The article about Sanjay was a spark on dry tinder. The public outcry was immediate and louder than Harsh had dared to hope. For a week, the story dominated the local press, then, fueled by the potent, relatable narrative of a young striver being crushed by a faceless system, it went national. The "Chipman of India" was no longer a shadowy financier; he was a cause célèbre.
Harsh watched it all from his strategic command post—the Malabar Hill apartment. He saw the television debates where pundits argued about the stifling of Indian innovation. He read the editorials in business dailies questioning the Income Tax department's overreach. The public shield was materializing, but he knew it was a temporary defense. Sentiment was fickle. To truly become unassailable, he needed to transform from a victim into a visionary. He needed to give the public, and more importantly, the politicians in Delhi, a reason to need him.
It was time for his masterstroke.
He called a meeting at the new, sterile office of Nava Bharat Electronics. The attendees were his inner circle: Deepak, Sanjay, Rahim, and, via a secure speakerphone, his broker Mehta, whose voice still carried the tremor of their recent near-annihilation.
"We have a narrow window," Harsh began, standing before a blank whiteboard. "Joshi is off-balance, but he's regrouping. The public is on our side, but they are distracted. We need to give them a story so big, so compelling, that it completely overwrites the scandal."
"What story is bigger than a hundred-crore scam?" Sanjay asked, his faith in Harsh now tempered by the bruises of recent experience.
"The story of India's future," Harsh replied, and picked up a marker. In bold, capital letters, he wrote: BHARAT SEMICONDUCTOR MISSION.
He turned to face them. "We announce that Patel Technologies, in partnership with Nava Bharat Electronics, is launching a fully private, hundred-percent Indian initiative to design and manufacture semiconductor chips. We will build a state-of-the-art R&D lab and lay the groundwork for India's first commercial chip fabrication plant."
The room was silent, the ambition of the idea so vast it was momentarily incomprehensible.
"Bhaiya... that is... that is a dream," Deepak said slowly. "The machines alone cost hundreds of crores. The expertise... we have Alexei and Dmitri, but a full fab..."
"It is a dream everyone has but no one dares to pursue," Harsh countered, his eyes blazing with conviction. "The Americans control the designs. The Taiwanese and Koreans control the fabrication. China is spending billions to catch up. And India? We import every single chip in our phones, our computers, our missiles. We are a nation of brilliant software engineers building castles on sand imported from others. It is a national security crisis, and our government is too slow, too bureaucratic to see it."
He let the words hang, then delivered the crucial point. "So, we will shame them into supporting us. We will frame this not as a business venture, but as a patriotic duty. We will position ourselves not as businessmen, but as nation-builders."
He turned to the speakerphone. "Mehta. The Singapore funds. What is the liquid amount, right now?"
A nervous cough. "Sir, after the... strategic short position was closed, and accounting for the initial ten crore to Nava Bharat, the accessible balance is approximately one hundred and fifty crore rupees."
A hundred and fifty crore. A king's ransom, born from a scam. He would use its tainted roots to grow a tree of national sovereignty.
"Good," Harsh said. "We use twenty-five crore of our legitimate money as the public-facing seed capital. We secure loans against the National Telecom order and the factory assets. We make a show of it—press releases, bank meetings. The hundred and fifty crore from Singapore will be the shadow fund. It will be used for the real work: the black-box acquisitions, the under-the-table payments for Soviet blueprints and decommissioned equipment, the salaries for foreign engineers we will poach. The public story is our shield; this black fund is our sword."
He assigned tasks with the precision of a general. "Sanjay, you will work with a PR firm I've already contacted. We will hold a press conference in one week. I want every major newspaper and TV channel there. Deepak, you and the Russians start drawing up a list of the critical machinery we need. Focus on equipment from the former Eastern Bloc—it's older, but it's a start, and it's cheap. Rahim, you find us land. Something we can expand on, on the outskirts of the city."
He paused, looking at each of them. "This is the pivot. We are no longer just fighting for survival. We are fighting for a legacy. From today, we are not just a company. We are a mission."
The press conference was held in the ballroom of a five-star hotel, a deliberate choice to project success and stability. Harsh did not wear the humble kurta of the besieged businessman. He wore a sharp, Western-style suit, the uniform of a global player. He stood at the podium, not with the pleading demeanor of a victim, but with the confident authority of a leader.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the press," he began, his voice amplified through the hall. "For too long, India has been a spectator in the most critical technological revolution of our time. We design software, but we do not build the hardware it runs on. We assemble phones, but we do not forge the brains that power them. This is not an economic disadvantage; it is a strategic vulnerability."
He laid out his vision for the Bharat Semiconductor Mission with breathtaking clarity. He spoke of talent, of national pride, of the urgent need for self-reliance. He announced the initial twenty-five crore rupee investment from his company's "legitimate profits."
"And to those in the government who have questioned my methods," he said, his tone shifting, becoming pointed, "I say this: do not investigate the dreamers. Empower them. My company has faced unprecedented scrutiny in recent weeks. While we have been fully exonerated in the courts of law, the shadow of suspicion has cost us time. Time that our nation, in its race for technological sovereignty, cannot afford to lose."
It was a brilliant, subtle attack. He was no longer defending himself against accusations; he was accusing his accusers of hindering national progress.
The questions came, and he batted them away with ease. When a reporter from a skeptical financial daily asked about the funding, Harsh was ready.
"The initial capital is from our proven, legitimate electronics business. The next phase will be funded by a combination of debt and, we hope, strategic investment from forward-thinking partners who value India's future over short-term gossip."
He was laying the groundwork. The "forward-thinking partners" would be the laundered Singapore money, funneled through a complex web of offshore entities that would appear as foreign investors eager to back India's tech boom.
As he stepped away from the podium to a wave of flashing cameras, he felt a hand on his elbow. It was an aide, holding out a mobile phone.
"Sir, it's Mr. Varma's office. He wishes to speak with you at your earliest convenience."
Harsh allowed himself a small, cold smile. The politician, who had cut him loose, had seen the headlines, had felt the shift in the wind. The shield was becoming a sword. The patriot's gambit was working.
He took the phone and walked towards the window, looking out at the city. "Put him through," he said. The battle for his name was entering its final, decisive phase. He had given the public a hero. Now, he would make the political establishment an offer they couldn't refuse.