The days that followed were a peculiar form of torture. Harsh was a general who had launched his single, decisive missile and could now only wait in his bunker, listening for the distant impact. His bunker was the spice-scented room, his world shrunk to the four walls and the single, grimy window overlooking a narrow alley.
He lived on cheap vada pav and water, his remaining rupees dwindling to almost nothing. The pain in his hand was a constant, throbbing companion, a reminder of his physical vulnerability. But the real agony was the silence. The absolute lack of news.
He couldn't risk going to the library or a broker's office. He was a static target now. His only connection to the outside world was the old transistor radio he'd bought from a street vendor for a handful of change. He kept it tuned to the BBC World Service, the announcer's crisp, British tones reporting on global events that felt abstract and distant—until they weren't.
He heard the first reports like everyone else. Iraqi troops massing on the border with Kuwait. Diplomatic tensions rising. The market, the radio said, was "jittery." Oil prices were "volatile."
Volatile. The word made his stomach clench. Volatility could break him before the trend even began. If prices spiked before they crashed, his margin call would come due, and he would be wiped out, a debtor before he'd even begun.
Then, on August 2nd, 1990, the world changed.
The BBC announcer's voice, usually so unflappable, was edged with gravity. "Iraqi forces have invaded Kuwait. Tens of thousands of troops are reported to have crossed the border in the early hours of the morning. The UN Security Council is convening an emergency session..."
Harsh sat on the floor, his back against the wall, the radio pressed to his ear. This was it. The memory was real. History was unfolding exactly as he remembered.
The next few days were a blur of escalating news. Condemnations from world leaders. Talks of sanctions. And through it all, the price of oil began its inexorable, terrifying climb.
It didn't just rise; it screamed upwards.
Harsh didn't need a broker's report to know what was happening. He could feel it in the city. Within a week, the price of diesel skyrocketed. The constant rumble of trucks outside his window lessened, then became sporadic. The cost of everything began to creep up. The economic shockwave from the Gulf was hitting the shores of Mumbai with the force of a tsunami.
And Venkat Swami's empire, built on the movement of goods, on ships and trucks and bribes that now cost more to fuel, was directly in the path.
Harsh allowed himself a single, cold smile. His short position—his bet that the price would fall—was now catastrophically, magnificently wrong. On paper, he was losing a fortune he never had. The margin calls would be coming. The broker would be panicking.
But he wasn't worried. He was waiting. He knew the second act of the play.
The world would not let Saddam Hussein control twenty percent of the world's oil. They would push back. And when they did, the price would not just fall; it would collapse.
He waited. The days turned into a week, then two. The price of oil climbed to dizzying heights. The city grew tense, anxious. The broker, if he was trying to find "Arun Patel," would be desperate.
Then, in late August, the news came. A US-led coalition was forming. The United Nations authorized the use of force. Operation Desert Shield was underway.
The market, sensing the inevitable, hesitated. The insane climb stopped. The price stabilized at its terrifying peak, a balloon stretched to its limit.
Harsh waited. He knew the pinprick was coming.
It happened in mid-January 1991. The news broke on the BBC. "Coalition aircraft have begun a massive bombing campaign against Iraqi targets in Kuwait and Iraq. Operation Desert Storm has begun."
The initial market reaction was another spike of panic. But this time, it was short-lived. The world was not tolerating the invasion. The might of the most powerful nations on earth was being brought to bear. The outcome was inevitable.
The bubble burst.
The price of oil didn't just fall; it plummeted. It collapsed under the weight of its own inflated speculation and the certainty that the Gulf's oil would soon be flowing freely again.
Harsh didn't hear from the broker. He didn't need to. He could calculate it in his head. The short position he had opened when prices were high was now printing money. A fortune was pouring into the ghost account of "Arun Patel," a fortune built on the memory of a war and the ruin of an empire.
He had done it. He had turned nothing into a weapon.
A few days later, a familiar sound returned to the city—the low, grumbling chorus of truck engines, running more frequently now that diesel was affordable again. But for many, the reprieve had come too late.
He heard the whispers in the street, the chatter from the spice merchants below his window. The talk wasn't about the war anymore. It was about the shake-up in the city's underworld.
...Swami's shipping lines are idle... ...heard he had to sell off three of his warehouses... ...the politicians are getting nervous, their cuts are smaller... ...the big man is feeling the pinch...
The economic shockwave he had bet on had crashed over Swami's empire. The constant flow of cash that greased every palm, that paid for every silence, had suddenly slowed to a trickle. The machine was seizing up.
Harsh had not confronted Swami with a knife or a gun. He had confronted him with a margin statement. He had attacked the one thing the emperor understood better than anything else: money.
He had made his first collection.
He sat in his room, the scent of spices thick in the air. He was no longer a fugitive. He was a creditor. And his debtor was now weakened, vulnerable, and looking for the source of his sudden misfortune.
The game was entering a new phase. The prophet of doom had been proven right. Now, it was time to become something else.
It was time to become a ghost no longer.
(Chapter End)