I am a master in India

Chapter 340 Shackles
Why have chicken coops survived to this day? This is a question that Muna has been pondering.

He was completely baffled and even amazed.

Many things happened around him, but he never thought about why before, and instead took them for granted.

Muna felt a chill run down her spine; something terrifying was lurking within Indian society.

Never before in human history has a few individuals owed so much to so many others.

A small minority in this country has already tamed the remaining 99 percent of the population.

Although these people were just as strong, talented, and intelligent as them in every way, they made the latter forever accompanied by servility.

This servility has even progressed to the point that if you put the key to your freedom in his hand, he will curse and throw it back at you.

In major cities like Delhi and Mumbai, millions of people get up at dawn every day to squeeze onto overcrowded, filthy buses and get off in front of their owners' mansions.

Then they would mop the floor, wash the dishes, weed the garden, feed the master's children, and massage the master's feet, all for that meager salary.

Muna felt that those rich people abroad had never experienced such enjoyment.

Because there are no servants there, the rich people there cannot even imagine what a good life is like.

Thinking about his background, Muna suddenly had a vague understanding.

The reason why the chicken coop wasn't breached was probably due to caste and family reasons.

The caste system needs no further explanation; his own experience best illustrates it. Family ties, however, further solidified the existence of the chicken coop.

If you want to break out of the chicken coop, you must be prepared to see your family completely destroyed.

His family would be hunted down, beaten, and burned alive by his master. Therefore, no normal person would do such a thing except for some twisted psychopath.

Muna walked back, passing through the red-light district of Old Delhi.

The women chattered above him, mocking and ridiculing him through the iron bars of the brothel window.

Muna ignored him, wondering if he had escaped the chicken coop.

Yes, he was that lucky guy, an extremely rare lucky guy.

He kept walking. Outside the gaudy blue gate of the brothel next door was a wooden stall, and next to it sat a betel nut seller, who was using a knife to rub spices onto the wet leaves he took from a bowl of water. This was the first step in making betel nuts.

There was another person sitting in the small space under his betel nut stand, heating milk in a container, with a gas stove underneath hissing and spewing blue flames.

"What's wrong with you? You're looking at women."

The pimp grabbed his wrist. The guy was short and had a big nose covered in red warts.

"You're the kind of guy who's rich enough to hire foreign girls, go for a Nepalese girl. Aren't they beautiful? Look up at them, buddy!"

He grabbed Muna's chin and forced him to look up. Perhaps he thought Muna was a shy newbie, exploring this place for the first time.

The Nepalese girl behind that iron window was indeed very beautiful: she had light skin and a pair of Eastern-style eyes that would drive Indian men crazy.

Muna broke free from the pimp's grasp and continued to ponder with her head down.

"Just call one! Call them all! Aren't you manly enough, buddy?"

Normally, Muna might not have minded, since it wasn't the first time.

But at that moment, Muna saw those women as parrots in a cage, waiting to be ravaged by another animal.

"Chew a betel nut, it can make you stand up!" the betel nut vendor shouted loudly at his stall.

He held up a damp, fresh areca leaf, waved it, and sent the water droplets flying onto Muna's face.

"Have a cup of hot milk, it works really well!" the short, gaunt man boiling milk downstairs shouted.

Muna watched the milk bubbling and slowly overflowing from the stainless steel pot.

The short, gaunt man laughed as he stirred the milk with a spoon, causing the foam to thicken and hiss.

The chickens in the coop are clucking, making a very loud and unpleasant noise.

Muna rushed toward the betel nut seller, shoved him off a high place, threw his leaves all over the ground, and kicked over his water.

Then he kicked the dwarf in the face. Screams erupted all around, and the pimps rushed at him. Muna slapped them a few times and fled the street.

He returned to the used bookstore, where the atmosphere made him feel relaxed.

From the city gates of Delhi all the way to the market in front of the Red Fort, the sidewalks are piled with thousands of dirty, tattered, and black books of all kinds.

The books cover science, medicine, philosophy, education, and foreign introductions. Some are so worn that they would break at the slightest touch, some have bookworms feasting inside, and some look like they've been rescued from water or fire.

Most of the shops on the sidewalk were closed at this time, but the restaurants were still open, with the aroma of fried food mixed with the smell of musty paper.

The rusty blades of the restaurant's exhaust fan were slowly turning, resembling the wings of a giant moth.

Muna walked over to the books and took a deep breath. Compared to the stench of the red-light district, it felt like oxygen.

A large group of book buyers were fiercely haggling with the bookseller. Muna quickly walked over to the books, picked one up and started flipping through it, until the bookseller shouted, "Do you want to buy that book, or do you want to read it for free?"

