I'm a Master in India

The installation and debugging of the injection molding machine are actually very simple. As long as the site is large enough and the water and electricity lines are pre-installed, three days is more than enough.

It doesn't even have strict requirements for water supply. The only function of the water circuit is cooling; it doesn't participate in the production process itself.

The working principle is also very simple: plastic particles are crushed, heated, and then injected into a mold, and then they are formed with a press.

Ron had Ashish try it out, and in just ten minutes, they pressed out 15 plastic shells, which was ridiculously fast.

"There are still some burrs and flashes on the edges and corners, but the thickness is uniform and the color is not bad."

"I will debug it again. It may be that the mold locking force is insufficient," Ashish noted them down one by one.

"It'll be almost perfect if these defects are removed." Overall, Ron was quite satisfied.

As a consumer product, the most important thing is the visual texture. The water air conditioner shell they designed is beige, and it shines in the sun.

The overall shape is rounded, the exquisite grille can be adjusted manually, and the plastic surface has a soft touch. Generally, it follows a minimalist style.

It has to be minimalist; the more complex the structure, the higher the cost, because you have to open a mold for each plastic part.

It's just right now. Although it's minimalist, it can also be promoted as a high-end style.

Ron fiddled with the plastic in his hand a few times, and he couldn't wait any longer. Now everything is ready, except for the east wind.

"Make a few prototypes as soon as possible according to the three designed shapes. I want to take them to take promotional photos."

"Boss, will our product be on TV?" Ashish suddenly perked up.

"Television commercials are too expensive. We can consider the front page of the newspaper."

"Wow! Newspapers are also great. I will buy a hundred copies then! One copy will be hung at home, one will be posted in the office, and the rest will be distributed to the neighbors!"

Ashish's sense of participation was even stronger than Ron's. It would be too glorious for his own designed product to be on the newspaper.

He was looking forward to the advertising effect. It would be great if it sold well. In that case, he could talk to the boss and arrange for a few people to come in.

Several guests have recently come to his house, all of whom are relatives who are not too distant, and Ashish couldn't refuse.

Looking at his energetic back, Ron was also full of ambition. He had already sent out all the water air conditioner prototypes he had made before.

Rajesh and Kavia, these two locals, spoke highly of the water air conditioner. This thing is indeed better than an electric fan, and the price is not expensive.

Dijon and Hella also gave positive feedback. Compared with the use effect, they were more surprised by Ron's imagination.

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

Ron planned to ask them for advice again after changing the plastic shell. The three shapes are distinguished according to the power, similar to the one-horsepower, two-horsepower, and three-horsepower of ordinary air conditioners.

Of course, there are also subtle differences in materials. The smaller the size, the cheaper it is. From the motor to the fan blades and the shell, it all follows a cost-effective route.

Speaking of which, the price of steel is actually cheaper than plastic. Judging from the current market, stainless steel is about 20 rupees per kilogram, and plastic is 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, the injection molding machine needs 500 grams of plastic to produce a set of shells, which is a cost price of 15 rupees.

If it is replaced with a stainless steel shell, it requires 4 kilograms of material, and the cost is as high as 80 rupees.

India is not short of steel plants, and the supply is relatively easy. However, from a long-term perspective, choosing plastic is more cost-effective.

In addition, the die-casting machine for processing stainless steel is also about one-third more expensive than the injection molding machine. The installation and debugging are troublesome, and the site requirements are also high.

Considering all factors, the current configuration is the optimal solution. Plastic products are more convenient for the people, and the installation and handling are very simple.

Now, waiting for the product to be finalized, Ron can consider launching it on the market.

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

The tourism industry didn't distract him. With money and connections in place, it was naturally fast. Leon made a great contribution this time.

Although Leon was repaying a favor, Ron still wired him $2,000 in activity funds after receiving the equipment.

You see, isn't this how relationships are maintained? Don't treat favors as a one-time deal. After all, he is a senior executive at Siemens, and he may be useful in the future.

For the water air conditioner business, excluding the purchase of land, Ron has invested more than 2 million rupees.

It's hard to say whether he can make money, but at least he won't lose much. He had inquired that these two imported injection molding machines could be sold for a high price of six or seventy thousand US dollars even if they were resold.

India is really too stretched. They can't handle injection molding machines, this kind of "high technology" at all, and there is not even a domestic alternative to choose from.

Even if there is, Ron wouldn't dare to use it. Who knows if it will suddenly fall apart? They can even kowtow to the Hangzhou aircraft carrier, so what is impossible?

In the general environment of scarce equipment, a bunch of people are vying for Ron to resell the equipment.

The factory is taken care of by Ashish and the others. Ron is going to find Kavia to inquire about the cost of advertising in "The Times of India."

