I'm a Master in India

The branch factory in Uttar Pradesh has stopped work, with only half of the foundation laid.

There were so many reasons for the work stoppage that Ron couldn't keep track of them over the phone.

It was clear, he needed to go back again.

Uttar Pradesh is not like Mumbai; it's backward, poor, full of illiteracy, with virtually no infrastructure. You never know what unexpected situations you might encounter.

As an investor in the factory, he had to go back and see for himself before making a decision.

However, before leaving, Ron had one more thing to do, which was to attend Chavan's party.

He is the Mayor of Mumbai and a member of the Congress Party. Politically speaking, Ron should align himself with the BJP.

But politics isn't that simple. He is a businessman, and party affiliation is irrelevant.

He can fund one side or the other, just like most businessmen in India do.

A businessman is a businessman. You can have political leanings, but you can't absolutely shut out the other side.

Chavan is the best example; he is a Congress Party member but is very close to the bigwigs of Shiv Sena.

This is not contradictory; it all depends on whose support you need the most at the moment.

The Racecourse has always been a popular venue for parties among Mumbai's wealthy. As the name suggests, it's next to a race track.

During the day, the poor and the rich flock together, waving their betting slips and cheering for the jockeys they've wagered on. There is no distinction between rich and poor; everyone is united against a common enemy.

In the evening, the poor leave, and the rich stay. One side returns to the foul-smelling slums, while the other sings and dances lightly in the glamorous Racecourse.

"Is that Amitabh Bachchan?" Ron held his wine glass and looked at the stage ahead.

"That's right. Isn't he charming? Women all over India are crazy about him." There was excitement in Chavan's eyes, as well as pride and self-satisfaction.

"He sings surprisingly well. I thought he only made movies."

"He can be an actor or a singer, depending on what the occasion requires." Chavan lightly tapped his wine glass with his finger, his pride evident.

Today's party was organized by him personally. How many people could get a Bollywood superstar, known throughout India, to sing for their guests here?

He is the Mayor of Mumbai. While Bollywood is popular, it is ultimately a second-tier industry. Inviting a Bollywood star was not difficult for Chavan.

After Amitabh Bachchan finished his song, the people in the banquet hall applauded and cheered.

"Worth a drink, good whiskey." Chavan raised his glass.

"I can already smell the intoxicating aroma." Ron clinked glasses with him.

The rich don't drink Indian-made whiskey; they drink foreign liquor.

For tonight's party, Chavan had someone airlift it directly from abroad to Mumbai airport.

Fine wine, stars, beautiful women, wealthy people, one Indian pop song after another played non-stop on the stage.

The hall was decorated with the most modern appliances available, and people spoke American English.

This scene was like Chicago in the 1920s; the entire party was a clumsy imitation of the West by India.

Only the traditional shawls and kurta attire made the party seem a bit incongruous.

"I heard there were some issues with the power supply for Sur Electricals?" After a few drinks, Chavan finally shifted the topic from the party to business.

"A little," Ron spread his hands, "Because of this, we have a lot of backlogged orders."

"That's how it is during the rainy season. The circuits that were working fine before easily break down due to the rain."

"Every time we have to bribe the electricians, but the situation doesn't improve much." Ron took the opportunity to complain.

"Mumbai has the power supply needs of over ten million people. During the rainy season, we can only provide power to different areas in shifts. But..." Chavan paused, glanced at him, and continued, "Under certain special circumstances, we can temporarily shift the power supply from one area to another to ensure that critical areas never lose power."

"Oh! I guess this might require a certain cost to achieve?"

"Exactly!" Chavan looked at Ron with satisfaction. They were both smart people.

"So what's the approximate budget for this? I'm not sure if my factory can afford it, as there are nearly a thousand workers who are struggling due to the power supply issues."

"Not much, just five lakhs." Chavan assured him, "You know, the next municipal committee election is coming up, and they decide which areas are critical for power supply and which are negligible."

"So this money is to help someone get elected to the municipal committee, and he particularly values Sur Electricals' contribution to Mumbai?"

"Mr. Sur, you are a natural politician!"

"That's because of your guidance."

The two looked at each other and smiled, then clinked glasses.

Bah, what a politician. It was the rupees that brought the two to a consensus.

"If Mr. Sur has time, he might want to see the election site. The Congress Party still dominates the future of India."

"I will, but I might have to go back to Uttar Pradesh recently, so I may not make it."

"That's a pity."

Next, the two tacitly steered the conversation towards Bollywood gossip, had two more drinks, and then went their separate ways.

The deal had been made, and there were more relationships to maintain in the world of fame and fortune.

Ron finally understood the Mayor's purpose in inviting him to the party.

Election fundraising, an evergreen topic in Indian politics.

The highest decision-making body governing Mumbai's municipal affairs is the Municipal Corporation, which consists of three main entities.

The Mayor, the Municipal Commissioners, and the Municipal Corporators.

The Municipal Commissioners are civil servants, appointed by the state government after passing examinations.

The Municipal Corporators, however, are directly elected by the citizens, and the Mayor is elected by the Municipal Corporators.

