I am a master in India

Chapter 467 Where to go
“Those two in front are wanted criminals we’re pursuing this week,” Barum said. “Those two are terrorists from Ksemmel.

What did they do?

"They blew up a school and killed eight children."

“And what about this guy? The one with the beard?” He tapped the photo of Barum with his right knuckles.

"He's the one who captured those two terrorists."

How did he catch them?

To feign reading the words on the wall, Barum squinted at the two notices and even pretended to move his lips.

He didn't understand a thing; he was illiterate, but that didn't stop him from making up nonsense with a straight face.

"This guy was a driver. The note says he was driving when these two terrorists walked up to him."

"and then?"

"It says here that he pretended not to know they were terrorists and drove them around Delhi. Then, he stopped the car in a dark place, smashed a bottle, and used the broken bottle to slit their throats." Barum made a throat-slitting gesture with his thumb.

What kind of bottle?

"Bottles for British spirits are usually very sturdy."

“I know,” he said. “I used to go to the English Spirits Hotel every Friday to buy wine for my owner. He liked Smilf.”

“It’s Smirnov,” Barum corrected, but the man wasn’t listening; he was staring intently at the photo on the notice.

Suddenly, he put his hand on Barum's shoulder.

Do you know who this person on the notice looks like?

"Like whom?" Barum squinted.

He grinned.

"Like me."

Barum looked at his face, then at the photograph.

“That’s true.” He said, patting the other person on the back.

Half of the Indian men in the photo on that wanted poster could be identified.

"The suspect was last seen wearing a blue plaid polyester shirt, orange polyester trousers, and maroon sandals..."

Look at this description; it's almost a true reflection of young Indians on the streets.

That's too much, too common; that's all the police would write.

The wanted poster also included a photo, printed on the police station's old, worn-out printing press. It was blurry, dark, and difficult to discern.

The notice posted at the train station was barely recognizable; the person in the photo was thin with goldfish eyes and a short, thick mustache.

Half of the Indian men's facial features match this photo, including the man who was just watching the commotion.

Barum felt sorry for the poor illiterate man, even though he himself was illiterate.

But this is the life of these illiterate people, ridiculed and deceived by strangers in countless train stations like this.

So he bought the man a cup of tea before returning to the train.

Barum was neither a politician nor a member of parliament, and he couldn't simply go on living his life as if nothing had happened after committing murder.

He traveled to many places before finally settling down four weeks after arriving in Bangalore.

For a month, he did the same thing every day. After paying a deposit of five hundred rupees, he settled into a run-down little hotel near the train station.

He leaves home at eight o'clock every morning, carrying a full bag of cash, and wanders around for four hours before going back for lunch.

Lunch cost four rupees a plate. Food in the South is good value for money, but it's a bit strange: chopped vegetables are served soaked in a thin curry sauce.

After dinner, Barum went back to his room to sleep. At four o'clock in the afternoon, he went downstairs to ask for a pack of Parrey milk biscuits and a cup of tea, because he didn't know how to drink coffee.

He really wanted to try coffee; in this country, the poor in the north drink tea, while the poor in the south drink coffee.

Barum didn't know who made this rule, but that's just how it is.

Therefore, this was the first time he could smell the aroma of coffee every day. He really wanted to try it; he had seen Mr. Satya slowly savoring his coffee countless times.

But before drinking coffee, one must first know how to drink coffee properly. There is a set of etiquette and procedures for drinking coffee, which truly fascinates him.

The coffee is served in a large cup, then a certain amount is poured into a shallow, flat-bottomed cup, and then sipped slowly from the shallow cup at a certain pace.

He didn't know the proper etiquette for pouring coffee, nor did he know the proper etiquette for drinking coffee.

At first, he just watched how others drank coffee. It took Barum a week to realize that everyone drinks coffee differently.

One person poured all the coffee into a shallow, flat-bottomed cup at once, while the other person didn't use a shallow, flat-bottomed cup at all.

Barum thought to himself, "They're not locals; this is their first time drinking coffee."

This is another striking feature of Bangalore, a city teeming with outsiders where no one pays any attention to anyone else.

Barum spent four weeks in a hotel near the train station, doing nothing.

He still had some concerns: should he have gone to Mumbai in the first place?

But the police will immediately realize that, didn't all those people in the movie go to Mumbai after they killed someone?

One morning, Barum passed through a park where several drunkards were lying on a bench in the weeds.

He came to a wide road, and across the road was a large stone building with a golden lion on top.

