I'm a Master in India

Ron found Harry in Mumbai's port, dressed in a white uniform, overseeing the inspection of an incoming cargo ship.

"Buddy, shouldn't you be on duty at the airport?"

"Temporary reassignment," Harry waved his hand, clearing the cargo ship to pass. "The higher-ups received intel that a shipment of 'organs' is headed for Mumbai."

"Organs?" Ron asked, puzzled.

"That's code for firearms," Harry said nonchalantly. "These gangs have invented a whole set of slang to throw people off."

Generally, 'organs' refer to machine guns, 'grandma' is a handgun, bullets are 'grandma's children,' or sometimes 'pills,' 'capsules,' or 'rice grains.' Hand grenades are 'potatoes,' 'stones,' or 'pomegranates.'

Ron's eyes widened, feeling enlightened. This was the Indian version of gangster slang.

"Did you come to declare some items at customs?" Harry asked.

"No, I want to import some equipment and parts. You know, I got a piece of land and plan to produce some cheap electrical appliances."

"Are you serious? You're really planning to become an industrialist?" Harry asked, surprised.

"I want to give it a try. The tourism business hasn't been doing well lately."

"True, but the industrial sector doesn't generate money as quickly," Harry kindly advised.

In Harry's opinion, Ron's previous businesses, such as the black market for foreign exchange and smuggling drugs, were much more lucrative.

Ron's sudden turn to legitimacy made him feel regretful and sorry.

"I'll still do the old businesses, but I'll wait until this storm blows over."

"That's great! That's how it should be!" Harry was delighted, because Ron returning to his old ways meant kickbacks for him.

"But I can't just sit and wait; I need to find something to do. If I'm importing equipment and parts, do you have any suggestions?"

"Be more specific," Harry led him to a secluded area of the port.

"Injection molding machines, and motors, the kind used in fans."

"You're better off sourcing that equipment from Europe and America. If that doesn't work, Japanese goods will do. As for motors, definitely get them from Singapore."

"Singapore?" Ron's eyes lit up. He remembered one of the Mumbai gang's previous profit sources: smuggling.

Before 1991, due to the government's "import substitution" policy, foreign goods were virtually impossible to import into India. The gangs made a fortune by smuggling watches and electronics from Singapore.

Ron had also worked as a broker for such businesses last year, but with the relaxation of import policies, the profits from smuggling had significantly decreased.

Nevertheless, Singapore's industrial parks were developing rapidly. They offered affordable and high-quality electronics, with cargo ships constantly transporting them to all corners of the world.

"Goods from Singapore can reach Mumbai in just three or four days. There's no place more suitable," Harry said, well-informed.

"Besides electronic components, does Singapore export equipment?" Ron asked, his eyes gleaming. Three or four days for delivery was perfect.

"No," Harry shook his head. "Even if they did, it would be second-hand or even third-hand equipment. If something goes wrong, no one can fix it."

"Then I'll start by importing components from Singapore. Harry, do you have someone to introduce me to?"

"Shaki Rananth, an importer from Madras. He has connections in Singapore, and possibly in Europe and America as well," Harry replied almost without hesitation.

"I'll contact him. When the goods arrive from Singapore—"

"I'll process them as scrap," Harry understood immediately.

By classifying the imported goods as scrap, a significant amount of tax could be avoided. If Harry handled it well, Ron wouldn't have to pay any taxes at all and could still receive the goods.

That's why he came to Harry. Otherwise, for importing just a few spare parts, there were plenty of middlemen in Mumbai eager to do the job.

As for importing equipment from Europe, Ron suddenly thought of someone.

Back home, Ron rummaged through the study, while Niya watched, puzzled.

"Papa, what are you looking for?"

"A business card."

"I've put them all in the cabinet," Niya bent down and opened the cabinet door near Ron's feet.

Oh dear, that plump shape, those two halves like blooming flowers.

Ron couldn't help but reach out to caress them. He felt the urge to thrust forward.

Niya cried out softly, her limbs weakening, almost falling to the ground.

Ron quickly supported her from behind, his hands firmly gripping the steering wheel.

"Papa..."

"Did you find it?" Ron asked, his face unchanged.

"F-found it..."

"So quickly?" Ron was a little disappointed.

Niya handed him a small wooden box filled with business cards he had collected.

Gently helping her up and smoothing out the wrinkles on her trousers, Ron began to sort through the box.

Soon, his eyes lit up, and he picked up a card and started dialing.

Ron wasn't very confident; he didn't know if the person had left India, but the call connected.

"Leon?"

"Speaking. Who is this?"

"Ron."

