"Wait a minute, Aarav—you two didn't strike some secret deal behind my back, did you?" Anand's sharp little eyes darted nervously across his round, sweaty face.
"This gentleman," Aarav replied smoothly, "has hired me to be his personal guide during his stay in Bombay."
"What?!" Anand shrieked. "You can't do that! I was the first one to grab his luggage—he's my customer!"
"Calm down," Aarav said, patting his shoulder gently. "It was Mr. Smith's idea, not mine. Ask him yourself."
Smith, watching Anand turn bright red, instinctively took a cautious step behind Aarav and quietly decided to stay far away from this emotional rickshaw man.
Poor Anand had no choice but to force the brightest smile he could muster—even though his soul was clearly shattered. Still, Smith ignored him completely.
"Aarav," Anand whined, his expression pitiful, "I swear I won't scam you again. I'll even return half of the 20 rupees from last time. Just give me this fat sheep, please?"
"It's not up to me," Aarav said, adjusting his collar with dignity. "Mr. Smith needs someone fluent in English who also knows Bombay like the back of their hand."
"I do know Bombay better than anyone! Every alley, every gutter—what to see, what not to see. I can even take you to some... extra exciting places."
"Exciting?" Aarav raised an eyebrow.
"Like Falkland Road. Leopold Café. Only successful people go there! Selling gold, weed, loan sharks, black market deals, smuggling, fake passports, and—"
"Stop!" Aarav interrupted, raising a hand. "Mr. Smith is retired. I doubt women are on his radar anymore."
"Well, then—"
"That's enough. I get it."
Aarav turned to Smith again with a smile.
"This fellow is Anand. A friend of mine. He means well. There was just a little misunderstanding due to the language barrier."
He gestured to the rickshaw nearby.
"But this guy owns a hand-pulled cycle rickshaw. He can take us around Bombay in a slow, charming way—places like the Gateway of India, Mani Bhavan, Mahalaxmi Temple, Elephanta Caves…"
"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Smith said, nodding eagerly. That was exactly why he'd come to India.
He'd seen enough cities in Europe—what fascinated him now was India's unique culture and architecture. As an artist, he needed to see it up close.
"So taking a rickshaw and soaking it all in slowly... that might be the perfect experience," he said thoughtfully.
"Excellent idea," Aarav agreed.
He turned with exaggerated grace. "Anand, tell me—do we need you?"
"You absolutely need me!" Anand declared, puffing out his chest. "You have no idea what horrors await you without me. I almost weep just thinking about it."
"And your rickshaw?"
"On its way!" Anand shouted, then bolted off the platform and dashed out of the station.
By the time Aarav helped carry Smith's bags outside, Anand was already waiting at the gate—rickshaw polished, canopy raised, looking like a proper sightseeing chariot.
No need for instructions—Anand eagerly buzzed around the luggage, adjusting it perfectly, smoothing the seats, shielding them from the sun.
"Back to the hotel, Mr. Smith?" Aarav asked as he hopped onto the seat like a real tour guide.
"If there's somewhere interesting on the way, I'd love to visit a handicraft market," Smith said enthusiastically.
"Then we'll go to Colaba Market. Clothes, jewelry, souvenirs, handcrafted goods—you name it. And there's a café nearby: Mondegar's. Pure Indian charm."
"Haha, I can't wait!"
After winning Smith over, Aarav smoothly switched from English to Marathi.
"Anand, we're heading to Colaba Market."
"Wait—what were you two just talking about?" Anand pedaled but kept glancing back, scratching his head.
His English vocabulary didn't go far beyond "Yes," "No," "OK," and "No problem."
"That's not important," Aarav said. "Answer me this instead."
"What?"
"Do you know people in Colaba Market?"
"Of course! Every shop, every owner—I know them all!"
"Perfect." Aarav nodded with satisfaction. "When we get there, you find someone reliable and tell them this: any purchase this gentleman makes at their shop—I take 20% commission."
"Are you mad?! Twenty percent?! Aarav, that's insane!" Anand nearly stopped pedaling, legs frozen in disbelief.
"It's not insane. Or we'll just take Mr. Smith to shops you don't know. Your choice. Just make sure they get the message."
