked off the violations on his fingers, each one a potential death sentence for the business.
Harsh's blood ran cold. This was it. Sawant was one thing, but the municipal bureaucracy was a different, more venal beast. It could strangle you slowly with paperwork and fines.
Before Harsh could formulate a response, the man's tone shifted. It became almost conversational. "Of course, these things can often be resolved. A show of goodwill towards city improvement funds can make these... complaints... disappear."
The bribe was blatant. But as Harsh reached for the cash box, a familiar, lean figure appeared in the alley entrance.
The ghost.
He didn't say a word. He simply stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, his flat eyes fixed on the municipal officer.
The man's face drained of all color. His bluster vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated fear. He snapped his notepad shut.
"My mistake," he stammered, not looking at the ghost, not looking at Harsh. "A confusion. The address was wrong. My apologies for disturbing you."
He practically ran from the alcove, shoving past the ghost without making eye contact.
The ghost watched him go. Then, his eyes shifted to Harsh. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, and then turned and left.
No words had been exchanged. The problem had been solved. The protection Harsh had once paid Malvankar for with rupees, Venkat Swami now provided with a mere presence. The message was clear: You are mine. And I take care of what is mine.
The incident should have been a relief. Instead, it felt like a demonstration of his own powerlessness. His business, his success, his safety—it was all an illusion maintained by Swami's will.
A few days later, Mr. Iyer from Sigma Electro-components arrived at the alcove, beaming. He was a new man, his nervous energy replaced by a confident buzz.
"Harsh! Wonderful news! A new client! A big one! A contractor for the state telephone department. They need ten thousand specialized circuit boards. It is the biggest order in my company's history!"
Harsh felt a prickle of unease. "That's great, Mr. Iyer. But can the factory handle that volume?"
"With the systems you put in place? Of course!" Iyer said. "But there is a small issue. The raw materials. The specific components they need... they are... difficult to source. The import licenses, the foreign exchange... it is a mountain of paperwork. It would take months."
Harsh's unease grew. "So how did you get the order?"
Iyer leaned closer, lowering his voice. "The client... they were very understanding. They provided a solution. They gave me the name of a supplier. A local guy. He can get everything. No paperwork. No delays. He just needs a fifty percent deposit upfront. In cash."
The pieces clicked into place with a chilling finality. The "big client" was a fiction. The "difficult-to-source" components were likely sitting in a Venkat Swami warehouse, smuggled in through his docks. This was not an order; it was a forced expansion. Swami was using Sigma Electro-components to launder his smuggled goods into legitimate government contracts.
Harsh was no longer just a fixer. He was a vital link in the chain.
He looked at Iyer's excited, naive face. The man saw only salvation. He didn't see the puppet strings.
"Who is the supplier?" Harsh asked, already knowing the answer.
"His name is Dalal," Iyer said. "Seems like a very efficient fellow."
Mr. Dalal. The resentful accountant. His role was expanding, too.
Harsh forced a smile. "That's excellent news. You should proceed."
After Iyer left, buzzing with excitement, Harsh sat alone in the alcove. The scale of Venkat Swami's empire unfolded before him. It wasn't just about oil or intimidation. It was a vast, interconnected web. The docks were the mouth, swallowing illegal goods. The muscle and the ghosts were the arms, enforcing control. And businesses like his and Sigma were the stomach, digesting the illicit into the legitimate, feeding the entire body.
He was no longer just in the empire's shadow.
He had been swallowed whole and was now being used to help build it from the inside out. The taste of power was now mixed with the ash of complicity.
He had wanted to be a king. He had become a prized pawn on a board he never even knew existed.
The game was much, much bigger than he had ever imagined. And he was only just beginning to understand the rules.
(Chapter End)