The notebook was a secret more dangerous than any hidden stash of money. In it, Harsh began to map the world not as it appeared, but as it truly was: a vast, pulsating network of influence, fear, and need. He started not with kings, but with pawns. And his first move was to strengthen the ones he already had.
He found Prakash Rao not at the scrapyard, but at a tiny, hole-in-the-wall bar, drowning his fears in cheap country liquor. The municipal officer's visit had shaken him deeply; it was a reminder that their entire world could be unmade by a man with a rubber stamp and a greedy palm.
Harsh sat down opposite him and ordered two glasses. He didn't speak for a moment, just let the old man's nervous energy fill the space between them.
"The officer," Harsh said finally, his voice low. "The one who ran. Who is he?"
Rao looked up, his eyes bleary. "His name is Joshi. A nothing. A clerk who got a little power and thinks it makes him a king."
"Where does he live?" Harsh asked.
Rao told him an address in a cramped, middle-class housing colony in Dadar. "Why, Harsh Bhai? He is a mosquito. Why bother?"
"Even a mosquito can carry disease," Harsh said, finishing his drink. "I'm not going to swat him. I'm going to give him a reason to land on someone else's arm."
The next evening, Harsh stood across the street from a dull, concrete building. He watched as a balding, weary-looking man in a slightly rumpled shirt cycled up, locked his bicycle to a rusted railing, and trudged inside. Ajay Joshi. A small man with a small life, who used his small power to feel big.
Harsh didn't approach him that night. Or the next. He watched. He learned Joshi's routine. The man stopped at the same tea stall every morning. He bought the same newspaper. He was a creature of habit, of small, predictable comforts.
On the third day, Harsh was at the tea stall when Joshi arrived. Their eyes met. Joshi's face, for a split second, was a mask of pure terror. He recognized Harsh from the alcove.
Harsh gave a small, neutral nod and turned back to his tea. He said nothing.
The next day, he did the same. And the day after.
By the end of the week, the terror in Joshi's eyes had been replaced by a nervous, confused curiosity.
On Monday, Harsh finally spoke. "The chai is good here," he said, as if they were old acquaintances.
Joshi jumped slightly. "Y-yes. It is."
Harsh paid for his own tea and, as he turned to leave, he also paid for Joshi's. "Keep the change," he told the chaiwalla.
He walked away without another word.
The following day, he did it again. And the day after that. He never spoke beyond a simple greeting. He just paid for the man's morning tea.
It was a tiny thing. Insignificant. But for a man like Joshi, who was used to either being ignored or extorted, this silent, consistent act of unexplained generosity was deeply unsettling. It created a debt. A small, confusing debt that demanded repayment.
A week later, Harsh was waiting at the stall. When Joshi arrived, Harsh didn't just pay for the tea. He slid a small, neatly wrapped box across the counter toward him.
"What is this?" Joshi asked, his voice wary.
"A gift. For your son. I hear he did well on his exams." Harsh had learned this from a casual conversation with the chaiwalla. "It's a calculator. For his studies."
It was a refurbished unit from the alcove. Worth a few hundred rupees. A fortune to a low-level clerk.
Joshi stared at the box as if it were a snake. "I... I cannot..."
"You can," Harsh said, his voice still calm, but leaving no room for refusal. "It is a gift from one father to another. No strings."
He walked away. The hook was set. The string, of course, was already attached. It was the string of obligation, the most powerful string in the world.
He applied the same principle elsewhere. He sought out Jagdish, the truck driver, not for a job, but for advice. He asked him about the best routes to Pune, about the checkposts that were tough, the ones that were easy. He paid him for his time, treating him not as hired help, but as a consultant. He built a relationship based on respect, not fear.
He even approached Mr. Iyer, but not about the factory. He asked him for advice on business formalities, on banking, playing the role of the young, eager entrepreneur looking up to an experienced mentor. He flattered the man's ego, weaving a different kind of connection, one of perceived friendship and respect.
He was building his web, one silken, almost invisible thread at a time. They were weak threads, fragile. But there were more of them than anyone knew.
A month passed. The ghost appeared for his regular collection. The amount was larger than ever, thanks to the booming business at Sigma and the alcove's expanding wholesale operations. The ghost took the envelope, his dead eyes flicking to Harsh.
"There is a matter," the ghost rasped, his voice like sandpaper. "A small export-import firm. They are being difficult. They are refusing to use our logistics services. The owner is a proud man. He needs to understand the benefits of cooperation."
It was not a request. It was an order. Venkat Swami was giving him his first real test within the empire. He was to be a new kind of ghost—one that convinced rather than threatened.
Harsh nodded. "I will speak with him."
The ghost gave him the name and address. It was a test of loyalty, of usefulness. But as Harsh looked at the information, he didn't see a threat. He saw an opportunity.
This proud business owner wasn't a target. He was another potential connection. A thread that Swami saw as weak and needing to be dominated, but that Harsh might weave into his own, separate design.
The student was learning, and his first lesson was this: in an empire, every errand could be a opportunity. Every order could be a seed for a rebellion no one would ever see coming.
He pocketed the address. The first thread of his own web was about to be tested.
(Chapter End)