I am a master in India

Chapter 383 Market
The streets of Mumbai are always so vibrant, and many foreign tourists are fascinated by the busy and strange street scenes outside with their cameras.

Rows of small shops stand side by side, each selling specific goods and providing small but essential services to the city.

Waxing wooden furniture, typing services, hair oil sales, fireworks and firecracker sales, chapati sales, funeral services, and handmade leather shoemaking.
These shops are run by the fourth generation of their owners. The shops are on the ground floor, while the owners live upstairs, paying a symbolic few dozen rupees as rent.

The shop opens at 11 a.m. and closes at 9 p.m. Like small vendors all over the world, the shop owners know exactly where to buy cheap and delicious street food, such as rose ice cream or sago pudding.

When their relatives from other places come to Mumbai for sightseeing, they are the best guides to explore the streets and alleys.

Most of these people's day trips to Mumbai ended with watching a late-night movie at their usual Maratha Mandir Cinema.

The people who have run the shops for generations are not wealthy enough to move away from here, nor have they ever thought about moving away.

Their children will inherit the family business, which started during the British India era. Over the decades, they have established themselves and enjoy a comfortable, familiar, and fulfilling life in this corner of the city.

As Ashish wandered the streets, he also quietly pondered which shops were suitable for displaying a VCD player, or what features a VCD player should offer to cater to these shops.

The essence of marketing and sales is mutual success. They need to find that perfect synergy so that a new product can take off and become unstoppable.

They had originally planned to go straight to the slums, but stopped when they passed a few Persian restaurants.

There was a group of people singing, and many people around the restaurant were clapping and joining in.

Ashish enjoys Persian restaurants. He often goes to Naz Cafe in South Mumbai, which opened in Malabar after India's independence. It has a great view but is very inexpensive.

He goes to Naz almost every week, sits on the highest terrace, and pays an extra fifteen rupees to overlook Chauberti Beach.

He would wave away the greedy crows and chat with friends from all over the world while drinking beer.

Unfortunately, the angry army of Shiva could not tolerate this exotic culture, especially things from Persia.

Despite the strong protests of Naz's owner, they forced the government to nationalize the land, which was originally private property.

They demolished the coffee shop and built a water quality monitoring station on the original foundation.

The profits from running Naz are too meager, and the scenery too gentle and lovely; it is no match for the brutal modern Mumba.

The Persians in Mumbai are mostly Zoroastrians. They come from rural Persia, are not wealthy but are exceptionally hardworking, and have been persecuted in their homeland because of their religion.

They are quite different from the Parsis living in Mumbai, who, although also Persian Zoroastrians, migrated to the Indus Valley around the eighth century.

Persians in India who make a living in the food industry specialize in baking and various snacks. Hindus have a superstition that opening a food shop on a street corner is unlucky.

Persian customs, on the contrary, are quite different. They confidently and boldly build their shops at crossroads, welcoming customers from all directions. The shops are not only eye-catching, but also have good lighting and ventilation.

Persian shops are often decorated with marble countertops and teak chairs, and the walls are adorned with full-length mirrors and portraits of Zoroastrian master Zoroaster.

Deep inside the shop are washbasins for customers to wash their hands, above which are posted a series of "Customer Instructions," strung together by the humorous poet Nissin into a limerick:

Don't rush to write a letter, you haven't placed your order yet; please don't comb your hair, it will dirty the floor; please don't play pranks, the manager is watching; regardless of your surname, you are welcome to come again; please forgive any shortcomings; if you are satisfied, please recommend us to others; may God bless you and may you always have a smile on your face.
"Ashish, are you hungry?" Damendra asked when he saw him lost in thought.

"No, did you see what they were doing?"

Damendra looked up twice. "They're eating: tea, coffee, bread, Poulsen butter, pretzels, cake, scones, butter rolls, hard-boiled eggs, pies, saffron pilaf, and mutton pilaf."

“I think you’re just hungry,” Ashish said irritably.

"It's so hot, everyone wants to rest," Damendra said, shaking his head slightly awkwardly.

Most people go to restaurants at this time to kill time and escape the heat: sit at a table, order a cup of tea, read a newspaper, or watch the street performances outside the window.

Unlike Punjabi or Western restaurants that are popular with the middle class, Persian restaurants are very affordable in terms of both price and atmosphere, so customers don't have to cut back on their spending to dare to set foot in them.

Therefore, the customers of Persian restaurants are mostly migrant workers who sleep in communal dormitories and eat tea and flatbread.

If even baked flatbread is too expensive, there's always flatbread to choose from. For working people, this is the cheapest and most filling food. And tea with spoonfuls of sugar is a great way to replenish energy.

"We can talk about dinner later. Have you noticed that they all like to sing?"

