Anand had scammed Aarav. Again.
There was absolutely no need to hire a rickshaw to get to Victoria Terminus[1] today—it just so happened to be a Hindu festival.
Some wealthy patrons had rented orange-flagged taxis to help devotees travel around the city, free of charge.
After parking his rickshaw with a fellow driver, Anand had simply grabbed Aarav's arm and flagged down one of the saffron-bannered taxis.
He pointed to Aarav and told the driver, "This is a Brahmin sahib, a most devout pilgrim."
The driver gave Aarav a glance, nodded solemnly, and offered them a free ride straight to Victoria Terminus.
No resistance. No suspicion that Aarav might not be a "real" Brahmin.
Smooth as butter.
And Anand? He didn't get in the taxi. He waved and trotted back to his rickshaw.
Meaning: Aarav had paid 10 rupees for nothing, and Anand hadn't even broken a sweat before pocketing it.
Now standing in the plaza outside Victoria Station, Aarav still couldn't wrap his head around it.
He strongly suspected Anand had agreed so easily to that 10-rupee offer earlier because he already knew about the free taxi rides.
Bloody hell. For the first time in his life, Aarav began to genuinely question his own intelligence.
But there wasn't time to dwell. He had to focus on finding Niya. He'd heard stories about how chaotic Indian train stations were—like refugee camps during a famine.
But the station's architecture stopped him in his tracks.
Was this really a train station? It looked more like a cathedral or museum.
Too grand. Too beautiful.
And completely out of place on the cluttered streets of Mumbai.
No wonder people said this city belonged to India—and yet didn't. It was more like Europe in disguise.
Even during the ride over, Aarav had noticed the colonial buildings—this part of town looked like a sun-soaked version of London.
But that illusion didn't extend far. Just north of here was the largest slum in Asia.
The station was dazzling. The people inside—just as overwhelming as he'd imagined.
Sitting, lying, carrying things on their heads—a sea of humanity.
Everyone talked in groups, in different tongues. Aarav couldn't understand half the languages being spoken.
India had over a thousand languages. A hundred and twenty of them were spoken by over a million people.
Fourteen were officially recognized and printed on the rupee.And yes, English was among them.
But out of 900 million Indians, less than five percent actually spoke English fluently.
Those who did were usually upper-caste. The average person? Not likely.
Aarav had decent linguistic skills, but in India he only managed Hindi, English, French, and Marathi, the local Mumbai dialect.
He glanced at the station clock: 9:45. The train he was waiting for was due in five minutes.
Good. He picked up his pace and entered the station.
There were no ticket gates in Indian stations—anyone could walk straight to the platforms.Tickets were checked onboard, by railway staff.
It took several minutes just to reach the platform without stepping on someone. So many people were sleeping on the floor.
Right as he reached the edge, a train pulled in with a rumble, and the crowd exploded into motion.
People grabbing luggage. Herding goats. Searching for children. The peaceful calm shattered into total madness.
The train hadn't even stopped, and people were already shoving their way inside.
Yelling. Screaming. Crying. The noise was unbearable.
One impatient man started climbing in through a window, only to be met with several fists from passengers already inside.
Still, he clung to the frame, yelling as he shoved his luggage through.
Aarav stood frozen. This was madness. How was Niya supposed to survive this?
No time to hesitate. Aarav rolled up his sleeves and dove in.
Brahmin or Dalit—it didn't matter. He had to find her.
Fifteen minutes later, drenched in sweat, he stood blinking at the thinning crowd.
The train had left. The platform had emptied out.
But Niya was nowhere in sight.
Had he missed her? Or had she been too small to fight her way off the train?
Panicking, Aarav rushed to the ticket window to inquire about the train's status.
"The train you're looking for," the clerk said, "has been delayed."
"How long?"
"No idea, sir."
"No idea?"
"Yes, sir. Nobody knows. Could be four hours. Could be longer."
Four hours.
Aarav thought he'd misheard. He asked again. Same answer.
Bloody hell. This was Indian time? Delays measured in hours?
He had two options: wait it out here, or go home and sleep for a bit.
With no certainty about when the train would arrive, he figured he'd probably suffer heatstroke before Niya even arrived.
Better to go back. He turned to leave.
That's when he heard the argument.
"I said I'm going to my hotel. I don't understand what you're saying."
"I am very cheap! Best tour guide in Mumbai! Sir, you need me!"
"Sorry, I don't understand. Please let me go!"
[I will be using Italics to show that they are using some other languages]
"You want cheaper? No problem. 200 rupees, final offer!"
A white man, speaking English. A dark-skinned local, speaking Marathi.
They weren't communicating at all and it was getting heated.
The foreigner looked ready to call over a nearby police officer when Aarav stepped in.
"Sir, need help?"
Crisp, fluent English. The old foreigner looked like he'd found the Holy Grail.
"God, finally someone who speaks English! Please tell this man to stop harassing me or I'm going to the police."
"OK, OK." Aarav calmed him gently, then turned toward the local man—who was now staring at him in disbelief.
"Anand. Fancy seeing you here. I thought you weren't coming to the station today?"
"Aha! Aarav, my dost! I'm a rickshaw driver. I go where the customer needs me. You've come at the perfect time. Help me convince this gentleman—I'm the best guide in the city!"
He seemed to have forgotten everything that happened this morning. His face now radiated joy.
Flawless performance. Aarav almost applauded.
"My 10 rupees?"
"Eh?" Anand's round face stiffened, then quickly relaxed into a smile.
"Aarav, I delivered you to the station. Our deal was fulfilled."
"So if I tell this gentleman you've been stalking him and refusing to leave...?"
"No, no, no!" Anand waved his hands frantically and glanced at the foreigner—who was clearly a very wealthy man.
Even though the guy spoke English, Anand had caught one word clearly: Taj Mahal Hotel.
The most famous five-star hotel in all of Mumbai.
Anyone staying there had money. Big money.
Anand guessed that landing this client could fund his lifestyle for months.
"Fine, Aarav, you win. I'll give you your 10 rupees back when I get home. We both know where each other lives."
"Good." Aarav smiled. Finally, a small win.
If anyone was going to make money off him, they'd have to work for it.
He turned to the foreigner and explained everything—how Anand was a decent man, and in fact a capable guide.
If he was traveling India, he'd need someone like that.
Once he understood what had happened, the man—Mr. Smith—finally relaxed.
"I actually do need a guide. But I'd rather hire you, Aarav."
"Me?" Aarav blinked.
"Yes, you. You seem far more reliable. That short fellow looks like a scam artist."
As the foreigner's gaze drifted toward Anand, the rickshaw driver gave a painfully fake, wide-mouthed smile.
Aarav had to suppress a laugh.
Smith's decision only became firmer.
Aarav raised an eyebrow. A guide, huh? That wasn't a bad idea. He was desperate for money.
"Mr. Smith, it would be an honor to assist you. But I should warn you—my rates aren't cheap. Starting now, it's 50 rupees an hour."
"Of course. I believe good service deserves good pay."
They shook hands lightly.
And on the sidelines, Anand started to panic.
[1] Victoria terminus is Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST) former name.