The revelation in Mohanlal's shop settled over Harsh like a lead weight. There was no escape. Every avenue of real wealth and power—oil, electronics, and now gold—flowed through Venkat Swami. The old man's words echoed in his mind: There is only one current.
Fighting it was suicide. The only path forward was to dive deeper into it, to understand its every eddy and whirlpool until he could perhaps, one day, learn to steer it himself.
He didn't wait for the ghost to summon him. He requested a meeting.
The message was passed through Prakash Rao, up the chain of whispers, and the answer came back with surprising speed. The black car picked him up that same evening. This time, it did not take him to the Malabar Hill bungalow, but to a non-descript warehouse office near the docks. The room was spartan: a metal desk, two chairs, a large map of the world's shipping lanes on the wall. This was where the real work was done.
Venkat Swami was there, along with the ghost and Mr. Dalal. The accountant looked even more pinched than usual, as if the proximity to raw power was physically painful.
"You wished to speak," Swami said. It was not a question.
"The gold market is heating up," Harsh began, dispensing with any preamble. He was not here as a subordinate; he was here as an analyst reporting on an opportunity. "The Gulf crisis will push it higher. There is significant profit to be made."
Swami's ancient eyes showed nothing. "Gold is a delicate business. It attracts a different kind of attention. The Customs officials who look away from a container of televisions are less... flexible... with a kilo of gold."
"It's not about smuggling it in bars," Harsh said, the plan forming fully even as he spoke the words. "That's too risky, too bulky. We use the existing pipeline, but we change the product."
He had their attention. Even the ghost was watching him intently.
"Consumer demand is rising with the price," Harsh continued. "Not for investment, but for jewelry. People get nervous. They want something they can hold, something they can hide. We use your logistics to bring in the raw materials—the gold, the gems—but we manufacture here. We control the entire chain, from the dock to the display case. We don't just move gold; we become the gold market."
He was proposing a vertical monopoly. Not just taxing the river, but owning the source and the mouth.
Mr. Dalal sniffed. "Manufacturing requires capital. Expertise. It is a completely different business."
"It's a business with higher margins and cleaner profits," Harsh countered. "And the expertise can be hired. There are craftsmen in Zaveri Bazaar who are artists. We give them a steady supply of materials and a guaranteed market for their work. We become their only client."
Swami was silent for a long time, his fingers steepled. He looked from Harsh to the ghost, then to Dalal.
"The boy sees the tide," Swami said finally, his voice soft. "Most men only see the wave. Dalal, you will arrange the capital. Secure a workshop. Discreetly."
Dalal looked like he'd swallowed a lemon, but he nodded. "Yes, sir."
Swami's gaze returned to Harsh. "You will identify the craftsmen. Find the best five. Not the richest. The most skilled. The ones with hungry families and quiet ambitions. Offer them exclusivity. Generous terms. But their loyalty must be absolute. You will handle this."
It was a colossal responsibility. It was also an immense show of trust. Or a test of a different kind.
"I understand," Harsh said.
"The first shipment arrives next week," the ghost rasped, speaking for the first time. "Five kilos of 24-karat. You will be at Dock 7 to receive it."
Five kilos. A fortune beyond imagining, handed to him like a parcel.
The meeting was over. Harsh was dismissed. As the car took him back, his mind was not on the victory, but on the mechanics. The "shipment" would be smuggled, of course. Hidden in some piece of machinery or a container of innocuous goods. His first task was not as a businessman, but as a criminal.
A week later, under a moonless sky, he stood on the windswept pier of Dock 7. The ghost was there, a silent spectre. A container was unloaded from a freighter flying a Liberian flag. It was marked "Machine Parts."
Inside, among the greasy, heavy components, was a single, unmarked steel case. The ghost pointed to it.
Harsh picked it up. It was shockingly heavy. Dense. He clicked the latches and opened it.
Nestled in black foam were five bars of gold. They gleamed with a soft, buttery light under the dock's harsh halogen lamps. They were the most beautiful and terrifying things he had ever seen.
This was it. The ultimate currency. The foundation of empires and the ruin of men.
He closed the case. The weight felt like it would drag him through the concrete of the pier.
"The craftsmen?" the ghost asked.
"I have a list," Harsh said, his voice steady. "I will make the first approach tomorrow."
The ghost nodded. "Do not be late."
As Harsh walked away, the heavy case in his hand, he understood the true nature of the current he was in. It wasn't made of water. It was made of gold, and it flowed in only one direction: deeper into the heart of Venkat Swami's empire.
He had gotten exactly what he wanted. He was in the gold trade.
And there was no turning back.
(Chapter End)