I am a master in India

Chapter 241 Slave
Yadav was a "cattle herder," and Harvi was a "confectioner"; they were both from the lower castes of the Shudras.

In North India, cattle and sugarcane are everywhere; they are symbols of agriculture and the economy.

It is not surprising that the castes representing these two groups are so large.

Yadav has 20 to 30 million people; even if Harvey can't compare, he won't be too far behind.

Ron had some ideas in mind, but they hadn't taken shape yet.

"Brother, how did things go in Lucknow?" Ratan walked over.

“It’s resolved. The Daily News won’t be reporting on us anymore.” Ron shrugged.

"Didn't those lowly Yadav try to extort another sum from you?"

"You guessed right, the bill will be sent over in the next couple of days."

“A bastard is a bastard,” Ratan cursed.

Muna's heart clenched; he used to never take such words seriously.

This is their caste's fate, their destiny from birth.

I don't know when it started, perhaps it was picking up books again, or perhaps it was the recent protests, but he was no longer indifferent to such words.

“Yadav is quite reasonable; he gave us the coal mine in Sonbadra.”

"Nobody wants that thing. You can't take it with you or sell it. It's useless." Ratan dismissed it with disdain.

"Something is better than nothing; at least it can solve the electricity problem for the cement plant and the mine."

“Brother, you’re too much of a rule-taker, that’s why Yadav bullies you. Sometimes you have to show them your gun…”

"Alright, alright, we're all cooperating pretty well right now, there's no need to cause any trouble." Ron put his arm around his shoulder and walked into the manor.

“This business is too much trouble,” Ratan grumbled. “Forget it, let’s go grab a drink. You haven’t had a moment’s peace since you came back from Mumbai. Dorji! Muna! Go buy some whiskey!”

“Yes, master,” the two servants replied.

There's no high-end stuff like whiskey near Cana village, and the landlords prefer imported spirits.

Dorji disliked Muna, but had to grit his teeth and go along with him.

They need to go to the town of Mirzabul, where there are shops selling imported liquor.

The streets were noisy, and occasionally you could still see leaflets distributed by the marchers from the previous two days.

Some were pasted on the wall, while others were trampled into the soil, covered with footprints.

"You country rat, what books have you been reading lately?" Dorje asked, trying to make conversation.

"A collection of poems."

"A collection of poems? What's that?"

"Great writing."

"Only gods are great? Are you crazy?"

"You do not understand."

"Tch~" Dorje pointed dismissively, "Then do you even know those words?"

Muna looked up and saw a newspaper that had been thrown on the ground; it was in English.

“Look, you’re not devout enough to gods and writing; you’re just a half-baked person.”

Muna was speechless. Dorji was right; he was just a half-baked idiot.

Not only him, but most people in this country are half-baked; they have no chance to complete their education.

They are somewhere between illiterate and literate, their heads crammed with a jumble of things, like an unorganized museum.

A few dates and events learned from history textbooks, a few formulas learned from math textbooks, political discussions read in newspapers while passing by on the street, a few triangles and pyramids seen on the tattered pages of a geometry textbook used to wrap snacks at a tea shop at the village entrance, and a few news clips heard from ALL India Radio and Television news programs.

All this vague, half-understood, and partially correct information mixes with other half-baked ideas in their minds, vying for dominance and ultimately leading them to generate even more half-baked ideas.

This is how most people in India form their worldview, and it is also the principle by which they conduct themselves.

Muna suddenly realized that he was essentially a novice; he couldn't even read English, so how could he have the face to study poetry?
“Country rat, we’ve arrived, get ready!” Dorje called out from the side.

The shop in front of them had a sign hanging outside that read "Top Prize British Ocean Hotel".

This is the only Western-style hotel in town, and the local landowners send their servants here every week to buy wine.

Moreover, each time they went out, they always had two servants with them, probably because they were afraid that the other servant would run away with the wine.

The shelves of the "Top Prize" hotel were piled high with colorful bottles of all kinds. Behind the counter, two boys, around ten years old, were busy collecting money and taking out bottles of alcohol amidst the noise of customers.

On the white wall of the shop is a price list painted in red, listing hundreds of types of alcohol, divided into five categories: beer, rum, whiskey, gin, and vodka.

Whisky is the most abundant, and it is divided into three categories. The top-tier brands include Johnnie Walker, Black Dog, and Teacher's Spirit...

Prices start at 1,000 rupees, and can be sold by the bottle, half bottle, or quarter bottle.

At the end of the price list, there is a small line of text stating that we also have more affordable whiskies available. Please inquire at the counter if you wish to purchase one.

The hotel interior is not large; the three-meter-wide area in front of the counter was packed with more than fifty people buying alcohol.

Everyone was waving large bills and shouting at the top of their lungs:

"One liter of Kingfisher beer, please!"

"Half a bottle of Old Monk Rum!"

"A bottle of Thunderbolt! Thunderbolt!"

These weren't wines for them to drink themselves; Muna could tell from their tattered clothes that they, like herself and Dorji, were servants buying wine for their master. Luckily, it wasn't the weekend, otherwise the counter would have been a chaotic mess.

