Victory, Harsh was learning, was not a moment of celebration. It was a invoice. And Ms. Mehta's invoice was a masterpiece of cold, clinical triumph.
He held the thick legal document that formally transferred the title of the Sewri warehouse to Patel Holdings. The paper was expensive, the ink sharp. It had cost him ₹11,37,500 in legal fees, court costs, and "administrative facilitation payments" to various municipal departments that Ms. Mehta had simply listed as "operational expenses."
The "Arun Patel" oil fund, once a seemingly bottomless well of opportunity, now stood at a more sobering ₹80,79,940. A little over ₹11 lakh vaporized to secure a single asset. The math was a cold splash of reality.
"This is just the key," Ms. Mehta had said, her voice crisp over the phone. "The door it unlocks may be rusted shut. The property is yours, Mr. Patel. What state it is in... that is your problem now."
He decided to see his prize alone.
The Sewri warehouse stood at the end of a potholed road that smelled of salt, rust, and neglect. It was a monstrous thing of corrugated iron and weary brick, a relic of a more industrious age. The chain on the main gate was new, a shiny shackle placed by the court-appointed caretaker. The Patel Holdings lock he clicked into place felt flimsy against the scale of the place.
The key turned with a groan. He heaved the sliding door open, a sliver of light cutting into the profound darkness within.
The smell hit him first. Not just dust, but the ghost of oil, of damp concrete, and something sour—the scent of abandonment. As his eyes adjusted, the victory Ms. Mehta had secured felt increasingly hollow.
The cavernous space wasn't empty. It was a graveyard of Swami's failed ambitions and chaotic avarice. stacks of mildewed cardboard boxes slumped against one wall, their contents long since rotted. In a corner, the skeletal remains of a half-dismantled truck sat like a dead animal, its engine scavenged for parts. Pigeons cooed angrily in the steel rafters high above, their droppings painting abstract, white patterns on the filthy floor.
And at the very back, a sight that made his blood run cold: a stack of wooden crates, stenciled with a familiar logo. Swami's old, illicit VCRs. Maybe fifty of them. A final, toxic gift from the previous owner.
This wasn't an asset. It was a liability. A massive, expensive, contaminated liability.
"Hey! You! What are you doing in there?"
Harsh turned. A man stood at the open doorway, silhouetted against the light. He was thin, dressed in a faded vest and lungi, but he held himself with a proprietary air.
"I own this place," Harsh said, his voice echoing in the vast space.
The man stepped closer, suspicion etched on his face. "You are the new one? The Patel?"
"I am."
The man nodded, his eyes scanning the dismal interior with a practiced gaze. "I am Joshi. The watchman. The court paid me to keep out the scrap thieves." He spat on the floor. "Not that there is much left to steal. He took everything that wasn't bolted down. And then he took some of that too."
Harsh looked around. "He?"
Joshi's face darkened. "The nephew. Vikrant Swami's nephew. A snake. Came the day after the arrest with a truck and his men. Said he was 'securing' his uncle's assets. Took machinery, tools, anything of value. Told me if I talked, he would find my family in Kolhapur."
So, the vultures had already picked the carcass. The legal victory was just the official paperwork; the real war for the spoils had already been lost.
"What about those?" Harsh pointed to the stack of VCRs.
Joshi spat again. "Evidence, the police said. Then they forgot. The nephew didn't want them. Too hot. You touch those, and the Crime Branch will be back here before you can blink."
Harsh walked the length of the warehouse, his footsteps echoing. Everywhere he looked, he saw rupees. Not profit, but cost. The cost of demolition. The cost of disposal for the hazardous waste. The cost of a new roof to stop the leaks he could already see. The cost of bribing officials to look the other way on the illegal VCRs.
His grand vision of a bustling logistics hub dissolved, replaced by the image of a money pit. The excitement of ownership curdled into the heavy weight of a millstone.
He stopped in the center of the space and looked up at the high ceiling. A single, grimy skylight let in a beam of light, illuminating the swirling dust motes. This was it. The foundation of his empire. Not a clean slate, but a contaminated one.
He couldn't afford to be overwhelmed. He had to break it down into problems he could solve.
"Joshi," he said, his voice firm, cutting through the man's litany of complaints.
Joshi stopped, surprised by the tone.
"You want to keep your job?"
Joshi's eyes narrowed, calculating. "The court does not pay anymore."
"I will pay you. A proper wage. But your job changes. You're not a watchman anymore. You're the site supervisor."
Joshi blinked. "Supervisor of what?"
"Of this," Harsh said, gesturing at the mess. "Your first task: get me a notebook. On the first page, I want three lists. List one: everything in here that can be sold for scrap. List two: everything that is pure trash and needs to be disposed of. List three: everything that is a legal problem, like those VCRs. You know this place. You know the streets. You know who buys scrap and who takes trash. Get me the lists and your price for getting it done."
It was a gamble. Joshi could easily cheat him. But he needed a pair of eyes and ears on the ground, someone who knew the ecosystem of this industrial wasteland.
A flicker of something—pride? ambition?—passed over Joshi's face. He was being given responsibility, not just a order.
"Yes, sahib," he said, his posture straightening slightly. "I will have the lists."
Harsh gave him an advance, a wad of cash that felt like yet another risk. As he locked the giant door behind him, the weight of the place seemed to follow him.
He hadn't acquired an asset. He had adopted a ruin. The first stone of his empire was not a gleaming cornerstone, but a heavy, dirty, problem-filled rock he now had to lift alone.
The crown of ashes was proving to be made of lead.
(Chapter End)