The air in the private dining room of the Cricket Club of India was thick with the smell of old money, fine whiskey, and unspoken deals. Harsh Patel, in a suit that cost more than his first scooter, felt like an imposter. But he had learned to wear the disguise well.
Across the table, sipping a single malt, was Mr. Vikram Varma. He wasn't a minister yet, but he was a man on the ascent—a rising star in a political party hungry for power. He had the easy confidence of a man born to rule, and the sharp eyes of a man who knew the price of everything.
"Your story is quite remarkable, Patel," Varma said, his voice a smooth baritone. "From the streets of Bhuleshwar to the doors of the CCI. The 'Chipman of India'. The newspapers love a good rags-to-riches tale."
"It's a work in progress, sir," Harsh replied, keeping his tone respectful. "The riches part, especially. Building a manufacturing base in India is... capital intensive."
Varma smiled, a thin, knowing curve of the lips. "Everything of value is capital intensive. Nations. Companies. Political campaigns." He let the last word hang in the air.
This was the dance. Harsh had been introduced to Varma by a contact from the Agarwal circle. The meeting was framed as a chance for a "young industrialist" to learn from a "seasoned leader." Both men knew it was an audition.
"I read your white paper on semiconductor self-reliance," Varma continued. "Ambitious. Some would say naive. The Koreans and the Americans have a twenty-year head start. Why should India try?"
"Because if we don't, we will forever be a customer, never a creator," Harsh said, the passion in his voice genuine. "We will be importing our nation's security, our technological future. The head start is an illusion if you're always following the same path. Sometimes, you find a new one."
Varma studied him, his gaze appraising. He saw not just ambition, but a vision. A vision that could be useful.
"A new path requires good maps and strong bridges," Varma said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "The terrain of Delhi can be... treacherous for those who don't know it. A wrong turn, a poorly built bridge, and even the best-laid plans can vanish into a swamp."
The metaphor was clear. Harsh took a sip of water, choosing his words carefully. "A wise traveler would naturally seek the advice of the best cartographers. And ensure his bridges are built to last."
Varma nodded slowly, a silent agreement passing between them. "My party is very interested in this 'new path'. We believe India's future lies in making things, not just trading them. We will need partners. Industrialists with vision. And resources."
It was the opening. The request disguised as an offer.
"Patel Holdings is committed to the long-term," Harsh said. "We believe in building institutions. And institutions require stable... ecosystems." He paused, then delivered his line. "I would be interested in supporting political movements that align with this vision of a self-reliant India. Perhaps through a corporate social responsibility fund? Focused on technology education?"
It was clean. Plausible. A "CSR fund" was a perfect conduit.
Varma's smile widened slightly. "An excellent idea. Visionary. I know several such funds that do admirable work. I could have my secretary send you the details."
The pact was sealed. No money changed hands. No specific amount was discussed. But a channel had been established. Harsh had gained a patron, and Varma had gained a patron.
Later that night, in his new, sparsely furnished apartment overlooking the sea, Harsh received a different kind of call.
"The momentum is building, sir," the broker from Kalbadevi said, his voice buzzing with excitement. "The stocks you preferred... they are moving. The big players are entering. The volume is incredible."
Harsh looked out at the dark ocean, a stark contrast to the glittering city. "No leverage," he instructed, his voice firm. "Not yet. Just steady accumulation. Use the Mauritius entity only. I want the exposure to be gradual, invisible."
"But sir, the opportunity—"
"Is a marathon, not a sprint," Harsh cut him off. "I have a reputation to protect now."
He hung up. He was playing two games on two different boards. On one board, he was Harsh Patel, industrialist, building a legitimate empire with a political patron. On the other, he was a ghost, quietly amassing a fortune in the shadows.
The patron provided the shield. The ghost provided the sword.
And as he stood there, he knew the most dangerous part was about to begin. He had to ensure that when he wielded the sword, the shield was strong enough to absorb the blowback. The scandal was coming. He could feel it in the electric air of the city.
But this time, he wouldn't be a victim caught in the storm. He would be the architect, standing in the eye of the hurricane, protected by the walls he was building, brick by careful, calculated brick.
(Chapter End)