The "corporate social responsibility fund" was established with bureaucratic efficiency. It was named the 'Bharat Vikas Technology Foundation' – a suitably patriotic and vague title. The first donation from Patel Holdings was a modest, respectable ₹50 lakh. A press release was issued, highlighting the company's commitment to nurturing future engineers. Mr. Varma's secretary called to express the politician's "great appreciation."
The money, Harsh knew, was a token. The real currency was the unspoken understanding. He had bought a seat at a very exclusive table.
Meanwhile, on the other board, the game was accelerating. The broker, Mehta (a ironic namesake of the Big Bull), was becoming a constant, buzzing presence on the phone.
"Sir, the momentum is a tidal wave!" Mehta's voice was breathless. "The scrips you identified – ACC, Tata Steel, Reliance – they are not just rising; they are flying! The Mauritius entity's portfolio is up forty percent in three weeks! But we are leaving crores on the table by not using leverage. Even a small amount... we could double the position!"
Harsh felt the pull. The numbers on the screen were abstract, but their power was visceral. The ghost's treasury was swelling at a rate that made the legitimate profits from Patel Holdings feel like pocket change.
"Not yet," Harsh said, his voice tight with restraint. "We wait for the signal."
"The signal, sir?"
"A change in the political weather. A certain bill stalling in parliament. When that happens, it will be the sign that the storm is coming. Then, and only then, we deploy leverage. For a short, sharp ride."
He was using Varma's world to time his moves in Mehta's world. It was a dangerous fusion.
A week later, the signal came. Varma, at a political rally, launched a blistering attack on the ruling party's economic policies, specifically hinting at "loose regulations in the financial sector that allow speculators to manipulate the market." It was a shot across the bow. Varma's inside knowledge suggested the government was nervous, that a crackdown was being discussed but was still months away. The perfect window of chaos.
Harsh called Mehta. "Deploy the leverage. Twenty percent of the portfolio's value. But I want a full audit trail. The money must come from a bank that is... friendly to Varma's associates." He was now directly linking his political shield to his financial sword.
The next few weeks were a surreal double life. By day, Harsh was the sober industrialist, inaugurating the new, expanded production line for the "Bombay Groove" Model B. He gave speeches about quality and 'Make in India,' long before the slogan existed. The workers cheered. The press took notes.
By night, he was a ghost, watching the leveraged portfolio skyrocket. ₹10 crore became ₹20 crore, then ₹35 crore. The sheer velocity of it was narcotic. He started having trouble concentrating on the minutiae of factory management. A discussion about solder paste viscosity felt trivial when crores were being made and lost in the time it took to have the discussion.
The strain began to show. He snapped at Deepak over a minor delay in a component shipment. He missed a dinner with Priya, forgetting it entirely after a frantic call from Mehta about a margin requirement.
"Are you alright?" Priya asked him the next day, her concern evident. "You seem... distant. Like you're not really here anymore."
"It's the pressure," he deflected, forcing a smile. "Expanding the factory, dealing with politicians. It's a different world."
She studied him, her physicist's mind perceiving a variable she couldn't quite quantify. "Just remember what you're building, Harsh. The player, the factory... that's real. Everything else is just... noise."
Her words struck a chord, but it was drowned out by the deafening noise of the market.
The climax came on a day the Sensex surged another five percent. Mehta called, his voice trembling with a mixture of ecstasy and fear.
"Sir... the portfolio... with the leverage... we have crossed One Hundred Crore Rupees."
The number landed in the silent room with the force of a physical blow. One hundred crore. A thousand million rupees. An amount so vast it ceased to be money and became pure power.
Harsh didn't cheer. He felt a cold chill. He had crossed an invisible line. The ghost was no longer a silent partner; it was a giant, and he was clinging to its back.
He looked at the blueprint for the new factory on his desk, a project that would cost ₹5 crore and seemed like the work of a lifetime.
He had just made twenty times that amount in a few weeks, without getting his hands dirty.
The first thread of silk had been spun. The cocoon of immense, illicit wealth was wrapping around him. It was soft, and seductive, and it was becoming harder and harder to remember the world outside.
(Chapter End)