Upon arriving here, Muna and Dorji suddenly found themselves working together seamlessly. He took charge of holding off the enemy, while Dorji launched a powerful attack from the front.

He pushed his way forward, shouting, "Johnnie Walker! A whole bottle, please!"

Johnnie Walker is the first of the first-class whiskies on that price list just now; Latan never drinks any other off-brand whiskies.

After Dorji received the bottle, he protected it like a baby. Muna then launched a powerful attack, carving a bloody path through the crowd.

He was already eighteen years old and much taller than before. Also, because he ate curry roasted chicken, he had become much stronger.

Only in the wine shop do Dorji and Muna show a sense of cooperation, unlike their mutual indifference at the mine.

On the way back, Dorje would stop from time to time, carefully take the wine bottle out of the box, and play with it in his hand.

He said it was to check if the "jackpot" hotel had used substandard products, but Muna knew that was a complete lie.

He just wanted to hold the bottle, to experience the feeling of holding a sealed bottle of premium whisky in his hand, and to imagine that it was a bottle he had bought for himself.

After he had his fill, he put the bottle back in the box and walked back home.

Muna's clothes were also tattered, but he looked down on Dorji's petty tricks.

He then recalled the line of poetry that Iqbal had written in the collection:
They are slaves in the end, because they do not know the beauty in the world.

The Daily News indeed shut up, its front page replaced by a kidnapping case at a prestigious private English school.

This kind of thing is commonplace in Uttar Pradesh and can hardly be considered news.

However, the front page always needs to have something written on it to fill the empty space.

The Times of India took over from The Daily News, and its reporting took a complete 180-degree turn.

The farmers marched for the Suer Cement Plant, yes, but it was to thank the great Mr. Suer.

Ron was transformed into a gospel for the people of Mirzapur in the Times of India.

He brought factories, provided thousands of jobs, and planned to repair the dilapidated roads in the east.

He's clearly a great philanthropist; all the previous reports were false.

To add to the persuasiveness, the newspaper also published two accompanying pictures.

One of them is a celebratory parade in the town of Mirzabul, where the banners have all been changed to praise and glorify Mr. Sur.

The other picture shows a long line of villagers waiting to apply for jobs at the Suer Cement Plant.

The Times of India’s readership spans all levels of society in Uttar Pradesh, and Ron Sur’s reputation was reversed almost overnight.

After the news had been circulating for a few days, prominent figures in Uttar Pradesh began to pay attention to Ron.

They called him not for any reason, just to say hello.

We're all business people, so if the right opportunity arises in the future, cooperation will be a natural progression.

One of them earnestly invited Ron to meet him; his name was Subrata Roy, and he was a Bihari.

Ron asked Ratan about him and was surprised to find that the guy was quite famous.

When he was young, he studied in Gorakhpur in eastern Uttar Pradesh. After graduating, instead of looking for a job, he rode a Lameda motorcycle to deliver fast food.

Roy didn't want to work for others; he preferred to run his own business.

After saving up some money, he bought goods from low-end factories and then resold them to make a profit from the price difference.

Unfortunately, there are too many poor people in India, and those things that seem ordinary to Roy are still unaffordable for the lower classes.

On one occasion, a poor customer he was trying to sell to bluntly said, "If I give you money, I'll have less money. Unless you have a way to make my money more, why should I trust you?"

This statement sparked Roy's thinking, and a bold business plan began to take shape in his mind.

Roy discovered that banks in India almost exclusively operate in large cities, with even small towns rarely having bank branches.

However, most of the population of Uttar Pradesh, or rather, northern India, lives in rural areas. Where do they keep their money?
The poor may not have much money, but they must have at least one or ten rupees.

In the late 70s, Roy bought the nearly bankrupt Sahara Financial Company for two thousand rupees and officially established his own private financial bank.

His main clients are in rural areas, where he provides high-interest investment projects to poor people such as farmers, rickshaw pullers, servants, and small business owners who do not have access to formal banking services.

He welcomed all comers, allowing clients to deposit as little as ten rupees and promising them an annual interest rate return of 300%.

At first, many people didn't believe it, so Roy simply laid out piles of banknotes on the table, leaving everyone dumbfounded.

After attracting his initial customers with high interest rates, Roy then began lending to those in need.

In his words, it's a "savings mutual aid" scheme, where people with spare money help those who need it, and the latter pay interest to the former.

Gradually, he attracted more and more customers, and when he had more money in hand, he lowered the interest rate to around 15%.

Because of their deep connection, the poor customers did not leave Roy.

His Ponzi scheme was a success; his poor customers practically groveled before him whenever they saw him.

More than a decade later, Sahara Financial Corporation has grown into the largest private bank in Uttar Pradesh.

Its business is no longer limited to the financial sector and has begun to expand into the real economy, with its presence felt in industries such as real estate, electronics factories, and hotels.

A bank that can turn a Ponzi scheme into reality is certainly one of the most bizarre in the world.

Ron decided to meet him; they were both in the Northern States, and it wouldn't hurt to say hello.

(End of this chapter)