The weight of the crown was a private burden. The public face of the Harsh Group was one of blossoming, patriotic success. The "Arogya Band" was hailed as a medical marvel. The first "Swawlambi" village, powered by Rishi-28 chips managing its solar microgrid and water sensors, was featured on the national news. Harsh was the acceptable face of Indian capitalism—brilliant, benevolent, and fiercely self-made.
Which was why the attack, when it came, was so perfectly aimed.
It started with a whisper, a byline in a financial blog based in London. The article was titled, "The Patel Paradox: Public Benefactor or Data Monarch?" It was a masterwork of insinuation. It connected dots that were not meant to be connected. It noted the eerie precision of the Harsh Group's pre-crash liquidity drive. It questioned the "coincidence" of their open-source tech dovetailing perfectly with the government's new "Digital Sovereignty" push. It hinted, with lawyerly precision, at "unnaturally smooth regulatory clearances."
The article asked a single, devastating question: How does a private company see the future so clearly, unless it has a privileged view of the present?
The implication was a fifth column within the state itself. It suggested Harsh wasn't just a partner, but a puppet master, or worse, that the state was a puppet for his ambitions.
The blog post was a spark in dry tinder. By the next morning, it had been picked up by every major Indian business daily. The tone was one of shocked betrayal. Opposing politicians, who had been cautiously praising Harsh, now seized the narrative. In parliament, a fiery young MP from the opposition thundered, "Is there a Patel Sway in our sacred corridors? Are our nation's secrets being fed into a private algorithm in Pune?"
The attack was brilliant because it contained a seed of truth. He did have a privileged view. Not through corruption, but through the liaison with the Strategic Technology Integration Cell. That truth, however, was a state secret, utterly deniable and infinitely damaging if exposed.
Vikram Joshi stormed into his office, the morning's newspapers crumpled in his fist. "This is a coordinated hit. The London blog is a front for a DC-based strategic risk consultancy. One of our old 'friends'—the US semiconductor lobby—is likely writing the checks."
Meera, his communications head, was pale but focused. "We go silent. No denials, no explanations. It feeds the beast. We double down on the public good narrative. Flood the zone with stories from the Arogya clinics, the Swawlambi villages."
Harsh listened, staring at the holographic map in his office, now showing not data flows, but a cascading network of negative media mentions spreading like a virus. The attack wasn't on his balance sheet; it was on his legitimacy. On his soul.
He knew who his true enemy was: not the opposition MP, not the London blogger. It was the old global order, the system that had just crashed and was now desperately trying to reassert itself. They couldn't compete with his technology on price or quality, not anymore. So they would attack its origin. They would paint his sovereignty as sedition, his foresight as espionage, his public-private partnership as a conspiracy.
He felt a cold, familiar anger. The alleyway hustler, who had fought off Ganesh's thugs and outwitted Kersi, stirred within the statesman. This was just another form of extortion. Pay with your reputation, or we break your influence.
But he wasn't in an alley anymore.
"Meera," he said, his voice calm. "We don't go silent. We go transparent."
She blinked. "Sir?"
"Invite them in. Every major national and international outlet. We give a tour. Not of the corporate headquarters. Of Building C. The chip fab. We show them the clean room. We show them the Rishi-28 line. We let them talk to the engineers—the young Indians who built it. We show them the server hall for Disha, with the government auditors' seals clearly visible on the door."
It was a breathtaking gamble. It was inviting the fox into the henhouse to prove you had no hens, only eagles.
"And the questions? The article? The 'Patel Paradox'?"
"We answer with a question of our own," Harsh said, a hard light in his eyes. "We ask them: Is it a paradox for an Indian to build for India? Or is the real paradox that for so long, we believed only foreigners could build for us?" He leaned forward. "We don't defend. We attack. We reframe the debate from 'Is Patel too close to the government?' to 'Why is anyone upset that India is finally building for itself?' We make their suspicion look like a colonial hangover."
It was a masterclass in narrative jiu-jitsu. The tour was a sensation. The image of young Indian engineers in cleanroom suits, not as cheap labour, but as pioneers, was powerful. The sight of the simple, robust Rishi-28 chip, a symbol of independence, resonated deeply. Harsh, in a live Q&A, was asked directly about the "privileged view."
He looked directly at the camera, his gaze steady. "My only privilege is the privilege of believing in Indian minds. My foresight comes from reading the same data everyone else can read, but with a belief that India can do better than just be a customer. If that is a crime, then I am guilty of faith. In my country."
The applause from the Indian journalists was thunderous. The international reporters looked uneasy. The story flipped. The "Patel Paradox" became the "Patel Principle." The fifth columnist narrative crumbled under the weight of a more powerful story: national pride.
That night, the secure line buzzed. It was Sharma's voice, devoid of emotion. "A contained response. The foreign interests will switch tactics. They will now try to buy, not break. Be ready."
Harsh ended the call. The crown was secure, for now. But the attack had revealed its true nature. It wasn't a gift. It was a battleground. And he was now the standard-bearer in a new kind of war—a war for the story of India itself. The gardener had to become a general again, not of finance or technology, but of meaning.
(Chapter End)