Chapter 4 – Profit-Sharing in the Slums
Rohan had been prepared for the fact that "India is hot," but the moment he lugged the suitcases out of the train station, he couldn't help muttering under his breath:
"Too hot. Way too hot."
"Baba, let me carry the bags instead." Nia, clutching her ice-cold cola, looked both flustered and guilty.
How could a servant let her master haul luggage while she just trailed behind?
Especially since she and Rohan had practically grown up together. He had always been treated like a young master—never once allowed to lift a finger for chores.
If her father Abhi were still alive to see this, he would surely scold her mercilessly.
But those bags really were heavy. She had tried earlier and couldn't even budge them. When she boarded the train, it had been her brothers who had stowed the luggage for her.
"Nia, you don't need to feel guilty. Once we get home, the cleaning and the laundry are yours to handle."
"Alright!" Nia's smile blossomed.
She stuck out her pink little tongue and cautiously licked the frosty glass of cola. Tingling, fizzy sweetness spread across her taste buds.
"And one more thing." Just before getting into the taxi, Rohan crossed his arms and gave her a stern look.
"What is it?" The girl set her drink down nervously.
"From now on, you're only allowed to call me 'Papa.' No one else."
Nia blinked at his seriousness. Then her emerald eyes lit up with delighted surprise, as if she had just been spoiled with a precious gift.
"Baba~"
Tch. Rohan shivered unconsciously. That soft, sugary voice—it was like drinking ice-cold cola.
"Get in the car!" He stuffed the luggage into the trunk and waved grandly.
He'd earned a tidy sum today, so he splurged like a proper Brahmin lord, taking a taxi home.
Of course, the real reason was Nia.
He wasn't about to let this fragile girl get crammed onto an Indian bus. Who knew what could happen?
If the capital, Delhi, could have its infamous "black bus" incidents, there was no reason to expect Mumbai to be any safer.
When it came to "trusting the character of the locals," Rohan always assumed the worst.
From Victoria Station to Grant community was only five kilometers. By taxi, fifteen minutes should've been enough.
But this was India. The roads weren't just for cars and rickshaws—animals had equal claim.
Mischievous monkeys strolled across the road as if it were their playground. An old cow, tired of walking, flopped down right in the middle of an intersection for a nap.
Instantly the street was a cacophony of honking, shouting, and cursing as drivers jumped out of their vehicles, frantically trying to shove the cow aside.
The animal didn't budge. It knew perfectly well its exalted status—untouchable, inviolable.
Sweat dripping, Rohan groaned. "So we're just… waiting?"
"The police will come," the driver replied lazily, not the least bit concerned.
And sure enough, within minutes, two policemen arrived wielding long wooden sticks. A few taps and shouts later, the cow finally lumbered to a patch of empty ground.
At last the car moved forward. Rohan wiped his forehead, then glared at the driver. "Why don't you turn on the air conditioner?"
"There is none," the driver said with an innocent shrug.
"No… AC?" Rohan froze. His eyes flicked to the barren dashboard.
Empty. No AC vents. No CD player. Not even a glove box.
Unbelievable. This car has been stripped down to save every last rupee.
"Just drive," Rohan sighed, waving a hand weakly. He really should've known better than to expect anything here.
Thirty sweaty minutes later, they finally stumbled back to the apartment.
His palms slick, Rohan kept losing his grip on the luggage until it nearly slipped free. When they arrived, he simply dropped everything in the middle of the floor, collapsed into a wicker chair, and refused to move.
Nia, on the other hand, was full of energy, her eyes sparkling as she explored her new home.
It was a two-bedroom flat—spacious enough, but old and crumbling.
The once-white walls had long since yellowed. Cracks and peeling paint scarred the surfaces.
Near the bathroom corner, dark stains and mold spread wide, clearly untouched by any landlord's maintenance.
The furnishings were a jumble: a red carpet, green curtains, dark walnut tables and chairs. The whole place was a chaotic mess of mismatched colors.
But to Nia, it was paradise. At least here she wouldn't have to share a single toilet with hundreds of strangers.
"That room next to the bathroom is yours," Rohan said, pointing. "It still needs a bed. Tomorrow I'll have Anand check the flea market for one."
"Baba, I can sleep on the floor," Nia protested quickly. How could a servant deserve the same comfort as her master?
"This isn't up for debate. Do as I say."
"…Oh."
Rohan gave her no chance to refuse. Indian customs or not, he wasn't about to let her suffer.
That room had once belonged to old Abhi. He'd spread thick blankets on the floor and called it a "bed." That was fine for a grizzled old servant. But delicate, pale-skinned Nia? No way.
Just as Rohan was about to explain further, Nia walked over to the small household shrine, clasped her hands, and began to pray.
"Sorry, Nia," Rohan murmured.
"Baba, Uncle Sur and my father are resting in the holy river. In the next life, they will find happiness."
Rohan nodded silently, guilt tugging at him. The truth was, Nia had just endured a terrible loss.
"The sun's not down yet. There's hot water in the bathroom. Take a bath. I've got something to do outside."
"Baba, you're going out?" Her face was filled with reluctant concern.
"I'll be quick. Stay home and don't go out."
It would've made sense for him to show her around, let her get familiar with the neighborhood. But he had more pressing business.
He needed to visit Anand—and collect his share of today's earnings.
That area wasn't safe after dark, so the sooner it was handled, the better.
Mumbai might be India's financial capital, a paradise for the rich.
But little known to the outside world, of its ten million residents, over 60% lived in slums.
Yes—Dharavi was just the largest. In truth, there were more than two thousand slums scattered across the city.
The slums sprawled between Mumbai's towering apartments and high-rises. There was one right across the road from Rohan's own Grant community.
Step across the street, and you were in another world.
Everywhere stood makeshift huts of plastic sheets and reed mats, held up by bamboo poles, tied together with coconut-fiber rope, and covered with tattered cloth for doors.
Not a scrap of tin or iron in sight.
This was poverty so deep it couldn't even rattle.
Luckily, Anand's place was easy to find. His hut was one of the rare ones built from mud bricks, with a roof of hard plywood.
It stood at the edge of the slum, a few steps removed from the chaos of the shanties. Around it were several similar houses.
In this setting, they might as well have been "mansions." A rarity indeed.
Even so, as Rohan approached, a stench hit him square in the face. The reek of latrines made his nose wrinkle instantly.
But only for a moment. He quickly regained his composure.
One simply couldn't expect hygiene in Mumbai. At any random street corner, the sharp tang of urine clung to the air.
Garbage heaps piled everywhere, constantly reminding you that this city came with a very distinct flavor.
His arrival had already stirred the locals.
Dark-skinned children scattered like sparrows, sprinting ahead to spread the word.
So by the time Rohan reached Anand's doorway, the man was already waiting, a big smile plastered across his face.
"Rohan, I can't believe you actually came. You're the first Brahmin to set foot here in years."
"I closed a big deal today. I'm here to collect my share."
Rohan rolled his eyes. A slum wasn't going to scare him off.
"Fine, fine. You have no idea how those shopkeepers glared at me when I went to collect. If it hadn't been for the crowd in the market, I swear they would've killed me and kept the money for themselves."
"But you're looking better than ever, Anand."
"…Yeah, yeah. I get it. Come inside."
Anand waved him in with a disappointed sigh. Clearly, there was no chance of wringing more out of Rohan.
That pile of cash had tortured his conscience long enough.