Ahem, mainly because he has been going to Mary and her group too often recently, so he has to change his taste.

More than two months have passed since the riots in December last year, and the people's livelihood in Mumbai has generally recovered.

It's just like Kavia said, the dividing line between Hindus and Muslims has been created.

The communities where the two major groups were originally mixed are now becoming distinct. There are no more physical conflicts between them, but the atmosphere is still tense.

"The Muslim neighbor upstairs from me moved away," Kavia said, draping a bath towel over her shoulders and bringing two cups of coffee from the kitchen.

"The Muslims suffered a lot this time. I heard that many people died?" Ron got out of bed, causing a series of creaks.

"This bed is about to fall apart. Can't you be gentler?" Kavia complained.

"Why do you always shine your car lights on me, and deliberately paint your toenails red?" Ron swayed his things, sat down carelessly, and drank coffee.

"I knew that was your weakness!" Kavya withdrew her gaze, her tone a little proud, and a little satisfied.

Ron gave her a full meal, enough to last her stomach for three or four days.

"Besides Mumbai, there are riots in other places, especially in Gujarat. I heard from internal colleagues that thousands of Muslims died this time."

"So many?" Ron was shocked.

"They're all crazy. Many people are just burning, killing, and looting in the name of religious sects." Kavya had seen reports from Gujarat, where things were even worse than in Mumbai.

"No wonder they all say the Muslims will retaliate. If this continues, the Muslims in India will be driven out completely."

"Many people have called the newspaper, claiming to know the Muslims' revenge plan. But everyone dismisses it, saying it's just Hindu alarmism."

"Let's talk about something else. What do you think of the idea of advertising in 'The Times of India'? I just mentioned it."

"Are you really determined to start a real business?" Kavya wiggled her bare toes intentionally or unintentionally on his leg.

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

"Okay, but a front-page ad in 'The Times of India' isn't cheap. It's one of the most influential English newspapers in India."

"The middle class who can afford water coolers mostly understand English, which is exactly what I want."

Not only 'The Times of India,' but Ron also planned to inquire about the local Mumbai newspapers that focus on Hindi.

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

"Here's the price list I got. Take a look yourself." Kavya handed him a list.

Ron scanned it roughly, his expression tangled.

A quarter-page on the front page costs 50,000 to 100,000 rupees.

Half a page, 150,000 to 300,000 rupees.

Full page, 300,000 to 600,000 rupees.

The above are the prices for black and white ads. Color ads cost 20%-50% more.

"Is this the price for one day?"

"If you publish it continuously for a week, you can get a 30% discount. It's an insider price."

"A quarter-page in color, published continuously for a week!" Ron glanced at her soft toes, "My wallet and body are both being squeezed dry."

Mohara's bread business was no longer running, and he couldn't continue.

Since he was almost set on fire with gasoline last time, he hid at home and dared not go out again.

The five children's classes were also stopped, and the three wives didn't even dare to go out to buy groceries. The news coming from outside made the nearby Muslims like frightened birds.

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

They had no source of income, and life was difficult. Although the streets had gradually returned to order, they still dared not go out.

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

The eldest son, Ishaq, went out alone. He ignored Mohara's obstruction and insisted on going out with several young Muslims from the community to find work.

Mohara knew that the so-called finding work was actually joining a gang. These young people were aggressive, their eyes full of hatred.

He had advised Ishaq, but the latter didn't listen. The eldest son questioned him, how could the family of nine live without income, someone had to do something.

Just as Mohara was worried, Ishaq came back, carrying a large sack of things. The young people who were often with him sent him to the front of the yard and told him for a long time before leaving.

Bang! The door was kicked open by Ishaq, and he went straight to the backyard with the sack on his back.

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

"Don't touch it!" Ishaq glared at him fiercely, and then walked to the backyard on his own.

But Mohara was already stunned. He saw what was in the sack. There were guns, grenades, and many black things.

A whole sack! Allah be praised, Mohara's legs were weak, and his heart was beating so fast that he had tinnitus.

His eyes were full of fear, but he still braced himself and chased after the backyard.

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

"The Shiva army must pay the price! A woman died in the Lada tenement building, and they couldn't wait to behead us. But fifty of us died, and nothing happened. They make the laws, and they can do whatever they want. Where is justice? Either give me justice, or blood for blood. We'll fight them!" Ishaq's eyes were bloodshot.

"No! You can't do this, it will kill more people!" Mohara desperately persuaded him from the side.

Ishaq turned a deaf ear. He buried the grenades with the pull rings and the weapons in the ground. At the end, he also sprinkled chili and mint water on it, so that the dogs nearby would not smell the explosives.

Obviously, 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 fifteen thousand rupees, threw it to Mohara, and then hurried out again.

Looking at the money in his hand, Mohara was both terrified and guilty.

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

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