“This book isn’t good,” he replied, then put the book down and went to the next book stall, where he picked up another book and continued to slowly flip through it.

If he wanted, he could browse through those books for free without spending a single rupee, spending the entire night plundering the booksellers one after another!
Some of the books are written in Urdu, the language of the herders, and are covered with crooked lines and black dots.

As he was flipping through this book, the bookseller asked, "Can you read Urdu?"

This was an old herdsman, his dark face covered in beads of sweat, like begonia leaves after the rain, and he had a long, white beard.

"Can you understand it?" Muna asked.

He opened the book, cleared his throat, and read aloud, "You've been searching for that key for years, do you understand?" He looked at Muna, whose dark forehead was covered in wrinkles.

“I understand, Uncle Herdsman.”

"Shut up, you liar. Listen to me properly."

He cleared his throat again.

“You’ve been searching for that key for years, but the door has always been open!” He closed the book. “That’s called poetry.”

"Poetry?" A thought flashed through Muna's mind.

"Get lost, you brat," the bookseller told him to leave.

Muna didn't care; all he wanted to do was get back quickly and tell his master about his discovery.

However, Kishan suddenly arrived and said, "Sir, Master Suer has passed away."

"gone?"

"Yes, leave Delhi and go back to Mumbai. No, further south, I heard there's an emergency."

"So soon?" Muna asked with some regret.

"Mr. Sue's business is so big, he must be very busy."

"Did the sir give any instructions?"

"Lord Sur wants you to return to Uttar Pradesh, sir. There are many things waiting for you in the Pufancha district."

"what about others?"

"No, if Master Su has something important to do, he will definitely call you, sir."

Kishan was merely Muna's assistant; he had no right to speak to Lord Sur.

Because he was in a hurry, he only managed to say a few more words. Kishang was very excited and genuinely proud.

In this filthy land, Lord Sur's reputation is comparable to that of a god!
Countless people want to kneel down and kiss his toes, or even just to admire his face.

Not only did Kishan see it, but Lord Sue even spoke to him, which was enough for him to brag about for a long time.

Muna sighed. He felt he had grasped something, and that he would understand more if the teacher had guided him.

Well, I did gain a lot from this trip to New Delhi.

The subsidies he received were enough for him to do a lot of things in the Pufancha district.

As the leader of the Progressive Party, he was naturally prepared to do something.

Yadav and Mayawati were too greedy; they only cared about their own immediate interests and couldn't even take care of their own tribe.

This is wrong. Under the leadership of politicians like these, Uttar Pradesh will never be able to shake off its reputation for backwardness.

He had imagined countless times what he would do if he were in power.

First, there must be irrigation canals and level roads; without these two things, the filthy land will never escape the darkness.

There are also hospitals, hospitals with doctors on duty, not empty shell hospitals where doctors just throw out a roster and run off to private clinics to make extra money.

Fortunately, with Mr. Su'er's intervention, the hospital's problem has been resolved. The three large rocks were finally moved, and rumbling construction machinery arrived.

Muna needs to go back and keep an eye on things, and he also needs to realize his own ambitions.

Hopefully, when you return next time, you will see a completely different Pufancha district, at least in Mirzabul.

Ron left in a hurry; he was urged to leave by a phone call from Kavia.

Sigh, he stayed in North India for more than half a year, and then a bunch of weird things happened in the south.

Not Mumbai, but Tamil, his beloved "mother".

Tamil and Uttar Pradesh both held state elections in 96.

In Uttar Pradesh, the elections were held earlier, around the end of March.

Ron has spent the last two or three months consolidating his position in the north, including building connections, developing industrial plans, and establishing an intelligence network in New Delhi.
While he was busy with these matters, the Tamil general election was in full swing.

The election process began there in mid-April, and by June the outcome was largely decided.

Jayalalita suffered a crushing defeat, an unprecedented Waterloo.

Of the 186 seats in the entire state of Tamil, her AIADMK only won 4.

Not even a fraction! Unbelievable!
Even more ridiculous is that Jayalalita couldn't even hold onto his own constituency, losing to DMK's opponent.

As the leader of AIADMK and a former chief minister, she surprisingly lost her constituency.

That's like a stronghold, a political party's ironclad vote bank, a place where nothing unexpected could happen.

Just like Muna's Progressive Party, his constituency is north of Mirzapur, around the cement plant and the village of Kana.

How could they possibly lose in such a blessed place?
The same is true for Yadav and Dalit; their constituencies are either their birthplaces or the cities where they studied, all of which are closely related.

Regardless of the voting results, their constituency results will remain unchanged.

Jayalalita, on the other hand, lost even his own stronghold.

Ron was in a real bind; he knew a lot of trouble was coming.

(End of this chapter)