I'm a Master in India

The monsoon season in Mumbai was not yet over, and the Dharavi slum remained overcrowded.

Besides street performers and their animal companions, pavement dwellers had also sought refuge here.

They used to live on any unoccupied land they could find, including pavements large enough to erect their fragile shelters.

These shelters were usually constructed from cardboard, rags, and plastic sheeting, just enough space to accommodate one person.

Living in a rag shack or sleeping on the muddy ground outside the shack made little difference, in fact.

Sleeping in the open might offer better air, and a few rags could provide slightly more protection from light rain than letting one's body get completely soaked.

But not during the monsoon; a heavy downpour could easily destroy their homes.

So, over the past month or so, more than five thousand outsiders had gradually squeezed into the Dharavi slum for shelter.

Mumbai has millions of pavement dwellers; during the monsoon season, they disperse and hide in nearby slums like migratory birds.

This wasn't the difficult part, but the real problem came from outside the slum.

Pavement dwellers originally made the streets their home and purchased daily necessities from shops in their respective areas.

Because they were poor, they didn't buy much, mainly eggs, milk, tea, bread, cigarettes, vegetables, kerosene, children's clothing, and so on.

But due to their large numbers, collectively, they represented a significant bulk business and source of income for the local shops.

Now that these pavement dwellers had taken refuge in the slum, they often turned to spending their money at the dozens of small shops inside the slum.

The problem arose: the legitimate shops on the pavements outside lost their business.

Those shopkeepers hated the slum shops for taking their business, and this hatred grew increasingly furious as the monsoon season dragged on.

Consequently, surrounding shopkeepers, real estate developers, and others who feared the slum's expansion joined forces and recruited thugs from other areas.

They paid the thugs to disrupt the supply lines of the slum shopkeepers.

As a result, the employees of the slum shops were frequently harassed; their main target was the handcarts loaded with vegetables, fish, or dried goods purchased from the large market.

Besides having their goods damaged or stolen, they were sometimes even physically assaulted.

With the slum shops losing their supplies, the people living there naturally faced hardship.

Finally, everyone came together and decided to unite to defend against the external enemy.

This matter should have been organized by Anand or Ashish, but neither of these guys was good at fighting.

One was a short runt with no intimidating presence. The other was a scholar, good with a pen.

At this time, one person was put forward; he was Amol.

He was already a well-known ruffian in this area, strong and a fierce fighter.

When it came to who in the slum could be a match for that gang of thugs, it was none other than him.

Amol accepted the task without a second thought.

He organized the children into several small teams to patrol the slum's perimeter and keep an eye on enemy movements.

He then formed several teams of young strong men to escort the employees going to the market for supplies.

Amol himself personally led one team, rushing to the forefront wherever there was danger.

Sometimes, wielding a table leg, he dared to engage in a bloody battle with thugs holding knives.

He never cared about casualties or employed ambush tactics, relying solely on sheer courage.

Yet, thugs armed with sharp weapons would flee after fighting him for no more than two minutes.

After several offensive and defensive battles, the thugs no longer dared to appear easily.

Amol's reckless fighting style earned him the nickname "Mad Tiger."

This war happening on the outskirts of the slum did not dampen the spirits of the residents here.

On the contrary, the popularity of each shop surged; to thank the residents for their loyal support, the shopkeepers reciprocated with big sales, price reductions, and a carnival-like shopping atmosphere.

In this turbulent season, a rare scene of harmony appeared in the Mumbai slum.

All these matters were reported to Ron by Ashish, who usually monitored the slum's every move.

"That Amol, is he the person you mentioned last time?" Ron asked.

"Yes, Boss, he's a good fighter, likes to charge into battle," Ashish quickly added.

Ron couldn't help but recall the figure standing on the front of the car, using slogans to incite the crowd's most primal, most blind fanaticism.

"Where is he now?"

"Waiting right outside the door."

"Bring him in."

Soon Amol was led into the office; without a word, he immediately stepped forward and performed the ritual of touching Ron's feet.

"Oh?" Ron raised his eyebrows when he saw his skin color.

Light-skinned people are rarely seen in South India; if present, it often signifies that the person's caste is not low.

Of course, there are also light-skinned people among lower castes; they are often descendants of rebels or criminals from the Aryan period.

However, Amol didn't look like an untouchable at all; his demeanor was different from those illiterates.

