The narrow lanes of Mumbai's Bhuleshwar district stirred to life with the first whispers of dawn, but Harsh's feet were already moving briskly toward Crawford Market. Each step was electric with the weight of his purpose—the crisp $100 bill folded in his pocket was more than money; it was a chance.
The market was a riot of colour and sound: shouting vendors pushing oranges from Nagpur, carts spilling with fresh green chilies, and fragrant hugs of turmeric mingled in the humidity. The cracked pavements thrummed under hurried feet, handcarts juddered along uneven stones, and parrots squawked from rickety cages.
Harsh weaved carefully through the chaos, eyes sharp beneath a soaked forehead. He had no interest in fruit or vegetables for himself today. His quest led him deeper into the narrower, quieter corridors—the realm of gold and jewels.
Zaveri Bazaar lay cloaked under the rising sun's golden haze. Unlike the noisy vegetable market, here murmurs filled the air—men in spotless white kurtas spoke softly as they weighed gleaming strands of gold on brass scales. A hand-painted board on one shop window read: "Gold at ₹3,200 per 10 grams." Harsh knew better than most what was coming; months from now, international conflict would send those numbers soaring.
A shopkeeper caught his eye and asked, "Looking to buy or just watching?"
"Watching. Patience is profit," Harsh replied carefully.
The man chuckled. "Smart move, Patel."
Harsh's thoughts turned to the small things, pieces so subtle yet pivotal—used Seiko watches and twin foam ear pads he could buy cheaply and flip at a profit. Within hours, a watch purchased for ₹180 sold at ₹240. Small victories, but vital reminders that the clock could be bent with skill and timing.
In the evening, back at Bhuleshwar with bulk tea steaming between them, Raju smiled warmly. "You're on your path, yaar."
"I'm making sure I don't lose it this time," Harsh said firmly.
The city's heart beat around them, alive with promise, peril, and the hard, complicated dance of survival.