The number ₹12,50,000 was a ghost that wouldn't leave him. It hovered over his morning chai, echoed in the rumble of the trucks, and whispered to him during negotiations with component suppliers. It was a specter of a different life, a life of effortless, abstract wealth.
The broker from Kalbadevi, a man who had previously been a disembodied voice of monotone updates, now called with a new, almost evangelical fervor.
"Sir, you have an instinct," the broker said, his voice slick with admiration. "The positions you took months ago... it's as if you knew. This is just the beginning. The Big Bull is not just a player; he is rewriting the rules. The Sensex will touch 3000, 4000! This is a historic moment. To be on the sidelines is... a tragedy."
Harsh listened, saying nothing. The broker was no longer just a service provider; he was a tempter.
"With your current holdings, your paper profit is significant. But if you were to leverage... to use this as margin... the potential is limitless. You could triple this amount by the end of the year. Quadruple."
The words "leverage" and "margin" were spells, incantations that promised to multiply his ghostly wealth into a kingdom. He could solve every problem. He could buy the best machinery, the most expensive marketing, silence every critic. He could build his empire in a day.
He ended the call with a non-committal grunt, but the seed had been planted in fertile soil.
At the plant, the reality was grittier, but it was also becoming tangibly successful. The "Model B" prototype was finalized. It was, as Deepak had promised, 95% of the original. The plastic casing felt solid, not cheap. The sound, to anyone but an obsessive like Deepak, was identical. And the cost? They could manufacture it for ₹1,250. At the planned wholesale price of ₹1,600, they would finally have a healthy margin.
The Infotel order for one hundred and fifty units was their trial by fire. With the simplified design and Rahim's now-well-drilled team of fifteen rehired assemblers, the production line hummed with an efficiency that had been impossible before. The yield of perfect units was over 90%. The "school of hard logistics" had taught them process and discipline, and it was paying off.
When the Infotel manager came for a pre-delivery inspection, she was impressed not by flashy demos, but by the clean, organized factory floor, the clear quality control checks, and the quiet professionalism of the workers. She signed off on the shipment without a single complaint.
The invoice—for ₹2,40,000—was sent. The payment terms were thirty days, but the order was solid. For the first time, Patel Holdings had a legitimate, profitable, scalable product and a reputable client.
That evening, Harsh sat in the office with the final numbers for the month. Lina handed him the summary with a small, genuine smile.
Patel Holdings - Month 13
· Logistics Revenue/Profit: ₹3,10,000 / ₹55,000
· Infotel Order (Revenue booked on delivery): ₹2,40,000
· Total Overhead: ₹70,000 (slightly higher with plant restart)
· Net Profit (Projected after Infotel payment): ₹2,25,000
They were profitable. Not because of a lucky break, but because of a better product, a smarter process, and a focused strategy. The profit was real. It was earned. It was built on the sweat of Rahim's team, the ingenuity of Deepak, the hustle of Sanjay.
He should have felt elated. This was the moment he had fought for, bled for.
But all he could think about was the ghost account. ₹12,50,000. A sum that dwarfed his hard-won profit. A sum that had required no sweat, no ingenuity, no heartbreaking layoffs or compromises on quality. It was a number that mocked his struggle.
He was standing on a threshold. On one side was the path he had carved with his own hands—a narrow, difficult path leading to a small, solid house built on a foundation of principle. It was honest. It was sustainable.
On the other side was a golden bridge, spanning the chasm in a single, glorious leap, leading to a glittering palace in the sky. A palace built on a secret, on a scam he knew would eventually collapse.
The broker's words echoed: "To be on the sidelines is a tragedy."
Was it? Or was the real tragedy forgetting how to build with your own hands?
He made a decision. A compromise with the devil on his shoulder.
He would not abandon Patel Holdings. It was his anchor, his proof that he could create something real.
But he would also not ignore the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity staring him in the face. He would not go all in. He would not leverage. That was a sucker's bet, the kind that ended in ruin.
He would take a small, controlled taste. He would skim a little of the ghost's wealth to fortify his real-world kingdom. A calculated infusion, not a reckless surrender.
He picked up the phone and dialed the broker.
"I want to liquidate twenty percent of my holdings," he said, his voice calm. "Transfer the proceeds to the company account."
There was a stunned silence on the other end. "Sir? But the momentum... it's unprecedented! This is the worst time to sell!"
"It's the perfect time to take some profit," Harsh countered. "I have a business to run."
He hung up. He had crossed a line. He was no longer just letting the ghost account grow in secret. He was actively using its illicit gains to fund his legitimate dream.
It wasn't a full surrender to the gambler. It was a pact. The ghost would fund the architect. But as he sat in the quiet office, awaiting the transfer that would solve all his cash flow problems, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just invited the ghost inside the walls.
And once inside, it would be very hard to ask it to leave.
(Chapter End)