I am a master in India

Chapter 240 Bandit Style
Lucknow is actually quite nice. It has many well-preserved ancient buildings, and its modernization is only slightly inferior to that of New Delhi.

The train station here is even more spectacular than Victoria Station in Mumbai, and King George's Medical School is even internationally renowned.

If you only look at the city center, Lucknow is already a modern city.

Ron flew in from Varanasi, intending to rest for two days before visiting Yadav, but reality wouldn't allow it.

For some reason, the previously quiet Mainichi Shimbun suddenly went into overdrive, reporting on the demonstrations at the Suer cement plant for three consecutive days.

Damn it, have the Tripati family gone mad? It's happening in waves?
Abandoning his leisurely sightseeing plans, Ron immediately called Kavia, who was far away in Mumbai.

Half an hour later, he met the local editor of The Times of India in a coffee shop in Lucknow.

When it comes to manipulating public opinion, he's never been afraid of anyone.

The Daily News is nothing compared to any section of The Times of India.

Muna happened to be doing propaganda work in Mirzabul, so the materials were readily available.

Ron gave the editor a small gift, and they agreed that the article would be published the next day, with the materials to be delivered before evening.

After making some minor arrangements, Ron went to see Yadav without stopping.

His intuition told him that the King of Mirzabur seemed to have quickened his pace.

This time, Ron didn't go to Yadav's office, but instead visited his official residence.

Since this wasn't the first time the two sides had met, there was no need for a middleman to relay their message.

Having given away nearly nine million rupees, Ron is now an important figure on Yadav's list.

Upon hearing of his arrival, Yadav immediately sent his servants to greet him.

The meeting place was in the garden, and when Ron came in, Yadav was happily eating a mango.

"Want some?" He licked the juice off his fingers.

"I haven't been feeling well lately," Ron declined.

With that kind of eating style, he'd have little appetite.

"The fruit from Uttar Pradesh is no worse than that from Mumbai."

"That's right, so I came back."

“But you will still leave,” he said, putting down the towel he was using to wipe his mouth and looking over. “You’ll have to put more effort into the cement plant; we made that promise to the reporters.”

"The cement plant is fine; the answer will be in tomorrow's newspaper."

"newspaper?"

"This isn't a tabloid like the Daily News. The Suer Cement Plant has provided thousands of jobs and solved the road problems in the north. Shouldn't that be publicized?"

"The road? What do you intend to do?" Yadav waved for his servant to leave.

“Build a cement road from Mirzapur to Varanasi, a total of 60 kilometers, which is unprecedented in the East.”

"Not bad." Yadav nodded in satisfaction; this was also one of his achievements.

“The Daily News.” Ron looked up at him.

"I'll put in a good word, but you need to get those farmers on your side as soon as possible. Some reporters are always looking for big news."

“I understand,” Ron nodded.

"Like I said, as long as it doesn't get published, everything else is negotiable."

Ron's expression shifted slightly; he hadn't heard the part about "not causing any deaths."

"Are you sure the cement plant will be completed on time? I've included it in Uttar Pradesh's strategic plan. If anything goes wrong, we'll both become a laughingstock," Yadav warned.

"Of course, the cement plant will start trial production in less than two months, but..."

"Ok?"

"The power supply is not stable enough, so I plan to build my own power station."

“Tell me what you need?” Yadav asked directly.

"Coal! Coal from Sumbadra!"

Yadav leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning Ron.

Just as he was about to say something, someone suddenly came in; it was his brother, Satya.

“Hey, Satya, come here.” He tilted his head and introduced them to each other.

Satya and his brother look very alike, with the same dark skin and round face.

He bowed to Ron with his hands clasped in prayer, then expectantly had his men unfurl the poster.

"This is the campaign poster I made, brother. What do you think?"

"Oh, you're running for the regional election?" Yadav looked at the poster.

Yellow background with red lettering, a typical Indian style. The poster features two smiling figures performing a gesture of wai (hands together in prayer), which are the two brothers.

The slogan read "Long live the great Socialist Party!" and, like the slogans on the streets, it was everywhere.

“This is the final version after consulting the Holy Master. He said I would definitely win.” Satya smiled with anticipation.

Yadav didn't speak. He looked up and sized up his younger brother. "How tall are you?"

“172 centimeters.” Satya replied without hesitation.

"How high is your position within the party?" Yadav asked again.

“Uh…” Satya was stunned.

"Why are you the same height as me in the poster? Can you sit on equal footing with the Chief Minister?"

Satya's smile froze, her face showing embarrassment.

"It's just a small regional election, and they're already using my name. What will they do during the state election?"

"I'll change it right away," Satya replied with a forced smile.

How many copies did you print?

Two hundred thousand sheets.

Yadav remained silent, then suddenly turned his gaze to Ron beside him.

Hmm? Ron looked up and met his gaze, then seemed to understand.

“Mr. Yadav, once the poster is repaired and printed, please send me the bill.”

"Aren't you going to thank Mr. Sue?" Dr. Yada looked at his younger brother.

