The new strategy acted like a valve, releasing the pent-up pressure that had been threatening to blow Patel Holdings apart. The frantic energy was replaced by a sense of deliberate, purposeful motion. It was the difference between a panicked flail and a focused stride.
Sanjay, unleashed from the confines of retail, became a hunter of a different breed. He stopped chasing shopkeepers and started studying corporate annual reports. He found his target in a rising software company, "Infotel," which was looking for a signature gift for its employees during the upcoming Diwali festival. His pitch was no longer about bass response; it was about "brand alignment," "employee morale," and "a symbol of quality and innovation." He sold the story of Patel Holdings—the principled stand, the phoenix-like rise from Swami's ashes—as much as he sold the player. Infotel's HR manager, a young MBA tired of giving out the same cheap calculators, was intrigued. She placed an order for one hundred and fifty units. A corporate order, with a net thirty-day payment term, but an order that promised volume and consistency.
At the Kandivali plant, a quiet revolution was underway. Under Deepak and Rahim's direction, the "Bombay Groove" was being systematically dismantled. It was a painful, surgical process. The beautiful, expensive aluminum faceplate was the first to go, replaced by a high-quality, textured plastic composite that cost a fraction of the price. The complex, hand-assembled main board was redesigned, its components reduced by twenty percent. It was less elegant, but more robust and far cheaper to produce.
Rahim, the artist, initially rebelled. "We are butchering it!" he protested to Deepak, holding the new, simplified board in his hand as if it were a dead insect.
"We are saving it," Deepak replied calmly. He pointed to the soldering points. "See? Fewer connections. Fewer points of failure. A junior assembler can build this perfectly in half the time. This isn't a butcher's job. It's a surgeon's. We are removing the cancer without killing the patient."
The "Model B" began to take shape. It was lighter. It was less substantial. But when Deepak played a tape on the first prototype, the sound was still rich, still clear. It was 95% of the original's quality at 60% of the cost. The profit margin was no longer a fantasy; it was achievable.
Harsh oversaw it all with a new detachment. The ghost account was his anchor in a stormy sea. Knowing it was there allowed him to make clear-headed decisions without the gut-wrenching fear of bankruptcy. He approved the cheaper components. He signed off on the Infotel order, even though the upfront cost of production would strain their cash flow. He was playing the long game, and for the first time, he felt he had the capital to do so.
The ledger for the month reflected the transition:
Patel Holdings - Month 12
· Logistics Revenue: ₹2,85,000 (Two new clients, including the organic food company)
· Logistics Profit: ₹45,000
· Overhead: ₹65,000
· R&D Cost (Model B): ₹20,000
· Net Loss: ₹(40,000)
They were still losing money, but the loss was stable, manageable. The Infotel order, once fulfilled, would push them firmly into the black.
One evening, Harsh met Priya for a walk on Marine Drive. The sea breeze was a welcome relief from the smell of solder and diesel. She noticed the change in him immediately.
"You seem... quieter," she said, linking her arm with his. "Not worried. Just calm. Did something happen?"
He looked out at the dark, rolling water. He couldn't tell her about the ghost account, the secret engine that was allowing him this peace. The lie of omission felt like a wall between them.
"The business is finding its feet," he said, which was true, if incomplete. "We have a plan. A good one."
She smiled, squeezing his arm. "I knew you would. I never doubted it." Her faith in him was absolute, and it felt like both a blessing and a burden.
Later that night, back in his small apartment, the calm was shattered by a phone call. It was the broker from Kalbadevi. His voice was no longer a monotone; it held a tremor of excitement.
"Sir. A significant movement. The stocks you hold... they are... skyrocketing. There is a frenzy. The Big Bull... he is pumping them like never before. Your portfolio... it's at ₹12,50,000."
The number hung in the air. Twelve and a half lakhs. In a matter of weeks, his shadow self had earned more than his legitimate company had in its entire existence.
He thanked the broker and hung up. The calm he had felt was gone, replaced by a dizzying exhilaration. The siren song of the market was now a roaring chorus. The ghost wasn't just an anchor; it was a rocket, threatening to tear him away from the gritty, difficult world he was building.
He stood on his balcony, looking down at the city. Down there, in a silent factory, his team was painstakingly shaving paise off a circuit board. And in an abstract, digital realm, he was making lakhs by doing nothing.
He had achieved a precarious calm in his business, but a new storm was brewing inside him. The gambler was no longer whispering. He was shouting.
And for the first time, Harsh was seriously considering answering.
(Chapter End)