The success with Coastal Traders was a subtle turning point. The ghost's collections continued, but the silent judgment in his dead eyes was occasionally replaced by a flicker of something else—not respect, but a cold acknowledgment of utility. Harsh was no longer just a problem to be managed or a resource to be drained; he was a tool that had proven unexpectedly effective.
This new status brought a dangerous form of comfort. The fear that had been a constant companion since the ghost's first visit began to recede, replaced by a calculated confidence. He was learning the rules of the game and playing it well. The money from Swami's ventures and his own legitimate businesses flowed in a steady, growing stream. He opened a proper bank account in his own name, the deposits from Sigma Electro-components and the alcove providing a clean, explainable foundation for his wealth.
He even allowed himself a small indulgence. He rented a modest, clean one-room apartment in a slightly better part of town, telling his parents it was a private office space for his "consultancy." It was a place to think, to store his secret ledger, to be alone with his ambitions away from the claustrophobic energy of his family home and the watchful eyes of Bhuleshwar.
One evening, while listening to the BBC World Service on his new, powerful shortwave radio, the news bulletin shifted from the steady drumbeat of Gulf tensions to a specific financial report. The announcer's crisp, British accent laid out the facts: Gold prices had begun a sharp, steady climb on international markets. Analysts cited political uncertainty, fears of inflation, and a flight to safe-haven assets.
A slow smile spread across Harsh's face. This was it. The whisper he'd been waiting for, the one that had been buried under the immediate threats of Sawant and Swami. His future knowledge, dormant for months, roared back to life.
Gold.
He saw it not as a commodity, but as a key. A key to a kingdom far greater than any he could build with electronics or smuggled diesel. It was global, timeless, and utterly liquid. It was the ultimate currency.
The next morning, he went to the one place he knew would understand: the Zaveri Bazaar. The air here was thick with the clink of coins and the murmur of a thousand transactions, a language older than the city itself. He wasn't Harsh Patel, Swami's lieutenant, here. He was just another face in the crowd, but his eyes were different. They were looking for a specific kind of shop: not the glittering storefronts that sold jewelry to the wealthy, but the smaller, denser establishments that dealt in raw bullion and served a more discreet clientele.
He found one, tucked down a narrow lane. The sign above the door was faded, the name "Mohanlal Jewellers" almost worn away. Inside, an old man with a magnifying loupe screwed into his eye was weighing a stack of gold coins on a delicate scale. He looked up as Harsh entered.
"I need to understand the market," Harsh said, dispensing with pleasantries. "Not for ornaments. For investment."
The old man, Mohanlal, set down his loupe. His eyes were sharp, missing nothing. "The market is simple, young man. It goes up," he said in a dry, rasping voice. "The question is not if, but when, and for how long. And the more foolish the world becomes, the higher it goes."
"It's going to go much higher," Harsh said, the certainty in his voice giving the old man pause.
Mohanlal studied him for a long moment. "Many men think they know the future. Few are willing to bet their life on it."
"I'm not betting my life," Harsh said. "I'm investing it. What would it take to buy in? Not just a few coins. A meaningful amount."
Mohanlal's eyebrows rose. "A meaningful amount requires trust. Or collateral. Do you have either?"
Harsh thought of his bank account, the clean money. It was a start, but not enough. He thought of the hidden money, the diesel profits. Too dangerous. He needed a different way.
"I have a business," Harsh said. "A profitable one. I can provide guarantees."
The old man shook his head. "Paper guarantees are for banks. This is gold. It requires something more... tangible." He leaned forward. "You are not the first young man with fire in his eyes to come here. The market is rising. Everyone wants in. But to play with the big boys, you need more than desire. You need either a great deal of cash upfront, or you need a partner who already has a seat at the table."
The door to the back of the shop opened, and a younger man emerged, carrying a ledger. He had the same sharp eyes as the old man, but a harder, more calculating expression. He glanced at Harsh with open disinterest.
"This is my nephew, Rohan," Mohanlal said. "He handles our more... contemporary dealings."
Rohan looked Harsh up and down. "You're the one who's been making noise with Venkat Swami," he stated, his voice flat. It wasn't a question.
The mention of the name hung in the small, stuffy shop like a thunderclap. There were no secrets in this city.
Harsh didn't deny it. "I handle some logistics for him."
Rohan gave a curt, humorless smile. "Then you already have a partner with a seat at the table. If you want to play in the gold market, you don't come to us. You go through him. He controls the flow of it into the city. The best pieces, the purest bars... they all pass through his hands before they ever reach the Zaveri Bazaar."
The revelation was a physical blow. Of course. It was so obvious. Gold was the ultimate smuggled good. Dense, valuable, untraceable. Why wouldn't Venkat Swami, the master of the docks, control that river too?
His dream of an independent play, a way to build his own power outside of Swami's web, evaporated. The gold market wasn't an escape; it was just the deepest, most central chamber of the same labyrinth.
The old man, Mohanlal, looked almost sorry for him. "The ocean is vast, boy," he murmured, echoing the ghost's old warning. "But there is only one current. Everyone swims in it, or they drown."
Harsh left the shop, the intoxicating vision of gold fading, replaced by the grim reality of his situation. He had felt the rising tide of his own ambition, only to realize that the tide itself belonged to Venkat Swami.
He stood at the edge of the bustling Zaveri Bazaar, watching the dealers and the buyers, the masters of the only true currency. He was closer to the heart of real power than he had ever been, but he was still on the outside, looking in.
To get what he wanted, he would have to go through the one man who had everything. The rising tide was lifting all boats, but his was still tethered to the dockmaster's pier.
The question was no longer if he would enter the gold trade. It was how he could do it without being consumed by it.
(Chapter End)