"What is your surname?" Ron was somewhat curious.

"Mukherjee," Amol answered honestly.

"Are you from West Bengal?"

If Ron remembered correctly, this was a Brahmin caste, meaning ruler; there was such a family in West Bengal.

"No, I grew up in Mumbai," Amol shook his head.

"Have you studied?"

"Bachelor's degree in Economics."

"Huh?"

This time, not only was Ron greatly surprised, but even Ashish beside him was dumbfounded.

"You went to university?"

"Yes, but it wasn't very useful."

"Why?"

"Because management positions in those companies only recruit people from their own families; whether you went to university or not isn't important."

In 1993 Mumbai, there were only private and state-owned enterprises; the former practiced nepotism, and the latter, on top of that, required bribes.

Amol couldn't get in; he had no money and no connections.

"So, where did you work before?"

"As a worker in a dairy factory."

Actually, there was no need to ask further at this point; this Amol must undoubtedly be a Brahmin.

Both his skin color and his education could prove this point.

Ron didn't know why a Brahmin would live in a slum, but thinking about his own situation when he first arrived in Mumbai, he wasn't too surprised.

"You come to work at Sur Electronics tomorrow. Start as Deputy Security Captain. You'll have twenty people under you, responsible for factory patrols and security. Salary four thousand rupees. Any problem?"

"Of course!" Amol was overjoyed and eagerly bent down to touch Ron's toes again.

This was even better than he had expected; three thousand rupees was the most he had ever hoped for before.

Suddenly jumping to four thousand, Amol was stunned.

Ashish beside him was quite envious; when he first started, he only got two thousand.

"Alright, you go first. Someone will arrange the rest."

After Amol left, Ashish leaned closer again.

"Boss, I didn't expect this guy to have gone to university, but living in a slum..."

"It's okay, I'll ask my friends at the police station to help check. If his background isn't clean, just kick him out."

Ron planned to ask Ajay for help; it was better to check on high-caste individuals whose background was unknown.

As long as he hadn't committed murder or arson, it would be fine.

Tsk, even the security guard at the gate is a university graduate, amazing!

"How's the recovery at the Kimble branch factory?"

"The equipment has been largely repaired. Technicians are doing the final maintenance. It can be started up once the power supply is normal."

Speaking of power supply, Ron also had a bit of a headache.

As India's largest city, Mumbai's power supply was generally reliable most of the time, but the monsoon season was an exception.

Ron had pulled some strings and bribed electricians, but it didn't have much effect.

This matter might still fall on the Municipal Corporation; he planned to ask around for information when he attended Chavan's party in a couple of days.

"Try to keep all the technical workers from the original factory. Their salaries can also be slightly increased. Experienced hands like these are hard to find now."

"Yes."

India's illiteracy rate was still too high; it wasn't easy to find a few qualified technicians.

Speaking of which, the workers at the original Bania factory were truly miserable.

That Bania guy himself had lined his pockets, but he was extremely harsh on his subordinates.

The salary of a dignified engineer was less than two thousand rupees. Other supervisors were even lower, around fifteen hundred.

This was in India, where engineer was almost the first choice for most men, besides civil servant.

Not only was the social status high, but the salary level was also at the forefront of all industries.

Yet, the scale of factories in Mumbai was constantly shrinking, and those people didn't dare to easily quit, so they could only be held by Bania.

Not to mention the workshop workers, there were plenty earning 500 rupees.

The most bizarre thing was that the factory only produced electric fans, but the workers above them couldn't enjoy any cool breeze.

He was even reluctant to install a few more ceiling fans, as if he were treating a bunch of pigs crowded in the workshop.

Until now, Bania still owed the workers two months' worth of wages, even though he wasn't short of this money.

It's also not hard to guess why no one stopped Amol when he led people into the workshop.

A complete black-hearted capitalist; everyone probably wished for his misfortune.

Bania was indeed unlucky. After leaving Thackeray's villa that day, Kaplan immediately gave him a profound lesson.

Ron didn't know exactly what happened.

He only heard that Bania had left Mumbai and hadn't taken any assets with him.

Evil people are handled by other evil people.

Ron wasn't interested in asking; he still had his own things to be busy with.

Ring ring... The phone on the desk rang.

Ron picked it up, listened for a couple of sentences, and frowned.

Something was indeed going wrong in Uttar Pradesh.