The Gold Bazaar buzzed with energy as merchants shouted over each other to attract customers. The scent of polished wood and old parchment mixed with the tang of metal from intricate artifacts. Das walked through the tightly packed streets, his eyes scanning the displays of antiques: brass vases, carved idols, vintage clocks, and jewelry that gleamed under the dim lighting.
Das approached the first shop, a modest store with a sign reading "Singh Antiques & Collectibles." The shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with thick glasses, looked up from his ledger as Das stepped in.
"Are you searching for anything specific?" The Shop owner asked with a smile.
"I'm looking for an appraiser Job. I've worked extensively with antique evaluation. I have a good understanding of rare artifacts. Are you hiring?" Das asked politely.
The shopkeeper eyed him warily. "What's your background?"
"I spent years studying artifacts and have hands-on experience repairing and identifying rare items. I can demonstrate if needed," Das replied confidently.
The shopkeeper hesitated, seemingly impressed by Das's demeanor. But then another man hastily entered the shop, whispering something into the shopkeeper's ear. The shopkeeper's expression immediately soured.
"You're from the 'criminal zone,' aren't you?" the shopkeeper asked, his tone turning cold as he watched the tattoo on Das's arm.
Das's jaw clenched. "I don't deny my past, but it doesn't define my abilities. I'm here to work, not cause trouble."
The shopkeeper shook his head. "We don't hire people like you. And let me warn you—don't bother trying anywhere else in the bazaar. Word travels fast and all shops work under the Gold Man syndicate."
Das's hands curled into fists, but he controlled his temper. Without another word, he walked out, his head held high despite the whispers and stares that followed him.
As he moved from shop to shop, the pattern repeated. At every store, the shopkeepers gave him wary looks, often refusing outright before he could even finish speaking.
By the time he reached the last shop on the street, he had almost given up. Still, he walked in.
The owner, an elderly man with kind eyes, listened patiently as Das made his case. For a moment, Das thought he might finally find a breakthrough.
But when the shopkeeper asked, "Where have you worked before?" Das's honest answer about his past ended the conversation.
"I'm sorry, young man," the shopkeeper said with a regretful shake of his head. "Even if I wanted to help, the Gold Man Syndicate would never allow it."
Das thanked him quietly and left.
Frustrated but unwilling to give up, Das turned to the roadside vendors selling piles of trinkets and supposed treasures. He sifted through the items with expert hands, examining every piece.
A vendor watched him curiously. "Looking for something specific?"
"I'm looking for genuine antiques," Das replied. "Anything rare or valuable."
The vendor chuckled. "Rare and valuable? Not here, my friend. We just sell what people throw away."
Das continued searching, but the piles yielded nothing more than broken brass items, fake gemstones, and mass-produced replicas.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Das sighed, feeling the weight of the day's failures. His hands were dirty from handling the items, and his heart felt heavier than ever.
By evening, Das arrived at the Frost family textile factory to pick up Lilly. To his surprise, her sister, Soya, was already there, chatting animatedly with Lilly.
"Hey," Das greeted her with a faint smile.
"Hi, Brother-in-law! Thought I'd join you two for dinner today," Soya said cheerfully.
Lilly smiled as she approached. "Let's go. I'm starving."
The three of them piled into Das's ambassador car and drove to the Pearl House, one of Mumbai's most famous seven-star restaurants. Its grandeur was evident from the moment they pulled up—gleaming glass walls, a red-carpeted entrance, and a line of luxury cars parked outside.
Inside, the atmosphere was luxurious, with soft lighting, chandeliers, and finely dressed diners. Das felt out of place in his modest attire, but Lilly held his hand reassuringly.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "You belong here as much as anyone else."
As they ate their meal—an assortment of rich dishes Lilly insisted on ordering—Das couldn't help but notice the whispers around them.
"Isn't that Lilly Frost?" a woman at a nearby table whispered to her companion.
"Yes, the one who eloped with… him," the man replied, his eyes darting toward Das.
"She left Kevin Sharma for that criminal? Unbelievable," another voice murmured.
Das heard every word, but he kept his head down, focusing on his food. Soya, however, couldn't hold back.
"Why are they staring at us?" she hissed. "They should mind their own business!"
"Let them talk," Lilly said calmly. "They don't matter."
Das admired her composure, though a part of him felt irritation of bad mouthing.
After their meal, the three stepped out to find the parking lot in chaos. Hundreds of people gathered around in a circle.
When Das enquired, people said, a movie shooting was ongoing and it might take some time.
Soya cried out excitedly and pulled Das with her to watch the movie shooting. Lily followed with an unwilling look.
A fight scene was ongoing and a middle aged man with the director cap on his head, is shouting loudly on the mike.
A bright yellow Lamborghini was stuck at the hotel gate, its front wheels unable to clear the newly raised speed bump. The logo of the Rajput family gleamed on the car's hood, making onlookers shout in excitement.
The fighters were attacking the Lamborghini and its driver was trying hard to defend the old man inside.
All fighters wore different clothes like ancient soldiers and using very unconventional, old type weapons.
Das felt something was wrong on the first look.
Soon, the driver was beaten down and thrown onto the side. The old man inside the car, dressed in a crisp white suit, hurriedly stepped out to defend. Unlike the driver, the old man using Karate moves to block the fighters in ancient clothes.
"Don't touch the car!" The old man barked. "My granddaughter is inside. She's unwell, and I won't leave anyone alive if you touch the vehicle." The old man threatened with a murderous look.
People were clapping in great excitement as the fight was realistic and entertaining.
"Help… help sir, please help…" The driver who fell to the ground, continued to beg in earnest tone.
"Stop the drama, you dumb guy. The camera is not focusing on you." The big bellied middle-aged man made fun of the driver.
"It's not a drama sir, they came to kill the Rajput family princess… Please save her. I beg you." The driver begged in a painful tone.
Das immediately knelt before the driver and touched his forehead.
"It's real blood! Fu*king Bastards... they fooled everyone!"