I am a master in India

Chapter 109 Undercurrent
The installation and commissioning of the injection molding machine is actually very simple. As long as there is enough space and the water and electricity lines are reserved in advance, three days is more than enough.

It doesn't even have any strict requirements on water supply. The only function of the water channel is cooling, and it does not participate in the production process itself.

The working principle is also very simple. The plastic particles are crushed and heated, then injected into the mold, and then pressed to form.

Ron asked Ashish to try it, and in just ten minutes, they pressed out 15 plastic shells, which was an incredibly fast speed.

“There are still some burrs and flash on the edges and corners, but the thickness is uniform and the color is not bad.”

"I'll debug it again. It may be that the clamping force is insufficient." Ashish wrote down everything.

"Once these flaws are fixed, it will be almost done." Overall, Ron was quite satisfied.

As a consumer product, visual quality is the most important thing. The shell of the water air conditioner they designed is off-white, which sparkles in the sun.

The overall shape is rounded, the exquisite grille can be adjusted manually, the plastic surface is soft to the touch, and the general style is simple.

It has to be simple. The more complex the structure, the higher the cost, because you have to make a mold for each plastic part.

It’s just right now. It can be said to be simple, but it can also be promoted as a high-end style.

Ron fiddled with the plastic in his hand for a while, and the more he looked at it, the more impatient he became. Now everything is ready, only the east wind is missing.

"Make a few prototypes as soon as possible based on the three designs I've designed. I'm going to use them for promotional photos."

"Boss, will our product be on TV?" Ashish suddenly became excited.

"TV advertising is too expensive, but newspaper front pages are still something we can consider."

"Wow! Newspapers are great! I'll buy a hundred copies! I'll hang one at home, post one in the office, and give the rest to my neighbors!"

Ashish's sense of participation is even stronger than Ron's. It's a real honor to have a product he designed published in the newspaper.

He was looking forward to the advertising effect, hoping it would sell well. Then he could talk to the boss and arrange for a few people to come in.

There were a few guests coming to the house recently, all of them were not distant relatives, and Ashish couldn't refuse.

Looking at his energetic figure, Ron was also full of confidence. He had given away all the water-cooling prototypes he had made.

Rajesh and Kavya, two locals, spoke highly of the water-cooling unit, saying it was indeed better than an electric fan and not expensive.

Dirang and Hela also gave positive feedback. They were more surprised by Ron's imagination than the effect of the use.

They had heard of traditional cooling methods before, but this was the first time they had seen a truly commercialized electrical appliance.

Ron planned to replace the plastic shell and then ask them for their opinion. The three models were differentiated by power, similar to the one-horsepower, two-horsepower, and three-horsepower models of ordinary air conditioners.

Of course, there are subtle differences in materials. The smaller the better, the cheaper it is. From the motor to the fan blades and the casing, they all take the cost-effective route.

In fact, steel is cheaper than plastic. According to the current market price, stainless steel costs about 20 rupees per kilogram and plastic costs about 30 rupees per kilogram.

But Ron still chose a plastic shell because the weight of steel required for each water air conditioner is 8 times that of plastic.

Taking the ordinary model as an example, an injection molding machine needs 500 grams of plastic to produce a set of shells, which is a cost price of 15 rupees.

Replacing the casing with a stainless steel one would require 4 kg of material, which would cost as much as 80 rupees.

India has no shortage of steel mills, so supply is relatively easy. However, in the long run, plastics are still more cost-effective.

In addition, the die-casting machine for processing stainless steel is about one-third more expensive than the injection molding machine, and it is difficult to install and debug, and has high requirements for the site.

After comprehensive consideration, the current configuration is the optimal solution. Plastic products are more convenient and easy to install and transport.

Now all Ron has to do is wait for the product to be finalized before he can consider launching it on the market.

It took more than two months in total, and this speed can be called an Indian miracle.

The tourism industry didn't distract him, and with the money and connections in place, things naturally went smoothly. This time, Leon played a major role.

Although Leon was repaying a favor, Ron still sent him two thousand dollars in activity funds after receiving the equipment.

You see, the relationship has been maintained. Don't treat this favor as a one-time transaction; after all, he's a Siemens executive and might be useful in the future.

Ron has invested more than 200 million rupees in the water air conditioning business, not counting the purchase of land.

It's hard to say whether he can make money, but at least he won't lose much. He's done some research and knows that these two imported injection molding machines could fetch a hefty $60,000 to $70,000.

India is really lame. They can't even handle "high-tech" such as injection molding machines, and they don't even have the option of domestic substitution.

Even if there was one, Ron wouldn't dare use it. Who knows if it would suddenly fall apart? They could even kowtow to Hang's mother, so what else is impossible?

In an environment where all kinds of equipment are scarce, Ron wanted to sell some equipment, and a bunch of people were scrambling to buy it.

The factory is being taken care of by Ashish and his team, and Ron is going to ask Kavya about the cost of advertising in the Times of India.

Well, the main reason is that he has been visiting Mary and the others too often lately, so he needs a change of pace.

More than two months have passed since the unrest in December last year, and people's livelihood in Mumbai has largely returned to normal.

It's just that, as Kavya said, a fault line has emerged between Hindus and the Muslims.

