One hundred crore rupees. The number was an abstract king, but its reign was absolute. It colonized Harsh's mind. The thrill was immediate, a visceral rush that made his fingertips tingle. But it was followed by a profound, unsettling silence. The goal he had chased for so long had been vaporized in an instant, replaced by something so vast it had no shape.
The first symptom was a creeping impatience. The next morning, Rahim met him at the factory gate, his face etched with a familiar, practical worry.
"The new plastic composite for the Model B casings, Harsh Sahib," Rahim began, holding up a sample. "The supplier is having consistency issues. The color is shifting between batches. It's minor, but for a premium product..."
Before, Harsh would have dived into the details. He would have examined the samples under different lights, discussed polymer chains with Deepak, and maybe even driven to the supplier's unit himself. Now, he just waved a hand.
"Reject the batch. Find a new supplier. Pay a premium if you have to. Just fix it." His tone was dismissive, final.
Rahim blinked, surprised by the lack of engagement. "But Sahib, the cost—"
"Is not the primary concern," Harsh interrupted, his mind already scrolling through the portfolio summary on the computer screen in his office. A 2% swing in ACC stock today would be more than the entire cost of the casing order. "Speed and quality are. Don't bother me with the details."
He walked away, leaving Rahim holding the defective plastic, feeling diminished. The factory, once a temple of creation, was becoming a source of trivial distractions.
In his office, the real world felt pale and slow. The phone rang. It was Mehta, his voice a tight wire of anxiety.
"Sir, the volatility is increasing. The rally is getting... frantic. There are rumors. Whispers about bank receipts. The leverage... it magnifies the gains, but a small drop could trigger margin calls. Should we take some profit? Secure the position?"
Harsh leaned back in his chair, looking out at the bustling factory floor. He saw Deepak patiently showing a young assembler the correct soldering angle. It looked like a scene from another, slower-moving life.
"Not yet," Harsh said, a strange calm in his voice. "The political signal hasn't changed. Varma's people are still making noise, which means the government is still on the back foot. This isn't frenzy, Mehta. This is momentum. We ride it."
"But sir, prudence—"
"Prudence is for men who earn money one rupee at a time," Harsh cut him off, the words tasting like a betrayal of everything he had once been. "We are playing a different game now."
He hung up, the phantom weight of the hundred crore making the chair beneath him feel insubstantial. He had become a general who viewed his infantry from a satellite image, where individual lives were pixels and victory was a mathematical certainty.
That evening, he met Mr. Varma for a brief drink at a private club. The politician looked tired but satisfied.
"The pressure is working," Varma said, swirling his whiskey. "They are rattled. The finance minister is making defensive statements. The window is open, Patel. But remember, windows can slam shut quickly." He gave Harsh a sharp, meaningful look. "A wise man knows when to step away from the view."
It was a warning, delicately packaged. Harsh nodded. "I understand, sir. My focus remains on the long-term. The foundation's next donation is being processed."
"Good," Varma smiled. "Long-term. That is the key."
But driving home, Harsh felt the opposite pull. The "long-term" was the factory, the slow, hard graft. The "short-term" was the electric, life-altering thrill of the market. Varma's warning only made the gamble more enticing. It was a race against time, against the coming crackdown.
He found himself outside Priya's hostel, not remembering the drive there. He needed to see something real.
She came down, worried by his unexpected visit. "Harsh? Is everything okay?"
He looked at her, at her clear, intelligent eyes that saw the world in equations and principles. For a moment, he wanted to tell her everything. About the hundred crore. About the terrifying, beautiful monster he had unleashed.
Instead, he said, "I just needed to see you. To remember what's real."
She touched his arm, her concern deepening. "You're working too hard. You're stretching yourself too thin. This political stuff, this expansion... it's changing you."
He forced a smile. "It's just the pressure. It will pass."
But as he drove away, he knew it wasn't passing. It was hardening around him. The hundred crore was no longer just money; it was an atmosphere. And he was learning to breathe a different, thinner, more dangerous air.
(Chapter End)