“What’s so strange about that? In India, three-year-olds start singing and dancing as soon as they’re born,” Damendra said dismissively.

"Yes, but people especially like to sing when they are in restaurants."

"When I hear a familiar song, I can't help but sing along."

“Yes, that’s it.” Ashish’s eyes lit up; he had grasped it.

"What do you want to say?" Damendra asked curiously.

"Do you remember back at Tokyo University? Never mind, you weren't there. Anyway, when I was researching the market there, some VCD players even had karaoke functions!"

"This sounds like Japanese."

"It's basically a jukebox. You record songs onto a CD, then plug in a microphone, and you can sing along."

Ashish's eyes lit up as he spoke, explaining that Suer Electronics was launching small appliances like speakers and microphones this year, which would be perfect for VCD players.

"You want to use VCD players as jukeboxes and put them in these Persian restaurants?" Damendra understood instantly.

“It’s not just Persian restaurants; like you said, Indians love to sing and dance. We can tell the owner that VCDs can be used to attract customers and also to make money.” “Make money?”

"Yes, for one rupee you can request a song from a Kumar Sanu, Elvis, or a Bollywood movie. Surely someone will be interested, isn't that a good idea?"

“But our VCD player doesn’t have a jukebox function,” Damendra said, shrugging.

“It’s okay, Tokyo University has it. Just have them add it in, and the next generation of VCDs can have this feature.” Ashish felt like he was a genius at coming up with ideas.

"Okay, but I'm hungry."

“You just ate a few Vada bread rolls, go to Chogshwari first.” Ashish ignored him.

They haven't been back to Chogshwari for a long time since they moved to Milaru.

Ashish looked at the chaotic slum with a touch of nostalgia. Damendra, on the other hand, was dismissive; he had had enough of this place.

The family of seven used to squeeze into one room.

How should it be allocated? When he was bored, he even drew diagrams on paper.

He and his brother slept on a cot. The paper showed a rectangle representing the cot, with two small circles drawn inside to represent him and his brother.

The two younger brothers slept on the floor, with two small circles added to the outside of the rectangular area. Mom and Dad slept in the kitchen, which was just a few steps inside the room.

There was also a line drawn on the paper with the word "dining table" written on it, and his sister slept under the table.

This is the bed allocation map of an ordinary family in the Chogashwari slum, which is basically the same.

How could he possibly miss such a place? Miraru is the ultimate ideal in life.

That being said, the two of them knew this place inside and out.

It's true that slums are dirty and chaotic, but they have everything you need.

The people here work in all walks of life, creating a magical scene that cannot be seen in wealthy areas.

For example, in a small room filled with seashells, artisans are making handicrafts from the seashells, such as putting tiny light bulbs inside them.

There were also Bollywood strugglers here, and he knew Ashish and the others. Upon meeting them, he boasted about his latest film, describing it as a "romance film with gangster elements."

However, their final destination was the local tyrant Ramswami, who lived upstairs in the "Prince Casino" and ran a thriving business selling adult magazines.

There are many photos of him hanging in his living room. In the photos, he has a big beard, but he doesn't smile at all.

When Ashish and the others entered, Ramswami was lying shirtless on the bed, his round belly protruding like a seal.

"Still selling these explicit things?" Ashish looked around his little shop.

"I have to make a living." He said, patting his large, protruding belly. There were deep scars on both sides of his abdomen, like the stretch marks on the stomach of a woman who had given birth to a football team.

Ramswami had three legal wives and about ten illegitimate ones. He started every sentence with "fuck," but he didn't do so when Ashish entered the room.

Ashish was a golden phoenix that flew out of the Jogshwari slum; everyone had heard of his name.

Many people have benefited from his kindness, and some have now moved to the Suer employee community, a true middle-class residence.

To show respect, Ramswami changed his catchphrase.

With his wealth, he could easily have found a similar apartment on Mira Road. However, he preferred to be a big fish in a small pond than a small fish in a big pond; leaving the slums meant losing his rights.

"Take any magazines you like. We also have books, I guarantee you'll have a feast for the eyes," Ramswami said magnanimously, waving his hand.

"Not enough." Ashish shook his head after looking around.

"Hmm?" Ramswami sat up in bed. "If you want, I have even hotter ones."

He reached into the drawer, which contained the store's prized possessions.

The people in the picture are all big seafood merchants, and they're generously showing you how they make it.

"Fine, today I'll show you what real power is." Ashish waved his hand.

"Awesome?"

"Yes, do you have a TV here?"

Yes, it's in the room.

"That's perfect, let's go in."

Ashish gave Damendra a look, and the latter immediately took the VCD player and went inside.

To be honest, he really wanted to see it too.

(End of this chapter)