Such an impressive building must be the residence of ministers. He also noticed a slogan on the building's gable wall. He asked a passerby, and well, the person didn't lie to him and gave him the truth.

Government work is God's work!

Barum smiled; he was right, he recognized the words.

Having read so many issues of "Murder Weekly," he could now barely read the newspaper.

He was just unsure and needed to confirm it with someone else in person before he would be satisfied.

He suddenly relaxed, knowing he would live a very happy life in Bangalore.

Barum moved out of the hotel and rented an apartment. He now has to make a living in Bangalore and figure out how to integrate into the city.

He tried to listen to the voice of Bangalore, just as he had listened to the voice of Delhi.

He went out into the street, sat in a café, and with a pen and paper in hand, wrote down everything he overheard.

Everything in this city seems to revolve around one thing: outsourcing!
In other words, someone in India works for Americans over the phone. Everything else—real estate, wealth, power, sex—originates from this line of work.

Therefore, he also had to find a way to join the outsourcing industry.

He heard from passersby that a special economic zone was about to be put into use.

That will be Bangalore's largest and most advanced high-tech business cluster, and many companies, including outsourcing companies, will move there.

Barum decided to go over there and see if there was any opportunity.

In April 2001, Ron returned to Mumbai, having already spent enough time in Delhi.

The main purpose was to address the succession issue within the Socialist Party after Satya's death.

Just as he had thought months earlier, Satya ultimately could not be saved.

In fact, he died that very night.

The hospital rushed him back just to use a whole set of expensive emergency measures so that they could collect a hefty medical bill when his family arrived.

It was purely a business consideration and had nothing to do with Satya's ministerial position.

The death of the Socialist Party leader naturally means the need to elect a new leader.

Lamar, the cousin, was originally the frontrunner, but the son of the original Yadav had grown up.

The uncle and nephew were locked in a bitter power struggle, which made the already weakened Socialist Party even more vulnerable.

If it weren't for the thought of restraining the Indians, Ron really wouldn't want to get involved in those messy affairs.

Finally, under his secret instruction, Lamar became the new leader of the Socialist Party.

He has at least some political experience, knows who is in charge in Uttar Pradesh, and knows how to get things done.

Yadav's son is still too young, impulsive and hot-blooded, and needs to be disciplined for a few more years.

After finishing all these matters, Ron returned to Mumbai.

The Sunshine Smart City commercial district here has already opened and is even more popular than Deli.

Mumbai is a very large city, with even more people, denser populations, and a greater love for crowds.

It's no exaggeration to say that although the initial investment here was higher due to the demolition, its profitability is stronger, and it will recoup its costs sooner than the one in New Delhi.

Besides handling business matters, Ron is occasionally invited to participate in some events, which are all official publicity events.

Some suggested that he take his whole family to bathe in the Ganges to seek the protection of Shiva.

Ron's hometown is Varanasi, so this event will be of great significance, earning him prestige throughout North India.

However, after much consideration, Ron ultimately refused, as he simply did not trust the sacred river.

As the richest man in North India, he could certainly designate an area beforehand and then purify the water.

Furthermore, personnel are stationed there 24 hours a day to monitor the water quality daily.

But it's no use. It's only 2001, and the technology tree hasn't been developed to the point where it can eliminate all bacteria in the Ganges.

That godforsaken place is a real breeding ground for germs; after all these years, only the most powerful ones have survived.

Even Ganges Select is afraid; does it mean he has to wear it again?
His children are still young and absolutely cannot withstand this kind of torment.

Ron is only willing to take his family to temples to pray for blessings, like today.

Isa led Ravi to the statue of the sun god Surya to pray. When it was Ravi's turn, he clasped his hands together and murmured, "Thank you for giving me a wonderful life."

They took a few photos, and the family of three reunited. No, it was a family of four; Isa was heavily pregnant, with four months until her due date.

Behind the statue of the deity, by the fence, a grand ceremony was being held in the temple.

They were unclear about the exact rules of the fire ritual, nor were they familiar with the lyrics of the hymns. The believers chanted fervently, and the sounds of bells, drums, and songs blended together.

Ron and his companions stood in the center as the mage approached, shaking the lamp. At the personal advisor's suggestion, they cupped their hands around the flame, as if holding the light and blessing it brought.

The others also stepped forward, and they adopted the same posture, raising their palms to their foreheads and pressing them together.

The event only ended after this set of ceremonies last night.

Before Ron could even rest after returning home, he heard the inside story: Enron was in trouble.

His eyes lit up instantly; it was a big company, a giant in the power market.

(End of this chapter)