The ten crore rupees, a phantom sum that materialized in the account of Nava Bharat Electronics with breathtaking speed, acted like a jolt of adrenaline to a body in shock. The news, relayed by a breathless Sanjay, spread through the skeleton crew still working at the original Patel Holdings factory. The Income Tax seals on Rahim's office became a perverse badge of honor; the real work, they now knew, was happening elsewhere, powered by a loyalty that no government stamp could nullify.
But for Harsh, the transfer was merely the first move in a dangerous new game. The money had bought time and action, but it had not bought safety. The system, momentarily baffled, was now stirring, and it demanded a personal audience.
The summons arrived two days later, not as a phone call, but as a crisp, official envelope delivered by a uniformed peon to the gate of his Malabar Hill apartment. It was a command to appear before the Deputy Director of the Income Tax Investigation Wing, one S. P. Joshi, at his office in the imposing, soulless government building at Nariman Point.
The morning of the meeting, Harsh dressed with deliberate care. He chose a simple, well-made but unflashy white kurta and pyjama, the uniform of the earnest, traditional young Indian businessman. He looked in the mirror, practicing the expression he would wear: not defiance, not fear, but a calm, slightly weary resolve. He was not a scamster; he was a patriot being harassed. He had to believe the role himself to play it convincingly.
The IT office was a monument to bureaucratic inertia. The air smelled of stale sweat, cheap disinfectant, and the slow, crushing weight of procedure. Ceiling fans chopped lazily at the humid air, doing little more than stirring the dust motes dancing in the slatted sunlight. Clerks moved with the languid pace of men for whom time had no meaning, their lives measured in files stamped and passed along.
He was made to wait for an hour on a hard wooden bench outside Joshi's office, a deliberate tactic to unsettle him. He used the time to still his mind, to bury the ghost of the three hundred crore deep, and to become Harsh Patel, the electronics maker.
Finally, he was ushered in. Deputy Director S. P. Joshi was a man built like a bullfrog, with a wide, flat face and eyes that bulged slightly behind thick spectacles. He sat behind a fortress of a desk, piled high with teetering stacks of files. He did not look up as Harsh entered, continuing to scribble notes in the margin of a document.
"Harsh Patel," Joshi stated, his voice a gravelly rumble. He still didn't look up. "Or should I say, Arun Patel? The importer. The tutor. The philanthropist. You have worn many hats for such a young man."
"The import business was a small, failed venture, sir. The tutoring was how I supported my family while I built my real business. And philanthropy is a duty, not a hat," Harsh replied, his tone respectful but firm.
Joshi's head snapped up, his bulbous eyes fixing on Harsh. The glare was meant to intimidate. "Do not lecture me on duty, boy. My duty is to the treasury. And the treasury is missing a great deal of money. Money that seems to have a habit of flowing towards you, from places like Mauritius, and then… poof." He made a gesture with his fat fingers. "Vanishing into thin air."
"I know nothing of Mauritius funds, sir. My capital came from my legitimate electronics business. The records of Patel Holdings show that."
"Patel Holdings," Joshi sneered, picking up a file and slapping it back down. "A company whose accounts are currently frozen, and whose servers are in our possession. A company that, until recently, was receiving smuggled goods from the docks. Don't look so surprised. We have our sources too."
This was the first direct hit. Harsh kept his face a mask of innocent confusion. "There were always rumors, sir, spread by rivals. We bought scrap from railway auctions and from licensed suppliers. If there were any irregularities in the supply chain, we were the victims, not the perpetrators."
"Victims!" Joshi barked a laugh. "Is that your story? You, the boy genius, the 'Chipman of India,' were just a simple victim?" He leaned forward, his bulk casting a shadow over the desk. "Let me tell you about victims. The thousands of small investors who lost their life savings in the market crash you helped engineer. They are victims. You… you are a suspect."
Harsh met his gaze, allowing a flicker of steel to show. "With all due respect, sir, that is a very serious and completely baseless accusation. I am a manufacturer. My focus is on circuit boards and semiconductors. The wild fluctuations of the stock market are as much a mystery to me as they are to any common man. My recent troubles, as you well know, stem from the corporate sabotage of Raghav Mehta, who has publicly confessed to framing me."
Joshi's jaw tightened. The Mehta confession was a thorn in his side, a pre-emptive strike that had muddied his waters. "Mehta is a convenient scapegoat. A small fish you threw to the sharks to save your own skin. I am not interested in small fish, Patel. I am a whale hunter."
The metaphor was crude, but apt. Harsh realized this man was not a mere functionary; he was ambitious, and he saw Harsh as the trophy that could make his career.
"For two hours, Joshi and his junior officers fired questions. They asked about his personal expenses, the Malabar Hill apartment, the scooter he'd bought years ago, his parents' medical bills. They circled the Mauritius fund, probing for a crack, a slip of the tongue. Harsh answered everything with a consistent, simple narrative: he was a self-made man, his wealth came from business profits, he was the target of a malicious plot, and he was now focusing all his energy on a national project in semiconductor technology.
He could see the frustration building in Joshi. They had the scent of the whale, but they couldn't find the harpoon.
Finally, Joshi sat back, his chair groaning in protest. "Your 'national project' does not make you immune to the law, Patel. This investigation is far from over. You will not leave Mumbai without my permission. You will surrender your passport. And we will be watching your every move. Your every single move. Do you understand?"
It was not a request. It was a declaration of war.
"I have no plans to leave, sir," Harsh said, standing up. "My work is here. My future is here. You are welcome to watch. You will see a man building something for his country, not running from his past."
He turned and walked out of the office, feeling Joshi's hostile gaze burning into his back. He had survived the first encounter. He had held the line. But as he stepped out of the gloomy building into the blinding Mumbai sun, he felt no relief, only a cold certainty.
The lion had shown its teeth. The siege was now formal. S. P. Joshi was not just a bureaucrat; he was a true believer in his own power, and he would not stop until he had taken a bite out of Harsh's hide. The battle for his name, for his freedom, had just moved from the shadows of the market into the harsh, unforgiving light of a government office. And Harsh knew, with a chilling clarity, that this was a battle that could not be won with circuit boards alone.
(Chapter End)