The silence Prakash Rao left behind was a void no mere replacement could fill. He had been more than an informant; he had been a compass, his instincts forged in the gritty underbelly of Mumbai long before Harsh had ever arrived. His passing from a sudden, brutal fever had been a shock, a stark reminder that even the most carefully built empires rested on fragile, human pillars.
In his place stood Rakesh Rao. No relation, but a man Prakash had vouched for in what turned out to be his final days. Younger, sharper in a suit, with the calm, analytical eyes of a chartered accountant but the street-smart pragmatism he'd learned at Prakash's side. He was not a source of raw intelligence, but an interpreter of it, a strategist.
"The speaker factory loan is approved, Harsh Ji," Rakesh reported, his voice a measured contrast to Prakash's rasp. "State Bank of India. Fifteen crore term loan, three crore in working capital. They were... exceptionally accommodating. Your 'Project of National Importance' status is a powerful key."
Harsh nodded, looking over the documents. The 18 crore investment was now a reality. The river of rupees was being diverted into concrete and steel. "And the production lines?"
"On schedule. The cassette player prototypes are in stress-testing. The 'Bharat-3' chip performs flawlessly. We will be ready for a Diwali launch." Rakesh paused, then placed a single, unmarked folder on Harsh's desk. "There is the other matter. The one Prakash Ji was looking into before he fell ill."
Harsh opened the folder. Inside were not invoices or production reports, but charts. Graphs of gold prices in USD and INR, notes on import duties, and a name: Jewelncore Traders, Zaveri Bazaar. Proprietor: Mohanlal Soni.
"The bullion trader," Harsh said.
"Yes. The initial rumors were correct. With the global uncertainty, prices are creeping up. But the real opportunity lies in the price," Rakesh explained, using the financial term with ease. "The difference between the international price and the Indian black-market price is widening. It is now over 25%. There is immense demand, and the official channels are restrictive. Soni is a major player in... facilitating this demand."
This was the bridge. The radio business was a magnificent, profit-spewing machine, but it was a Indian machine. Its currency was rupees. Harsh's mind was already on the global stage, on the American stock market, where fortunes were measured in dollars. Gold was the ancient, trusted vessel to transport wealth across that frontier.
"Your public profile is your shield, Harsh Ji," Rakesh continued, anticipating his thoughts. "No one would suspect the 'Chipman of India,' the champion of legitimate manufacturing, of dabbling in gold arbitrage. We can use the complex corporate structure of Bharat Electronics. Large, legitimate payments to shell companies for 'machine parts' or 'consulting services' can be routed. The funds can be converted and used to acquire gold through Soni. The profit from selling that gold domestically, at the premium, can then be accumulated in a separate, dollar-denominated pool abroad."
It was a blueprint for financial alchemy. Turning the rupees from his radios into a secret, offshore war chest of dollars.
"What's the risk?" Harsh asked, his gaze fixed on the gold price chart.
"Operational. If the routing is discovered, it could be framed as a hawala operation or tax evasion. It would damage your reputation irreparably. And then there is Soni himself. These are not businessmen like Doshi. They are a different breed. If they feel cheated or threatened, their retaliation is... absolute."
Harsh leaned back, the weight of the decision settling on him. This was not a move against a corporate rival. This was stepping into the shadow economy that underpinned the very country. But the prize was freedom—the financial freedom to act on a global scale without being tethered to the slow, grinding work of building and selling physical things.
"Set up a meeting with Soni," Harsh said, his voice leaving no room for doubt. "Use the 'Arun Patel' identity. I want to look him in the eye."
As Rakesh left to make the arrangements, Sanjay entered, his usual exuberance tempered by the presence of the new, serious advisor.
"Harsh Bhai! The Diwali marketing campaign for the cassette players is ready! We're calling the line 'Sargam'! We have film stars interested! The buzz is incredible!"
Harsh looked from Sanjay's vibrant, immediate world of products and promotions to the cold, abstract charts of international gold prices. Two different worlds, both essential. One built the public legend, the other would build the real, unassailable power.
"Good," Harsh said, pulling his focus back to the present. "Show me the storyboards."
The empire was multi-layered now. The public face was 'Bharat Electronics,' a shining example of Indian industrial resurgence. The private core was the Dholera fab, a strategic national asset. And now, a new, secret layer was being formed in the shadows: a financial engine that would soon detach from the mainland and set sail for global waters. Prakash Rao was gone, but his legacy was a network that was evolving, becoming more sophisticated, more powerful. The game was escalating, and Harsh was the only player who could see the entire board.