I am a master in India

Chapter 242 Just in case
The headquarters of the Sahara Group is in Lucknow. After Roy's net worth increased, he also built a huge villa called "Sahara Shah" in the eastern suburbs.

Ron was invited to visit the other party's villa.

It must be said that it is indeed incredibly large, with lush green lawns and gleaming white marble decorations throughout the villa.

It also boasts a concert hall, cinema, golf course, and cricket ground; it's more of a modern estate than a villa.

In terms of area alone, this place is much larger than Ron's villa in Mumbai.

What's most peculiar is that all the servants at Roy Manor are dressed in black and white.

He wore a white shirt under a black uniform, and black shoes over white socks.

When Ron saw Subrata Roy, who was also wearing a black vest and white shirt, coming out to greet him, he understood what was going on.

This guy either has OCD or he likes to create a personality cult.

Roy was tall and thin, his black hair was always styled with hair wax, and his mustache was also meticulously groomed.

“Mr. Suer, welcome!” He clasped his hands together in a gesture of respect.

“Hello, Mr. Roy,” Ron returned the greeting.

“Let’s go inside and talk. They’ve prepared some excellent silver-tip tea.”

India also drinks tea, but not the ubiquitous milk tea; it's real brewed green tea.

Roy is in his forties and has started to pay attention to health.

He led Ron through every corner of the villa, his smugness evident on his face.

Indian businessmen all have this problem: they like to show off.

The more the media reports on it, the more excited they become.

This is not only a demonstration of strength, but also a boost to the confidence of the investors behind it.

The poor people who deposit money in Roy's Bank, after seeing news of people flaunting their wealth, will think: He really is a shrewd businessman who knows how to make money. My money is guaranteed to only make a profit with him.

“I saw the news. Your Sur Park is fantastic. India needs patriotic youths like you.” Roy especially liked to wave the banner of patriotism.

"I didn't expect the news to have reached Uttar Pradesh." Ron was a little surprised.

“Businessmen don’t miss any meaningful news, and neither does our minister.” Roy smiled, a knowing look on his face.

Ron suddenly remembered his meeting with Yadav a while ago, when Yadav had already been subtly expressing his dissatisfaction.

He outwardly blamed Ron for focusing his energy on the Sur Park in Mumbai, which led to negative news about the cement plant appearing in the newspapers.

What that minister was really thinking was, why isn't the Surk Park, which cost hundreds of millions of dollars, located in Uttar Pradesh? That way, he could make even more money.

“Some businesses are better suited to Mumbai, some are better suited to Uttar Pradesh,” Ron shrugged.

“You’re right, Uttar Pradesh is in dire need of rebuilding right now. I wanted to build apartments in Lucknow, but I couldn’t even buy cement. I then wanted to start a building materials business, but,” Roy shrugged, “you beat me to it at the cement plant.”

"To be honest, I also wanted to start a bank. But after inquiring, I found out that Mr. Roy had been in the business for over ten years."

"It seems we have a surprisingly similar perspective," Roy laughed.

Ron laughed too, a relaxed and carefree laugh.

They're all old foxes; let's not pretend to be someone else.

“Seriously, does your cement plant need funding? We can scale it up even further,” Roy said enticingly.

"The cement plant is almost finished and will be put into production soon."

"So fast?"

"The terrain there is good, and there's some foundation. If it's just initial trial production, it should take about a year."

"Looks like I'll just stick to my real estate business." Roy nodded indifferently.

"Just let me know if you need cement. The mines in Mirzabul are of very good quality."

"Of course, but I heard you have some conflicts with the Tripati family?"

"Hmm?" Ron composed himself.

"I think there's some news you'll find very interesting."

"About the Tripatty family?"

Roy smiled but didn't say anything; the value of intelligence lies in the moment it's not spoken.

“What do you want?” Ron asked directly.

Cement plant

“The cement plant has no plans to expand for the time being,” Ron said, effectively shutting down the project.

"What about the Suer Industrial Park? Surely you need funds somewhere?" Roy persisted.

He owns a bank; money only generates returns when it's in motion. This could be through investment or lending.

"I plan to develop the coal mine in Sonbadra."

“Coal?” Roy shook his head. “No, this business isn’t worth it.”

"Here's what I'm going to do: I'm planning to build a backup power station for the cement plant and mine, which will require about 30 million rupees."

"What's the interest rate?" Roy's eyes lit up.

"Just like a bank."

"make a deal!"

Lending is also a highly profitable business, and it is a major part of a bank's operations.

Roy's Sahara Finance is also a bank.

Thirty million rupees is not a small amount. Indian banks generally have high loan interest rates these days, usually around 10%-15%.

Over a five-year period, Roy could easily earn back ten million rupees from the interest alone.

It's a great deal, a very good deal.

“So what’s that piece of news that’s interesting to me?” Ron asked.

“Kalin Tripatty recently visited our Minister.”

"When?" Ron's eyes flickered slightly.

"It started as early as two weeks ago, but there have been more recently." Roy said with a smile, the kind of smile that comes from watching a spectacle.

Ron silently calculated that it was exactly the time when he last visited Yadav.

