The ₹8,500 was a seed. Tiny, fragile, but planted in fertile ground. The success of the first run for Agarwal's mill—and more importantly, the principle behind it—earned them a second, larger shipment. Then a third. The two trucks became a constant, rattling presence on the road between Parel and the docks. The logistics division was breathing, its pulse weak but steady.
It was time to turn to the heart of the gamble: the Nova Electronics assembly plant.
If the Sewri warehouse was a decaying corpse and the trucks were convalescing patients, the plant was a comatose victim of poisoning. Located in a cramped industrial estate in Kandivali, it was a single-story, U-shaped building whose faded sign was almost completely obscured by grime.
The air inside was thick and still, heavy with the ghosts of solder and silence. Rows of workbenches sat empty, skeletal frames waiting for a purpose. A thin film of dust covered everything, from the silent conveyor belts to the dark screens of the oscilloscopes.
Harsh walked the lines with Deepak, their footsteps the only sound. Deepak ran a finger along a workbench, leaving a dark trail in the dust. "The machinery is... not bad," he murmured, his technician's eye assessing. "Japanese soldering stations. Good quality. But look." He pointed to a bin beneath one station. It was filled with discarded components, but many were burnt, their leads blackened. "They were running the irons too hot. Rushing. Burning out the boards to meet quotas."
The ghost of Swami's philosophy—quantity over quality, speed over sustainability—was etched into the very circuitry of the place.
In a small glass-walled office at the back, they found the plant's records. Or lack thereof. Ledgers were filled with inconsistent entries, part numbers that didn't match inventory, and shipping manifests for orders that seemed to vanish into thin air. It was a paper trail designed to obfuscate, not to account.
"This is worse than useless," Harsh said, slamming a ledger shut, sending a cloud of dust into the stagnant air. "It's a minefield. We don't even know what we own, what we owe, or what illegalities are buried in here."
The foreman, Rahim, found them there. He was a tall, gaunt man with weary eyes and a permanent stoop, as if carrying the weight of the plant's failure had physically bent him. He didn't look hostile, just profoundly tired.
"You are the new owner," he stated, his voice flat. It wasn't a question.
"I am," Harsh said. "Harsh Patel. This is Deepak."
Rahim's eyes flicked over Deepak, recognizing a fellow technician, then returned to Harsh. "He promised many things too. At first." He didn't need to say the name. "Then the orders got bigger. The deadlines got tighter. The components..." He gestured vaguely at the silent factory floor. "...they changed. Got cheaper. From different suppliers. We told him the failure rate would go up. He did not care. He said just make them work long enough to get out the door."
The story was a familiar one. It was the story of every fly-by-night operation in the city. Exploit, then abandon.
"What happened to the workers?" Harsh asked.
Rahim's face tightened. "When the quality complaints came, the orders stopped. He stopped paying. Four months ago. Just stopped. We kept coming for two weeks, hoping. Then... we stopped too." He looked around the office, a deep shame in his gaze. "I have worked here for fifteen years. I trained most of them. Now I cannot look them in the eye."
The human cost of Swami's reign landed on Harsh with a new weight. This wasn't just about machinery and real estate. It was about thirty-five lives, thirty-five families who had been left in limbo.
"How much?" Harsh asked, his voice quiet.
"For the back wages?" Rahim recited the number instantly, as if it were a mantra he repeated every night. "₹2,80,000."
Deepak let out a soft, sharp breath. It was a fortune. More than they had made from all their logistics runs combined.
Harsh felt the same cold calculus he'd applied to the warehouse and the trucks. It was a bad investment. The plant might be a total write-off. The machinery might be worthless. Paying ₹2.8 lakh for a dead asset and a moral victory was terrible business.
But he wasn't just a businessman anymore. He was the architect. And an architect can't build on a foundation of rot and despair.
"Deepak," Harsh said, not taking his eyes off Rahim. "What is the absolute minimum we need to get one single production line running? To make one single product, and make it well."
Deepak was silent for a moment, running the numbers in his head. "If the machinery can be salvaged... if we can find a reliable component source... just for one line, for a small batch... ₹5 lakh. Minimum. And that is before we pay them," he said, nodding toward Rahim.
So. Nearly ₹8 lakh to even have a chance at making this place viable. A huge chunk of his remaining capital.
Harsh looked at Rahim. The man's pride was warring with his desperation. He expected to be dismissed, to be told the new owner was no different from the old.
"Your workers," Harsh said. "Are they skilled? Would they come back? Would they care about quality if given the chance?"
A flicker of light sparked in Rahim's weary eyes. "They are the best. They were broken by a bad system. Not by a lack of skill. Give them a good board to assemble, and they will give you a masterpiece."
Harsh made the decision. It was the biggest gamble yet.
"The back wages will be paid," he said. The words hung in the dusty air. Rahim's stoop seemed to lessen slightly. "But not all at once. I will pay one month now. The rest will be paid out over the next three months, as a bonus tied to our production targets. We succeed together, or we fail together."
It was a compromise between principle and pragmatism. It showed good faith without bankrupting him immediately.
Rahim considered this. It was more than he'd dared hope for. He gave a single, sharp nod. "This is fair."
"Good. Your first task," Harsh said, gesturing to the filthy, silent factory. "Get this place clean. I mean spotless. I want to see the floor. I want to see the workbenches. I want every tool inspected. I will be back in one week with Deepak. We will have a prototype for you to study. Then we will see what this ghost can really do."
He left Rahim standing in the office, a man suddenly given a purpose where there had been none. The weight was still there, but it was now the weight of a challenge, not a sentence.
Outside, Deepak finally voiced his fear. "Bhaiya, ₹2,80,000... plus another five... it is too much. We are bleeding money from every side."
"I know," Harsh said, staring back at the shuttered plant. "But we're not just paying wages, Deepak. We're buying an army. And right now, an army of skilled, loyal workers is the most valuable asset we can possibly have."
He was no longer just acquiring Swami's leftovers. He was recruiting his people. The ghost in the machine wasn't the failure; it was the skill, the knowledge, the pride that had been buried under it. Harsh's job was to exorcise the past and resurrect the potential.
The price was astronomical. But some things, he was beginning to understand, were beyond price.
(Chapter End)