The community, which was once a mixed group, has now become clearly divided. There are no more physical conflicts between the two groups, but the atmosphere remains tense.

"My upstairs neighbors have moved out." Kavya brought two cups of coffee from the kitchen wrapped in a bath towel.

"The Mumin people are in big trouble this time. I heard that many people died?" Ron climbed up from the bed with a series of squeaks.

"This bed is about to fall apart, can't you be a little gentler?" Kavya complained.

"Who told you to always shine your headlights on me and even paint your nails red?" Ron dangled his things and sat down to drink his coffee. "I knew that was your weakness!" Kavia averted her gaze, her tone somewhat smug and satisfied.

Ron gave her a full meal, leaving her with enough food to last her three or four days.

"Besides Mumbai, there were riots in other places, especially in Gujarat. I heard from colleagues inside that thousands of people died in the riots this time."

"So many?" Ron was surprised.

"They are all crazy. Many people are burning, killing and looting in the name of religion." Kavya has read reports from Gujarat, where the situation is even worse than in Mumbai.

"No wonder they all say the Mughals will retaliate. If this continues, all the Mughals in India will be driven away."

"Many people called the newspaper, claiming to know about the revenge plan of the Mughals. But no one took it seriously, saying it was just Hindu alarmism."

"Let's talk about something else. What do you think of the idea of ​​advertising in the Times of India?"

"Have you really decided to do industrial business?" Kavya rubbed her bare toes on his legs intentionally or unintentionally.

"What else can I do? I just passed by Victoria Station and there wasn't a single foreigner there. Even the Moharani who used to sell bread is gone."

“Okay, but it’s not cheap to get a front-page ad in The Times of India, one of the most influential English-language newspapers in India.”

"Middle-class people who can afford water-cooling units, most of whom know English, are exactly what I want."

Ron also planned to read the Indian Times, a local newspaper in Mumbai that mainly publishes in Hindi.

After all, his water conditioners also include low-end products, and many potential customers might just grit their teeth and buy them.

"This is the price list I got, take a look at it yourself." Kavya handed him a list.

Ron took a quick look, his expression conflicted.

A quarter of the front page, 5 to 10 rupees.

Half version, 15 lakh to 30 lakh rupees.

Full version, 30 to 60 rupees.

The above is the quotation for black and white advertising. The cost of color advertising will be 20%-50% higher.

“Is this the price per day?”

"If you publish it for a week straight, you can get a 30% discount. That's the internal price."

"A full-color quarter-page spread for a week!" Ron glanced at her tender toes. "My wallet and my body are completely drained."

Mohara's bread business has been closed down and cannot continue.

Ever since he was almost doused with gasoline and set on fire last time, he has been hiding in his house and has never dared to go out again.

The five children's classes were suspended, and the three wives were afraid to even go out to buy groceries. The news from outside made the nearby residents like frightened birds.

All the shops they opened were smashed and burned down, and Mohara's bread stall was no exception.

They have lost their source of income and are living in poverty. Although the streets are gradually returning to normal, they still dare not go out.

In just less than three months, Mohara seemed to have aged several years. His temples turned gray and his wrinkles became deeper and deeper.

The eldest son Ishaq went out alone. Despite the Mohara's obstruction, he insisted on going out to find work with several young Mughal people in the community.

Mohara knew that the so-called job search was actually just gang involvement. These young men were aggressive and their eyes were full of hatred.

He tried to persuade Ishaq, but he refused to listen. His eldest son asked him how a family of nine could survive without an income, and someone had to do something.

Just as Mahla was worried, Ishaq came back with a large sack of things on his back. The young men who usually stayed with him took him to the front of the yard and gave him some instructions before leaving.

Bang! Ishaq kicked the door open and ran straight to the backyard with the sack on his back.

"Ishaq, what are you carrying?" Mohara opened his sack casually.

"Don't touch it!" Ishak glared at him fiercely and walked towards the backyard on his own.

But Mohara was already petrified when he saw what was in the sack: guns, grenades, and many other black things.

A whole sack! By Allah, Mohara’s legs went weak and his heartbeat was so fast that it made his ears ring.

His eyes were full of fear, but he still stood up and chased to the backyard.

"Ishaq, you can't go on like this!" He snatched the shovel from his son's hand.

"The Shiv Sena must pay the price! They wanted to behead us because a woman died in the Radha Tubular Building. But fifty of us died and nothing happened. They made the laws and they can do whatever they want. Where is justice? Either give me justice or pay with blood. We will fight them!" Ishaq's eyes were red.

"No! We can't do this, more people will die!" Mohara tried to persuade them.

Ishaq ignored them and buried the grenades with the pull rings and the weapons in the ground, then sprinkled them with peppermint water so that the nearby dogs would not be able to smell the explosives.

It is obvious that someone taught him to do this. This was an organized and premeditated action.

"Take this money. The food at home is almost gone." Ishaq took out 15,000 rupees, threw it to Mohara, and hurried out.

Looking at the money in his hand, Mohara was filled with fear and guilt.

He didn't know what to do. Ishaq was only 19 years old and had just started college. He should have been in school at this time.

Mohara felt that he should do something, at least not let innocent people lose their lives.

(End of this chapter)