The call back from Varma's office was not a summons, but an invitation to the politician's private residence—a significant upgrade in deference. The bungalow, tucked away in the leafy, quiet lanes of Lutyens' Delhi, was a world away from the gritty energy of Mumbai. It spoke of old money, entrenched power, and decisions made behind high walls.
Harsh was ushered into a study lined with leather-bound books that looked unread. Varma was standing by a window, looking out at a manicured garden. He turned, and his face was a carefully composed mask of statesmanlike concern, but Harsh saw the calculation in his eyes.
"Patel," Varma said, gesturing to a deep armchair. "Your… announcement. It has caused quite a stir."
"It was meant to, sir," Harsh replied, taking the seat. He didn't wait for Varma to set the terms. "The Bharat Semiconductor Mission is the only way out. For both of us."
Varma's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. "For me? My reputation is secure."
"Is it?" Harsh asked, his voice quiet but firm. "A journalist, Sujata Desai, is still digging. She has connections between a Mauritius fund and a shipping company owned by your brother-in-law. Right now, she's focused on me. But if she can't break me, where do you think she will look next?"
The mask slipped for a second, revealing a flash of cold anger. "Are you threatening me, boy?"
"I'm stating a fact, sir," Harsh said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "We are in the same boat. You tried to throw me overboard. It didn't work. Now, I'm offering to row us both to safety."
He leaned forward. "The public sees me as a patriot. The media sees me as a visionary. If you stand with me now, you get to share that spotlight. You become the forward-thinking politician championing Indian technology. You get to announce the land allocation for the mission, to pose for the cameras at the foundation-laying ceremony. The narrative becomes yours."
Varma was silent, his jaw tight. Harsh could see the gears turning. The politician was a pragmatist above all else.
"And the alternative?" Varma asked, though they both knew the answer.
"The alternative is I fight Joshi alone. And if I lose, the fallout will be… messy. The recording of our last conversation, for instance, would make for difficult questions." Harsh didn't have to elaborate. The mere mention of the recording was the sword he had kept sheathed until now.
Varma's face darkened. He walked to his desk and poured himself a whiskey, not offering one to Harsh. "What do you need?" he finally asked, the words clipped.
"Two things," Harsh said. "First, you use your influence to make the investigation into Patel Holdings and the Mauritius fund disappear. Permanently. No more Joshi. The case is closed, and the records are buried so deep no one can ever find them."
"And the second?"
"The land. I need five hundred acres. Not in some backward industrial zone. I need it near a major city, with good infrastructure. And I need it at a token price. A rupee. Call it a national investment."
Varma let out a short, harsh laugh. "A rupee? You are audacious, Patel."
"The land is the easy part for you, sir. The political cover is what you're really paying for. In return, you get to be the face of India's technological renaissance. You get to claim credit for every job we create, every chip we design. Your legacy becomes tied to ours. It's a better return on investment than any campaign donation."
The silence stretched. Varma swirled the amber liquid in his glass, staring into it as if seeking an answer. He was cornered, and he knew it. Harsh had presented him with a choice between a graceful, profitable alliance and a mutually assured destruction.
"Joshi is a stubborn man," Varma said finally, not looking up. "He has friends."
"Everyone has friends until they don't," Harsh replied. "A word from you to his superiors, a reminder that his relentless pursuit of a 'national hero' is becoming an embarrassment to the government… he will be reassigned. To the wildlife department in the Andaman Islands, for all I care."
A faint, grim smile touched Varma's lips. He downed the rest of his whiskey.
"The land will be arranged. In Gujarat, near the Dholera Special Investment Region. The paperwork will be fast-tracked. As for Joshi…" He looked at Harsh, a new, grudging respect in his eyes. "Consider him a problem of the past."
The deal was struck. No handshake. No signed paper. Just a silent understanding between two men who knew the price of power.
Driving back to the airport, Harsh felt no triumph, only a cold exhaustion. He had just blackmailed one of the most powerful politicians in the country. He had secured his survival, but the cost was another layer of grime on his soul. He was now inextricably bound to Varma, a man he neither liked nor trusted.
His phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number. It contained only one sentence: "The remora has been redirected. New hunting grounds."
It was from Rustom Khan. Joshi was taken care of.
Harsh leaned his head against the cool window of the car. The immediate threat was over. The political and bureaucratic battles were won. He had his shield, his land, and his path to launder his fortune into a legacy.
But as the city lights of Delhi faded behind him, he thought of Priya. He thought of the simple satisfaction of a fixed radio. He had saved his empire, but the victory felt hollow. He had become the very thing he once would have despised: a man who operated in the shadows, who traded in threats and secrets, whose ambition had cost him his soul.
The foundation for his future was laid. But as he looked ahead, all he could see was a gilded cage of his own making, and a long, lonely road stretching out before him.
(Chapter End)