"But 20% is robbery…" Anand looked tortured.
"Don't talk to me about costs. Those handicrafts are practically made out of thin air. Labor costs nothing. We both know that in India, the cheapest thing is people."
Anand opened his mouth to argue… then gave up and slumped in defeat. "Fine. I'll try."
Aarav raised his cut to 20%. Now the question was, how much would Anand mark it up?
23%? 25%? He couldn't go up to 30%—those old shopkeepers would throw him out.
While Anand's eyes darted back and forth, doing mental math, Aarav turned to Smith and began to narrate the sights they passed.
He didn't know Bombay like the back of his hand, but he remembered just enough. For a foreigner, it was more than enough to impress.
And Smith was impressed. He liked Aarav's intellectual energy—it felt refined and trustworthy.
Anand, in contrast, came across as greasy and shady.
When they reached Colaba Market, Aarav gave a guided tour with ease: amulets, wooden masks, temple replicas—he described each with flair and precision.
Meanwhile, Anand had already vanished into the crowd to set up the scam.
These little stunts were second nature to them. After all, if anyone could hustle, it was the people of India—masters of the art.
Aarav casually asked Smith what kinds of things he was interested in. Then, using Anand's hand-scribbled list, he matched him with shops selling exactly that.
Precision targeting. Every shop hit the mark.
Smith didn't disappoint—he was a wealthy London gentleman with a deep curiosity about handmade Indian goods.
To reassure him, Aarav even haggled at every shop—loudly and convincingly.
When a seller started at 2000 rupees, Aarav fought it down to 500.
Smith was thrilled. "What a reliable guide!" he thought.
He bought freely. One pound traded for 36 rupees—this was pocket change to him.
Soon, Aarav and Anand were hauling bags stuffed with goods. Even the classic steel Indian lunchbox caught Smith's eye—he bought one "for the novelty."
Eventually, the old man grew tired and suggested returning to the hotel.
"Aarav, I just want a shower and a nap. Let's take a taxi this time."
"No problem." While waiting for the cab, Aarav pulled Anand aside.
"Here's the tally I kept. Go collect the commission. I'll pick it up this afternoon."
"Don't worry—I kept track too." Anand was visibly more invested than Aarav.
May the gods bless this day—Anand was buzzing. This one foreigner could feed him for six months.
"Alright, I'll escort Mr. Smith."
The taxi made the return trip quick. At the hotel, Smith even invited Aarav to lunch.
"I had a great time today. Let's have an even better trip tomorrow."
As he said it, he slipped Aarav a 20-pound note as a tip.
"Of course, sir. I'll pick you up at 8 a.m. sharp."
Bloody hell, British people really were loaded. That tip alone was worth more than the guide fee.
After a polite goodbye, Aarav hurried back to VT Station.
By his estimate, four hours hadn't passed yet.
He reached the platform just as a whistle echoed in the distance.
It was past 2 p.m., and Bombay was boiling. Aarav splurged and bought two bottles of icy Indian cola.
This time, he'd learned—he stood in the shade, holding up a sign and waiting patiently.
He had no desire to get drenched in sweat again. That lingering curry-stench? Downright traumatic.
But as the crowd thinned… he still didn't see Niya.
Another delay?
Aarav frowned. It couldn't be two delays in a row. He was about to go ask again—
When he turned, he saw her.
A girl wrapped in a pale blue sari stood just beyond the crowd. She was veiled, tall and graceful, black hair brushing her shoulders. Her exposed wrist was fair and delicate.
"You're…?" Aarav stepped forward.
The girl pulled down her veil.
Her soft face was a perfect blend of innocence and allure. Her bright emerald eyes gleamed with joy.
"Baba~"
"Wh-What?!" Aarav flinched, startled.
"What's wrong?" Niya looked puzzled.
"What did you just call me?"
"Baba. It's a respectful title in Hindi—for teachers, saints, powerful men… and sometimes for masters."
Niya had no idea why Aarav looked so stunned. He should know what that meant.
"If you don't like it, I can call you something else."
"No! Call me Baba," Aarav said sternly.
But the smile on his face? Definitely getting creepier by the second.