The reason Chavan was so enthusiastic about campaigning for the municipal corporators below him was that it also concerned his position as Mayor.

Only if enough people in the municipal committee were on his side could he ensure that he would still get the majority of votes in the next election.

It was a very simple relationship of interests. Chavan was doing this all for himself.

Unfortunately, even regional elections cannot do without financial support.

Mumbai has a population of over ten million, and not everyone is willing to vote.

To get enough votes, you have to mobilize enough people, which undoubtedly requires money.

It's like the later practice of giving away eggs for scanning a QR code. For the sake of the eggs, people might vote for you.

Of course, the eggs have to be bought. Individually they may not be worth much, but thousands of eggs will become a staggering expense.

Businessmen like Ron are like sweet pastries in the eyes of those politicians.

He didn't mind spending a little money, nor did he care whether he supported the Congress Party or the BJP.

Because this was a regional election, not a general election concerning the master of New Delhi.

He really didn't have time to watch any elections, but it didn't stop him from sending his subordinates to investigate.

Anil and Amol were assigned this task. They also carried a plastic bag containing five hundred thousand rupees in cash.

The plastic bag was found temporarily from somewhere and had the slogan, "Haldiram's Spices - The Choice of Thousands of Households."

The two arrived at the meeting point. The Congress Party councilor, Udit, was an ordinary middle-aged man who received them.

After taking the money, the other party also invited them to campaign.

Since they were already on a mission, they readily agreed.

Udit's campaign location was in the urban villages surrounding Malabar Hill in South Mumbai. They walked on the rocks by the sea, where large areas of shantytowns had been built.

Most residents were indifferent to Udit's arrival. One man scoffed, "You come more often than the water here. We only get water once every five years."

But one family worshipped Udit. They brought out an iron plate containing coconuts, oil lamps, and incense sticks, performed a puja in front of him, and then knelt down and touched his feet.

Udit blessed them, and the slogans shouted by his followers switched from Marathi to Hindi, and then to English, depending on the resident.

And with each family visited, Udit would give a small bag of grain or a small container of olive oil.

Then he repeatedly assured people that more benefits would be distributed at the polling station on election day.

Unfortunately, the residents didn't seem to be buying into Udit's promises, as there were larger bags of grain and bigger containers of oil piled up at their doors.

In this election season, campaigning was also highly competitive.

People were not afraid to speak their minds in front of Udit. A woman came out of her shack and pointed to a water pipe in front of her, saying, "The reservoir is right there."

She was referring to the Malabar Hill reservoir that supplied water to all of South Mumbai. "But I don't have any water. I had to quit my job of twenty-two years, otherwise I would have to leave at six o'clock to get to my workplace in North Mumbai by seven-thirty."

She had to stay at home to collect water with buckets when the water truck arrived, otherwise she would have no water to use.

Could Udit solve this problem? Not a chance, even though the municipal corporation work he was responsible for included the water company.

In Mumbai, water resources are a business, a business that only the powerful can participate in.

If the slums were not short of water, where would their huge profits come from?

Udit promised to solve the problem, but that was just for show, all for the election.

People's problems were varied, and Udit could only try his best to deal with them.

"This area just got electricity, why was it cut off again in less than a week?"

"Because of the rainy season, there are problems with the lines, but they will be fixed soon."

"The rich area next door didn't lose power. Only the poor people's area has no electricity. Where did the electricity go? Did you sell it illegally?"

Amol rubbed his nose. He knew the answer to this question, but it was difficult to say.

If Sur Electricals stopped work, his salary as the security captain might also be affected.

"Can you solve my daughter's school admission problem?" someone else asked.

"Does she want to go to a missionary school, a public school, or a private school?"

"Walshingham. Can you get my daughter in? Give me a straight answer."

Walshingham is one of the best girls' schools in all of Mumbai, and it's private.

That meant a large sum of money, but Udit still lied with a straight face, promising that after he was elected, he would persuade the municipal government to set up a special education allowance.

The so-called campaigning was completely a game of lies.

The people who were speaking knew they couldn't do it, but they still did it with pleasure.

The people who were listening also knew that the speaker was full of lies, but this was one of the few times they could see a prominent figure being amiable, so they were happy to listen a little longer.

Anil and Amol just listened and didn't say anything, both scoffing at these politicians in their hearts.

However, the two also noticed a strange phenomenon, which was that Udit had never stepped into the high-end residential area across the street from the slum.

"Why not?" Amol couldn't help but ask.

"Rich people don't come down to vote," he replied.

In the rich area of Malabar Hill, the voting rate for "legal" residents was only twelve percent.

In the adjacent shantytown, the voting rate was eighty-eight percent. Because for the people there, whether someone was elected or not meant whether they would end up on the streets.

In India, it is the poor who vote.

Look, they are both democratic countries, but the voting demographics in the United States and India are completely different.

After listening to Anil and Amol's report, Ron finally had some idea of the rules of democracy in India.

He would inevitably have to deal with this circle in the future, and now he was just getting familiar with the process in advance.

There was no urgent business in Mumbai for now, and it was time for him to return to Uttar Pradesh.

This time, he wasn't thinking about the branch factory, but about another business.