Chapter 7 – Playing Both Sides
Few outsiders knew that India officially defined itself as a "socialist" state in its constitution.
Until 1991, it had clung to protectionist trade policies—essentially a planned economy.
The government heavily interfered in labor and financial markets, regulating nearly every sector.
But then came the collapse of Eastern Europe. Combined with years of trade deficits, India was plunged into an unprecedented financial crisis in 1991.
Agricultural and industrial output sank into negative growth. That year, GDP rose a mere 0.9%—its worst performance on record.
Meanwhile, the government's foreign exchange reserves had shriveled to just five billion US dollars.
For a nation of more than 900 million people, that was a drop in the ocean.
By then, India was starving for foreign exchange. Not just the government—even private companies were desperate.
Tighter restrictions meant ordinary people couldn't access foreign currency through banks. But businesses still needed to purchase equipment and raw materials from abroad.
Where there's demand, there's a market. With tacit official tolerance, small currency shops quietly bloomed in Mumbai's back alleys.
After some years, the practice became normalized—what everyone now called the black market.
To ease Smith's doubts, Rohan patiently explained the economic background and why unofficial exchanges offered higher rates.
"Rohan, you truly are a learned gentleman," Smith admitted. He'd never met a guide who could lay out his country's economy so clearly.
"I make it a habit to read," Rohan replied smoothly. "I believe knowledge always hides opportunity."
"Good. Then just one last question—how safe is it?"
From 1:45 straight to 1:54—almost 25% increase. Even with his deep pockets, Smith found it tempting.
The profit margin seemed almost unreal.
"Please don't worry. We have trusted contacts. If you'd rather not be involved directly, we can handle the exchange for you."
"Alright then. Let's go." Smith climbed cheerfully into the back seat.
In the front, Rohan and Anand exchanged a knowing glance. They both realized another fat payday had just fallen into their laps.
Being middlemen in a currency deal brought profits far beyond Smith's imagination.
He thought 1:54 was a windfall—but Rohan had deliberately reported a low figure.
After all, scarcity drives price. In black market a decade earlier, foreign exchange rates had spiked fivefold, even tenfold.
Already counting their cut, Anand floored the accelerator. Within minutes, they veered into a crooked little alley.
As the streets grew narrower and more deserted, Smith's expression wavered with unease.
"Sir," Rohan said, turning in his seat, "there's a simple rule for judging exchange houses."
"Oh? What rule?" Smith asked, watching him closely.
"The more central and polished the location, the fewer surprises. Only the obscure shops, the ones no one visits, are willing to offer truly generous terms."
SCREECH!
The taxi halted sharply outside a shabby-looking building.
From the outside, it posed as a trading company. A weathered Hindi signboard on the wall announced its business: foreign currency exchange.
Rohan glanced back. "Mr. Smith, would you like to come in with me?"
The building looked old and unimpressive. Through the dim corridor, Smith spotted burly men patrolling with intimidating stares.
His throat bobbed twice. Finally, he let his hand fall from the door handle.
"Here's £500. At the rate you promised, you'll bring back 27,000 rupees."
"Of course. Leave it to me." Rohan smiled with calm assurance.
Something in his composure reassured Smith. He handed over the cash.
Rohan slipped the pounds into his pocket, stepped out of the taxi, and entered without hesitation.
Inside, the building was far better kept. The teak staircase gleamed underfoot, the halls spotless.
By the third floor, the ground was carpeted in thick brown fabric.
Rohan's eyes flicked over the details—the materials and workmanship of the furnishings were refined, expensive.
This was no ordinary den, but a relic of British colonial times, an old Anglo-Indian mansion preserved in style.
Before he could speak, a dark-skinned giant strode over.
"Anand sent me," Rohan said evenly.
The man's brows lifted. "You speak Marathi?"
"Of course. Many of my friends are Marathi."
"I like a man who speaks Marathi!" The giant broke into a grin. "Come with me."
Marathi was the local dialect of Maharashtra—spoken by less than ten percent of India's population.
But Mumbai, as India's showcase city, had long been pressured to adopt Hindi.
Maharashtra resisted fiercely, even staging protests.
So when this stranger spoke fluent Marathi, the man instantly felt kinship.
He led Rohan deeper, to a stern-looking man seated at a desk.
The figure was in his fifties, lean and sharp-featured, with a long nose and high cheekbones. His short-cropped hair and mustache were already gray.
As Rohan studied him, the man's gaze returned the scrutiny—cool, appraising, edged with steel.
"You are Mr. Soor?" His voice was low, resonant, and confident.
"Yes. A pleasure to finally meet you. Anand has spoken of this place many times."
The man nodded slightly. "My name is Prakash Hardhan."
Rohan's heart skipped. The name Prakash Hardhan tugged at something in his memory. Perhaps it was a remnant from his predecessor's life—but as far as he knew, they'd never crossed paths.
"I'm curious," Prakash said smoothly, unbothered by Rohan's hesitation. "A man with the surname Soor usually wouldn't be found here."
"Oh, my family ran into… difficulties. I need to earn a living somehow."
In India, surnames alone revealed caste. There was no point hiding it.
Most high-caste families lived comfortably, rarely brushing shoulders with the foreign exchange black market. Rohan had to explain.
"I admire self-reliant men," Prakash said, his eyes warming with a glint of respect. "Regardless of caste or station."
He turned his head. "Johnny, give him a good rate, as per the market."
"Understood, Hardhan-bhai!"
"Bhai"—"brother"—was a word of both affection and reverence.
Rohan rose, palms pressed together, bowing slightly in thanks. Prakash answered with a slow, faint smile and a nod.
Following the ox-like Johnny to the counter, Rohan watched as he muttered instructions to the clerk before striding off.
Clearly, Prakash's position here was not ordinary. Whatever he ordered was carried out immediately.
After verifying the authenticity of Rohan's pounds, the clerk counted the notes briskly, then bundled up the rupees and pushed them across.
"Mr. Soor—thirty-two thousand rupees. Please, count them."
Rohan blinked in surprise, but the man only smiled, offering no explanation.
"Give Mr. Hardhan my thanks," Rohan said politely.
He glanced at the bundle, then tucked it away without fuss.
This was nearly the highest rate the black market offered. Rohan had only expected around twenty-nine thousand.
The extra? That was his and Anand's commission.
That was the rule of the black market: middlemen always ate their share.
He didn't know why the cut was so generous, but he wasn't about to refuse.
Out in the stairwell, he peeled off 5,000 rupees for himself, sliding them into his own pocket.
The rest he wrapped neatly in paper before descending the stairs.
"Mr. Smith, here you are—27,000 rupees. Please, check it."
"So fast?" Smith was taken aback.
That efficiency didn't match the rumors he'd heard. After all, "Indian efficiency" was a phrase famous around the world—for all the wrong reasons.