The five kilos of gold sat in a new, heavier safe in Harsh's "office" apartment, its presence a constant, humming pressure in the back of his mind. It was not his money. It was a responsibility, a test of his judgment and his loyalty. One misstep, one bar gone missing, and the ghost's quiet efficiency would be replaced with something final.
He spent the next day not in Bhuleshwar, but back in the labyrinthine lanes of Zaveri Bazaar. This time, he wasn't a wide-eyed aspirant; he was a prospector with a specific goal. He avoided the main thoroughfares, instead delving into the smaller, dustier alleys where the air rang not with the chatter of customers, but with the precise, rhythmic tap-tap-tap of small hammers and the keen whine of polishing wheels.
He was looking for skill, not showmanship. He found it in a tiny, third-floor workshop that was little more than a closet overlooking a courtyard. The sign read simply: A. Kumar - Fine Filigree. Inside, an old man with hands like gnarled tree roots and eyes magnified by thick glasses was soldering a chain so delicate it looked like a strand of spider silk. He didn't look up as Harsh entered.
Harsh watched him work for ten minutes, mesmerized. The man's movements were economical, perfect, every motion yielding a tiny, beautiful result. This was not a jeweler; this was an artist.
"Mr. Kumar?" Harsh finally said.
The old man started slightly, as if waking from a dream. He peered over his glasses. "I do not take walk-in customers. Only commissions. And I am very busy."
"I am not a customer," Harsh said. "I am a supplier. And a patron."
He placed a single, one-ounce wafer of gold, taken from the safe, on the workbench. It gleamed dully in the dusty light.
Kumar's eyes flicked to the gold, then back to Harsh's face, his suspicion deepening. "I have suppliers."
"Not like me," Harsh said. "I can provide you with as much of this as you can use. Twenty-four karat. Consistently. At a cost that will let you undercut every other filigree worker in the bazaar."
The old man was silent for a long time. The offer was too good to be true, and men of his age knew that such offers always came with strings.
"What is the catch?" he asked, his voice low.
"Exclusivity," Harsh said. "You work only for me. You tell no one where your materials come from. You meet my production deadlines. In return, you will be paid well, and you will never want for work or for gold."
It was the same offer Swami had made to him. He was building a smaller, mirrored version of the same structure.
Kumar picked up the gold wafer, feeling its weight, its purity. The temptation was a physical thing in the small room. To be free of scrounging for materials, of haggling with ruthless dealers... it was a dream.
"Who do you work for?" Kumar asked, the question a final wall of defense.
"That is not your concern," Harsh replied, his voice firm. "Your concern is the gold. And the work. Do we have an agreement?"
The old craftsman looked from the gold to his own worn tools, to the half-finished necklace on his bench. He gave a single, slow nod. "We have an agreement."
Harsh repeated the process three more times that day. He found a young, brilliant but impoverished stone-setter working out of his kitchen. A husband-and-wife team who specialized in enamel work, their tiny studio filled with vibrant powders. Each was chosen for their obscurity and their supreme skill. Each was offered the same devil's bargain: boundless opportunity in exchange for absolute secrecy.
He saved the most difficult for last.
He returned to Mohanlal's shop. The old man was there, but so was his nephew, Rohan. The younger man's eyes narrowed as Harsh entered.
"You again," Rohan said, his tone dismissive. "I told you, we are not—"
"I'm not here to buy," Harsh interrupted, his voice calm. "I'm here to make an offer. To you."
Rohan laughed, a short, harsh sound. "An offer? What can you possibly offer me?"
"Your uncle's legacy," Harsh said, looking around the dusty, fading shop. "This place is a museum. The business is dying with him. You have ambition, but you're stuck in the past, competing for scraps with a hundred other shops."
Rohan's smirk faded, replaced by anger. "You know nothing about my business."
"I know that the future doesn't belong to shopkeepers," Harsh said. "It belongs to suppliers. To manufacturers. I represent a new consortium. We are building a workshop. We need a manager. Someone who knows the market, who knows the players, who isn't afraid of volume."
He was offering Rohan a way out of his uncle's shadow, a chance to be more than just a shop clerk. He was appealing to the very ambition he had seen in the man's eyes.
Rohan was listening now, his arms crossed, but his posture was less defensive. "What kind of volume?"
"The kind that requires its own workshop and five of the best craftsmen in the city, who are already on retainer," Harsh said. "Your job would be to manage the flow. Materials in, finished pieces out. You would be the face of the operation in the bazaar. The commissions would be large. Corporate gifts. Wedding orders for industrialist families. The business you only dream about now."
It was a powerful lure. Power, respect, and money.
"And who," Rohan asked, his voice dripping with skepticism, "is backing this 'consortium'?"
Harsh smiled. "That remains confidential. But our backing is... unquestionable. The first shipment of raw materials has already arrived. Five kilos. There is more where that came from."
The number—five kilos—hit Rohan like a physical blow. His eyes widened slightly. He understood the language of weight. That was a level of capital his uncle's shop could never command.
He was silent for a long minute, warring with his pride and his ambition. Finally, he uncrossed his arms. "I would need to see the operation. The books."
"Of course," Harsh said. "The first meeting is tomorrow. Don't be late."
He left the shop, leaving a silent storm of conflict in his wake. He had just recruited the one man who might suspect the truth of his backing. It was a risk. But Rohan's hunger and his insider knowledge were assets too valuable to ignore. To control the Zaveri Bazaar, he needed a man from the inside.
As he walked out into the bustling street, he felt the pieces of this new venture clicking into place. The craftsmen, the manager, the raw materials. He was building Swami's empire, just as he had been ordered.
But with every person he recruited, with every connection he made, he was also building something else. His own list of names in his notebook grew longer. Kumar the filigree artist. The stone-setter. The enamelers. And now, perhaps, Rohan.
He was no longer just a passenger in the current. He was learning to swim, and he was starting to map the river's course for himself. The gold was Swami's. But the hands that shaped it, the system that moved it—that was slowly becoming Harsh's.
The student was not just learning. He was beginning to assemble his own tools.
(Chapter End)