Interestingly, he hadn't received a single call from Yadav in the past two weeks.

Was Tripatty just here to catch up? Ron didn't believe it. "This kind of news is utterly worthless," he said calmly.

"This is sufficient for Uttar Pradesh. Our Minister Yadav never meets with businessmen unless it's for money."

“I know the Tripatty family is in the arms business. Do they have competitors?” Ron asked.

“Sombadra, you can go there and ask around.” Roy smiled, sensing that things were about to get more and more interesting.

Sonbadra, coal mines, the Tripati family—what a coincidence! Things are getting more and more interesting.

"Thank you for your message, Mr. Roy."

"I also want to get my interest back smoothly."

Watching Ron's departing figure, Subrata Roy chuckled softly.

If the deal goes through, he collects interest. If it fails, he collects the pledged shares; he doesn't lose money either way.

In the southern suburbs of Mirzabul, a black SUV bearing the license plate "Kalimbay" drove straight to the gate of a factory.

Judging from the sign outside, this is a copper factory.

Upon entering the courtyard, dozens of workers were hammering and banging on the iron frame placed on the ground.

People with guns patrolled the corners of the yard and the wooden platforms on the walls.

Upon seeing the black SUV enter, the workers and patrolmen bowed and greeted it with "Kalimbai".

“Dad, I’ve been here many times already,” Ram said listlessly.

“Before, you were just watching the show; this time, you’re learning how the factory operates. As the heir to the Tripati family, you must master these skills.”

Ram didn't take it seriously. He claimed to be the sole heir, but he never let him get involved in the affairs of the town.

Entering the dimly lit workshop, there were even more people. Near the outermost work area, some workers were sitting on the floor polishing copperware, and everything seemed normal.

These are all cover-ups; the core area is at the very back of the factory.

Kalin led his men straight in, passing through door after door, where guards with AKs saluted him in turn.

"Sir, the materials for the iron part are ready." Someone brought over a list to confirm with Karin.

Ram looked around the workshop and realized that many changes had taken place.

The workers no longer make guns entirely by hand; several lathes and milling machines are now humming and turning.

Whenever an iron pipe gets close, there is a piercing metallic scraping sound, and sparks fly all over the ground.

“The quality of the homemade pistols used to be inconsistent, and many customers had complaints, so we changed the equipment,” Kalin explained as he walked over.

"Where do we get our steel from?" Ram asked curiously, kicking the pile of rubble at his feet.

“Truck steering wheels, cheap and easy to use.” Karin shook his head.

The homemade pistols on the table were all made from scrap metal, with their frames and barrels reconstructed from broken pieces.

To be honest, it looked very shabby; you could tell at a glance it was a cheap product.

"We used to use parts from Ambassador cars and Yamaha motorcycles, so the gun barrels shouldn't have exploded. Ubi, you're in charge of quality, what's your explanation?"

A bald, middle-aged man ran over. "Kalimbai, it might be a problem with the barrel, or maybe the bullets are faulty."

“Don’t let this happen again!” Karin warned him.

"Yes, Kalimbai." The middle-aged man respectfully withdrew.

Ram pulled out the pistol from his waist; it was a finely crafted Lockheed pistol.

"Dad, this gun is cooler."

“That’s right, but we didn’t make those; they were imported for special clients. Of course, there are also some for family use.”

India's high-end goods are all made in foreign countries, from imported liquor to weapons.

Domestic products are for the poor; as long as they don't explode, the quality is fine.

“These are bullets.” Kalin grabbed the bright yellow bullet casings from another person.

"Did we make this ourselves?" Ram asked.

"Picked it up on the road."

"On the way?"

"Yes, the higher the toll, the better the road."

The police in Mirzabul conduct regular target practice, and only he knows how many shots he has fired.

When Chief Gupta asks, the officers below will say, "65 shots were fired."

"How many empty shell casings did you collect?"

"30 pieces."

"Where's the rest?"

"Gone."

Chief Gupta laughed, and the officers laughed too.

This was their unspoken agreement; they were taking notes while speaking.

In fact, the remaining 35 bullets were collected by Chief Gupta and then hidden in a lunchbox before being sent to the Tripatty family's arms processing plant.

This is where the bullets come from; the more money you pay, the smoother the path becomes.

"The bullets are like the ink in the printer. You can buy original ones or fill them with old empty cartridges. Either way, the printer will work properly."

In another room right next to Kalinbai's, several workers were manually loading gunpowder into bullets.

There is no assembly line; everything is done manually.

“Remember, there can’t be any fire here,” Kalin reminded his son. “Two new guys came last month. They lit cigarettes here after lunch and then it exploded. Luckily, the factory was okay.”

"How do we send the finished guns out?" Ram asked again.

"It will be sent away along with the bronzeware outside, and no one will check."

Kalin, with Ram in tow, gave a detailed explanation of the family's arms business. He dissected every step, from gun production to how the transactions were conducted.

“You must keep the gun in your own hands,” he said, looking at his son. “From today onwards, you will stay here and keep an eye on things. We need to stock up on a hundred handguns.”

"So many?" Ram was slightly surprised.

"Just in case." Kalin turned and went upstairs.

(End of this chapter)