The absence of Prakash Rao was a quiet ache, a constant reminder of the fragile human threads his empire was woven from. But the machine, once built, had its own momentum. Rakesh Rao, his successor, was different—a strategist who saw the world in flows of capital and risk, his reports clean and precise where Prakash's had been instinctual and rough.
"The final agreements for the speaker factory are signed, Harsh Ji," Rakesh reported, placing the bound documents on the desk. "The fifteen crore loan is disbursed. Construction begins next week. Our projected cost savings will be four rupees and thirty paise per speaker unit once operational."
Harsh gave a curt nod. The vertical integration was proceeding exactly as planned. Each step made Bharat Electronics more efficient, more resilient. But his mind was already on the next, far more dangerous, leap.
"And the other matter? The trader from Zaveri Bazaar?" Harsh asked, his voice low.
Rakesh's demeanor shifted, becoming even more measured. "Mohanlal Soni. He has agreed to a meeting. He was... intrigued by the name 'Arun Patel'. The identity you built for the import-export business holds weight in certain circles. The meeting is set for tomorrow night. His office is above his jewelry showroom. It is not a place for the faint of heart."
This was the pivot point. The radio and calculator business was a powerful engine, but it was rooted in India, its output measured in rupees. The vast, untapped wealth he knew was waiting—the American tech stocks like Microsoft and Intel—required dollars and absolute discretion. Gold was the timeless, universal bridge between the two worlds.
The following night, Harsh, using the simple disguise of plain clothes and a different vehicle, was led by Rakesh through the back alleys behind Zaveri Bazaar. The air was thick with the scent of incense, frying food, and the faint, metallic tang of precious metals. They entered through an unmarked door, climbing a narrow flight of stairs to an office that was the antithesis of Harsh's sleek Dholera setup.
It was opulent in a heavy, old-world way. Dark wood, a massive desk, and the pervasive smell of polished silver and sandalwood. Mohanlal Soni was a large man, his fingers adorned with heavy rings, his eyes like two black pearls, missing nothing. He did not stand.
"Arun Patel," Soni said, his voice a deep rumble. "A man whose paperwork brings in many machine parts, but whose name is also whispered in other contexts. Sit."
Harsh sat, Rakesh standing slightly behind him, a silent shadow.
"You sought a discussion," Soni continued, not offering tea or pleasantries. "I am a busy man. Speak."
"The world is uncertain," Harsh began, his tone neutral, respectful but not subservient. "A wise man looks for stable stores of value. I represent a consortium of industrialists who wish to diversify. We have rupees. We see that the price of gold here is significantly higher than the price in London or Dubai. This difference presents an opportunity."
Soni's expression did not change, but a new intensity entered his gaze. He was no longer looking at a supplicant, but at a potential counterpart. "The difference you speak of is the cost of... logistics. And security. And my expertise. You are talking about arbitrage. A dangerous game for outsiders."
"We are not outsiders to capital," Harsh replied smoothly. "We have a steady, legitimate flow of rupees from industrial operations. We need a channel to convert this into gold, and then into other, more liquid international assets. We are prepared to pay for the service. A commission on the volume."
Soni leaned forward, his bulk casting a shadow across the desk. "The amounts?"
"To start? Five crore rupees. Per month."
The number hung in the room, immense and audacious. It was a significant fraction of Bharat Electronics' entire monthly profit. Soni's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. This was not the request of a small-time speculator.
"You would move this through your... machine parts company?" Soni asked, a cynical smile touching his lips.
"The beauty of a large, legitimate business is that large, legitimate-looking transactions are expected," Harsh said. "We create invoices. We pay your front companies. You deliver the gold to a secure location of our choosing. We then sell it domestically, through your network, at the higher Indian price. The profit in rupees is yours, as your commission. The equivalent value in US dollars, from the international sale, is what we want. Deposited in a specified account in Singapore."
It was a complex, high-wire act. He was asking Soni to be both his smuggler and his banker.
Soni was silent for a long time, his ringed fingers steepled. "The risk is on my head. The movement of the metal. The dealing with authorities. You sit in your clean office and get dollars."
"And you get a commission on five crore rupees every month, without having to source the capital yourself," Harsh countered. "You are not taking a risk; you are providing a service for a fee. A very large, very consistent fee."
The logic was cold and irresistible. Soni was a businessman, above all else. He saw the scale, the sheer recurring revenue Harsh was offering.
"Three percent," Soni said finally. "Of the total transaction value. Paid in cash. The dollar transfers will be made within forty-eight hours of the gold's sale. The first transaction will be a test. One crore only."
"Agreed," Harsh said, without hesitation. He stood up. "My associate, Rakesh, will handle the details."
He left the office without another word, Rakesh following silently. Back in the car, driving away from the claustrophobic alley, Harsh let out a slow breath. The bridge was built. The first stone was laid.
The following week, the financial reports for Bharat Electronics showed another record profit. But Harsh's eyes were on a different document, a single line in a secret ledger Rakesh maintained.
Test Transaction: 1 Crore INR -> [Soni Channel] -> $285,000 USD (approx). Account: Singapore (BH-1). Status: Complete.
A quarter of a million US dollars. It was a tiny sum compared to what was to come, but it was the first trickle through the golden bridge. The radio business would continue to grow, to dominate, to provide the public face and the river of rupees. But now, silently, stealthily, that river was being channeled into a new ocean. The journey to Wall Street had begun.