"Oh, I remember!" Leon's eyes twitched. "Victoria Terminus!"

"Haha, you still remember," Ron laughed. It seemed that the human-powered train ride had left a deep impression on the other man.

"I'll never forget it," Leon said with a chuckle.

"I didn't expect you to still be in India. That's great."

"I'm about to return to Europe, so what do you need help with?" Leon asked directly, knowing that the other party must have a request since he had called.

"I want to import a few injection molding machines from Europe, but I can't find a channel. You work at Siemens; perhaps you have such connections?"

"Hold on a moment; I need to consult with my colleagues in the Engineering Department," Leon immediately used another phone to dial an internal number.

Ron didn't wait long, about two minutes, before the other man's voice reappeared.

"The mainstream Arburg and Demag, brand new equipment, will cost around $100,000. If you don't mind used ones, you can get them for $30,000."

"Of course I don't mind! I need about two or three, the sooner the better," Ron said excitedly, waving his hand.

He liked dealing with Westerners; it was simple and efficient. If it were an Indian, he didn't know how many calls he would have to make and how many detours he would have to take to get the equipment.

"After I get back, I'll help you contact the seller; you can discuss the specifics yourself. However, it will take at least a month by sea from Europe to Mumbai."

"That's okay; I can accept the time. Anyway, thank you, Leon."

"Just don't make me ride an Indian train again next time."

Ron laughed and hung up the phone. See, the two most difficult things were almost settled.

In Mumbai, to accomplish anything, money and connections are indispensable. It relies on these two things more than any other city in the world.

From doing business to buying daily necessities, the importance of money and connections is evident everywhere.

Ashish's house had been constantly filled with guests recently, with neighbors, relatives, and friends coming to visit. Sometimes, before one person left, the next was already at the door.

Whenever a new guest arrived, those already inside would quickly get up and offer their seats, as if endlessly playing a game of "musical chairs."

So many people were visiting his house, all to inquire about one thing. Where did Ashish find this good job? Were they still hiring?

Most people in the Jogeshwari slum had heard that Ashish's new job paid a monthly salary of 2,000 rupees, and he was said to be working as an engineer in a factory.

"2,000 rupees" and "engineer" seemed to have magical power, attracting the residents of the slum to discuss it endlessly.

And whenever someone asked about it, Ashish would always add the word "chief" before "engineer." He emphasized it more than once and enjoyed doing so.

The people in the slum didn't understand the significance of "chief" and subconsciously ignored it; they were more concerned about whether the 2,000-rupee monthly salary was real.

The number was simply too fantastical for the people in the slum. They worked 14 hours a day in the nearby shoe factory, earning only about 500 rupees a month.

It was a miserable life. They toiled in dark, stuffy workshops, not even daring to stand up straight, for fear that the rickety fans hanging from the ceiling would chop off their heads.

If there were urgent orders, they had to work around the clock, often staying in the workshop for three consecutive days.

They had originally thought that Ashish would become one of them. Although he had a bachelor's degree, he lived in a slum and had no connections.

But the opposite was true. Ashish not only earned a high salary but could also come home at six o'clock every evening.

After the shock, doubt, and confirmation, what followed was intense envy, and then everyone came to visit.

Especially the young people, who hoped that Ashish could give them a hand. Even if it wasn't a high salary of 2,000 rupees, escaping the misery would still be good.

They saw no hope in the shoe factory. Following Ashish, at least after he was "in a high position," those around him could also get some benefits.

There was nothing shameful about it. That's how it was in India: when one person succeeds, all their relatives and friends benefit.

Surrounded by the crowd, Ashish felt like a sugar cube that had fallen into an ant colony.

People he knew, people he didn't know, people he had seen, people he hadn't seen, all came to curry favor, and he couldn't ignore anyone because guests were guests.

Helpless, Ashish could only promise them that he would ask the factory if they were hiring as soon as possible. If possible, he would help.

Ashish didn't feel embarrassed; he also felt that he should do so. No matter where you were, it was easier to get things done if you had your own people around.

Just like when he applied to small companies before, those places were impossible to get into because the relatives of existing employees occupied most of the positions.

As long as Ron planned to hire people, Ashish would definitely prioritize recommending his own relatives and friends. That's India.

And the opportunity might be coming soon. Ashish had received definite news from Ron that a batch of motors from Singapore would soon be arriving in Mumbai's port.

Two injection molding machines from Europe were also being shipped over. With parts and equipment being installed one after another, wouldn't that mean hiring people and expanding production later?

Ashish was full of anticipation; he hoped more than anyone that the water air conditioner would be successful.