The Federation of Indian Chambers of Commerce and Industry (FICCI) hall in Delhi was a temple of establishment power. The air smelled of old money, polished wood, and the faint, cloying scent of marigold garlands. The audience was a sea of tailored suits and silk saris—industrialists, tech CEOs, venture capitalists. These were the architects of India's roaring, consumption-driven growth. They were Harsh's natural tribe, and today, he had come to betray them.
He stood at the podium, the lights warm on his face, the text of his speech glowing on the discreet teleprompter. He had rehearsed the lines until they felt like a shroud. Meera had crafted the narrative, but he had to sell it with his own credibility.
"Colleagues, friends," he began, his voice carrying the easy confidence they expected. "We stand at the dawn of an incredible future for Indian technology. Our products are in global homes, our start-ups are unicorns, our engineers are the envy of the world." He paused for the approving murmur. "But a shadow falls across this bright dawn. The proposed Data Protection Bill, while born of noble intent to protect our citizens, threatens to strangle this infant in its cradle."
He could feel the room lean in. This was the Harsh Patel they knew—the fearless champion of Indian industry, the man who built empires.
"The bill's consent architecture," he continued, his tone shifting to one of concerned expertise, "as currently drafted, would require a labyrinth of pop-ups and legalese for every interaction. It would make the simple act of asking your smart speaker for a recipe feel like signing a mortgage. This isn't protection; it's paralysis."
Heads nodded vigorously. He was speaking their fear.
"But at Harsh Group," he said, his voice dropping to a confidential tone, "we believe in giving users real choice, not bureaucratic friction." He held up a prototype of the "Arogya Home" hub, the sleek, walnut-finished cylinder familiar from their ad campaigns. With a deliberate thumb, he flicked the small, metallic switch on its base. A soft, green LED illuminated next to a symbol of a banyan tree.
Thunk.
"This is the Dvāra standard," he announced. "A simple switch. One side, 'Personal'—the full, rich, AI-powered experience our customers love. The other side, 'Community'—a private, localised mode that shares data only for public good and complies with the strictest interpretation of the new bill." He looked out at the crowd. "We are investing millions to build this choice into our hardware. Because we believe in innovation, not obstruction. We urge the government to consider pragmatic compliance frameworks that allow innovation like Dvāra to flourish, rather than burying us all under a mountain of legal warnings that users will simply ignore."
It was a masterstroke. He was positioning Dvāra not as a threat to their data-harvesting models, but as a lifeboat. See? he was implying. We can give the government their 'protection' without destroying our businesses. Just give us time, give us flexibility.
The applause was thunderous. He was their hero, fighting the good fight against meddling bureaucrats. After the speech, a dozen CEOs surrounded him, clapping his back, asking for technical briefs on Dvāra. "Brilliant, Patel!" a telecom magnate boomed. "You've found the loophole before they've even built the wall!"
He smiled, shook hands, and felt like a traitor.
Later, in the green room, Sharma was waiting for him. The government man's face was unreadable.
"A compelling performance," Sharma said, his voice dry. "You have given the entire industry a roadmap to circumvent the spirit of the law you helped draft."
"I've given them a choice they will have to explain to their customers," Harsh corrected, wiping the stage makeup from his brow. "When the law passes, the 'Personal' side of the switch will come with a cost—a friction my competitors can't easily engineer away. Dvāra makes the cost visible. It makes privacy the default easy choice. That was always the goal."
Sharma studied him. "You are playing a double game so deep I am not sure even you know which side you are on."
"I'm on the side of the switch, Sharma," Harsh said, meeting his gaze. "The rest is just… theatre."
As his car pulled away from the FICCI building, Harsh looked at his reflection in the darkened window. The confident orator was gone. In his place was a weary man who had just used his hard-won credibility to defend a world he was trying to make obsolete. He had lit a fuse under his own industry, disguised as a lifeline.
The actor had left the stage, but the performance was just beginning. The next act would be in the court of public opinion, where his "Arogya Home" hub would hit the market with its little switch, and millions of Indians would make their choice. He had given them the power to reject the very empire he had just defended. It was the most subversive business strategy ever conceived: selling people the tool to make your own product less profitable.
The weight of the switch was no longer just physical. It was the weight of an entire, contradictory future, balanced on the tip of his thumb and the honesty of a single, satisfying thunk.
(Chapter End)