The office was on the third floor of a nondescript building in Fort, a world away from the docks or Malabar Hill. It had previously housed a struggling import-export firm, and the air still smelled of dust and failed ambition. Harsh stood in the empty space, the echo of his footsteps the only sound. This was the foundation. Bare, empty, but his.
The first person he called was Deepak.
He found him at home, tinkering with a radio in the one-room apartment he shared with his family. He looked up, his soldering iron freezing mid-air as Harsh entered.
"Harsh Bhai?"
"I'm starting again," Harsh said, without preamble. "Not in an alcove. For real. I need my foreman."
Deepak's eyes widened. He looked at the radio, then at Harsh. He set the iron down. "Doing what?"
"Everything," Harsh said. "But legally. Or as legally as this city allows." He outlined the vision, not in grand terms, but in practical ones. Patel Holdings would start with logistics. They would use the warehouse Swami had abandoned at Sewri. They would hire loaders fairly. They would pay bribes to no one.
Deepak listened, his practical mind already working. "The other trucking companies… they will not like this. They will undercut us. They will send trouble."
"Let them," Harsh said. "We'll be better. Faster. More reliable. Our product will be our integrity."
It was a naive thing to say. But he saw the spark in Deepak's eyes. Not of ambition, but of pride. The chance to build something with his hands that wouldn't be smashed by goons.
"I am in," Deepak said, and that was that.
Sanjay was next. Harsh found him at a chai stall, regaling a few younger boys with exaggerated tales of their past exploits. He fell silent when he saw Harsh.
"Sanjay. I need a salesman. A real one. Not a street hawker."
Sanjay's face lit up with its familiar energy. "For what, Bhai? What are we selling?"
"Trust," Harsh said.
He took them both to the empty office. He had rented a single desk, three chairs, and a telephone. It was a laughable operation. But it was a start.
The first real test came with the paperwork. To formally acquire the assets of Swami's shell companies, he needed lawyers, not threats. He hired a small, fiercely honest firm that had once represented trade unions. Their senior partner, an elderly woman named Ms. Divya Mehta, peered at him over her spectacles.
"What you are attempting is… unprecedented," she said, her voice crisp. "The assets are frozen, tangled in litigation. To untangle them for legitimate use will require a full audit. Transparency. It will be slow. And expensive."
"Use this," Harsh said, sliding a bank draft across her desk. It was a significant portion of Arun Patel's wealth. "Bill me for every hour. I want it done right. No shortcuts."
Ms. Mehta looked at the draft, then at Harsh's determined face. A slow smile touched her lips. "Well," she said. "This will be interesting."
The next challenge was human. He needed someone who could navigate the byzantine rules of the docks, the customs offices, the freight yards. He needed Mr. Dalal.
The meeting in the jail visiting room was different this time. Dalal had lost weight. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a desperate calculation.
"Have you considered my offer?" Harsh asked.
"I want immunity," Dalal said, his voice low. "Full. And a salary. A good one."
"You'll get a fair trial and a defense lawyer I will pay for," Harsh countered. "You will serve some time. But with your cooperation, it will be minimal. And when you get out, you will have a job at Patel Holdings. Your salary will be based on your performance. You will earn your keep, Dalal. No more, no less."
It was a harder deal. Dalal flinched, but he was out of options. He nodded, once, sharply. "I'll testify. I'll give you everything."
"Start with the shipping manifests," Harsh said. "I want a list of every legitimate business that tried to work with Swami's logistics arm but was squeezed out or cheated. I want their names."
It was a masterstroke. Dalal, the architect of Swami's extortion, would now be the instrument of his redemption.
Within a week, Harsh had a list. He took it, and Sanjay, and they went visiting.
Their first call was on a small exporter named Mr. Agarwal, who shipped leather goods to Europe. Swami's company had "lost" a crucial shipment of his, bankrupting him.
Harsh found him in a dusty office, a broken man.
"Mr. Agarwal," Harsh said, introducing himself. "I am starting a new logistics company. Patel Holdings. I believe you have experience with shipping."
Agarwal looked at him with weary cynicism. "I have experience with thieves."
"So did I," Harsh said. "Which is why I put the thief in jail. I'm here to offer you a deal. I will ship your next order at cost. No profit. If it arrives on time, in full, you pay me. If it doesn't, you owe me nothing."
Agarwal stared, disbelieving. "Why would you do this?"
"Because I need to prove something," Harsh said. "To you. And to myself."
He left the man with a contract, its terms so fair they seemed like a trick.
They did this a dozen times. With a spice merchant, a textile exporter, a manufacturer of machine parts. The offer was always the same: a first shipment at cost, with a money-back guarantee for failure.
He was burning through capital. Deepak looked at the ledgers, his forehead creased with worry. "Harsh Bhai, the money… we are spending too fast. There is no income."
"We are not spending," Harsh corrected him. "We are investing. In trust."
The first shipment was Agarwal's leather goods. Deepak personally oversaw the loading. Sanjay tracked the paperwork through customs, using the knowledge Dalal provided to navigate the bureaucracy without a single bribe. It was slower. It was harder.
But the container sailed on time.
Three weeks later, a call came to the sparse office. It was Mr. Agarwal. His voice was shaking, but not with anger.
"It arrived," he said. "Every single piece. On time. The paperwork was perfect." There was a long pause. "How… how did you do it?"
"We did our job," Harsh said simply.
The next day, Agarwal was at the office. He didn't just want to pay his invoice. He wanted to sign a long-term contract. At market rates.
"I cannot pay you cost," he said, his voice firm. "A business must make a profit. Especially an honest one."
One by one, the other contracts came in. The spice merchant. The textile exporter. The money started to flow, slow but steady.
Harsh stood in the office one evening, looking at the first real profit figures on Deepak's ledger. It was a pittance compared to the fortunes he'd moved in the oil market. But it was clean. It was earned.
Sanjay burst in, holding a piece of paper. "Bhai! Look! The Economic Times! They did a story on the 'new wave of business ethics' in Mumbai. They mentioned us! They called us 'a promising start-up'!"
Harsh took the paper. There it was. Patel Holdings. His name. In print, for something good.
He didn't smile. He felt a weight, heavier than any he'd felt before. The weight of expectation. The weight of a promise made.
He had laid the first stone. It was solid. It was honest.
Now, he had to build the whole damn cathedral.
(Chapter End)