“Thank you very much for your help.” Satya bowed to Ron again with his hands clasped in prayer.

"You're welcome." Ron shook his head, a hint of helplessness in his voice.

"Go down," Yadav waved his hand, sending his younger brother away.

“It’s his first time running for election, he doesn’t know the rules.” “Supporting the Socialist Party is our common goal.” Ron nodded politely.

“Everyone says politicians are greedy bitches, but actually voters are. They vote for whoever pays them the most,” Yadav said with a helpless shrug.

"Makes sense."

"By the way, where were we?"

"Power plant, coal mine."

“It’s yours now.” Yadav wiped his hands, got up and left.

Ron pursed his lips, silently stood up, and turned around.

What a greedy fellow, as rude as his caste.

Even if the government gives coal mines to companies, nobody wants them.

But for Yadav, it was like a gift.

Who knows how much the bill will be for printing 200,000 posters?

These bandits never miss an opportunity to make money; no amount of money can shut them up.

Leaving Yadav's residence, Ron even considered whether to contact other opposition parties in Uttar Pradesh.

He's a businessman; isn't it standard practice to bet on multiple fronts?
Yadav's behavior was too bandit-like, and Ron didn't want to put all his eggs in one basket.

With these questions in mind, Ron got into the car and told Anil to go straight to the airport.

Just as he left, an SUV with the license plate "Kalimbai" from Mirzabur pulled up in front of Yadav's house.

Back at the cement plant, Ron was shocked by what he saw.

The long queue of people stretched for hundreds of meters, extending directly onto the concrete road outside.

"what happened?"

"Master, they are all here to register."

"Sign up?"

"Yes, the whole of Mirzabul knows that they are hiring here, and the great Mr. Sur is offering generous salaries."

Muna has changed; in just a few days, she has undergone a complete transformation.

He stopped guarding the mine and devoted himself to propaganda.

He seemed to be born for this line of work; every time he went out and came back, he was stronger than before.

He wore a yellow headband with a sun symbol, indicating that he was a supporter of the Suer family.

Every day he would give a loud speech in front of the tea shop, or ride back and forth in a truck through the dirty streets of Mirzapur.

Holding the microphone, he shouted, "Mirzabul needs the great Mr. Sur!"

In less than a week, the name of Mr. Suer was known to all the 200,000 residents of the small town.

Of course, the salary of 300 rupees was the biggest contributor.

"Has anyone been causing trouble in the last few days?" Ron asked, stroking his chin, his eyes darting around.

“No, none of the farmers from before dared to come,” Muna reported excitedly.

"Ok?"

“The villagers would fight them back and call them scum and traitors. If they still want to live in the village, they will never dare to cause trouble again.”

“Not bad, very well done.” Ron hadn’t expected Muna’s performance to far exceed his expectations.

“Master, the tricks played by the Tripati family will not cause you any harm.”

"The cement plant is about to start production. Be careful of them launching sneak attacks at this crucial moment."

"Yes, Master, I will keep a close watch." Muna was now full of fighting spirit.

"By the way, what's your surname?"

“Uh, Master,” Muna hesitated, unsure how to begin.

“Don’t worry, I was just asking casually. Caste doesn’t matter,” Ron reassured him.

“Harvey,” Muna replied hesitantly.

Is it for sugar production?

"Yes Master."

Harvey, in Sanskrit, means "one who makes sweets".

This is Muna's caste, and it is his destiny; everyone living in Mirzabul understands this immediately.

That's why Muna went to work at the tea shop at the village entrance. When the owner saw him, he thought: Oh, their surname is Harvi, they were born to boil sugar and make tea.

Muna used to wonder, if they were truly born candy makers, why didn't his father make candy but instead pulled a rickshaw?
Why did he spend his childhood smashing coal and wiping tables, instead of growing up eating sweet marinated eggs and rose hips?

Why is he so thin and small, yet agile, instead of being as chubby and smooth-skinned as a child who grew up eating candy?

Muna later came to realize that his father might have actually been a candy maker.

But after he inherited the candy store, people of other castes, with the help of the police, must have seized the store.

His father wasn't strong enough to fight back. So he ended up pulling a rickshaw, and he never became a plump, smooth-skinned man.

When you have power, you have confidence to speak. This power isn't just about fists; it can be other things as well.

He's tasted a bit of that feeling these past few days, but he still doesn't understand it.

In short, in the past, caste determined everything in India.

It is still the same now, but things are different now.

Thousands of castes, thousands of destinies.

Continuing to this day, there are probably only two fates: to eat others, or to be eaten.

The Harvi of Muna belong to the Shudra caste, and in Mirzapur they are only allowed to be eaten.

He has read a lot of books recently and has come to understand this principle.

Ron had a sudden realization about the “sugar-making caste.”

Making sugar is great; sugarcane is everywhere in Uttar Pradesh, making it a solid pillar industry.

"Muna, are there many people of this caste?"

“Many, Master,” Muna said curiously.

The master's focus doesn't seem to be on the distinction between castes.

(End of this chapter)