Chapter 8 – This Is India
In India, exchanging foreign currency for rupees was a nightmare.
At a bank or the Foreign Exchange Bureau, the process went like this:
First, you filled out a mountain of paperwork—every personal detail, every purpose for the exchange spelled out in excruciating detail.
Then came the verification machines, checking each bill for counterfeits.
If the amount was large, you'd be subjected to multiple layers of reporting and approvals.
And just when you thought it was over, they'd hand you a blank sheet and demand you copy down—by hand—the serial number of every single note.
Yes, every single bill.
When Mr. Smith had first exchanged his money at the airport, he'd spent over an hour cramping his fingers just writing down serial codes. As a retired man with stiff joints, he could barely hold a pen afterwards.
So naturally, he expected Rohan's trip to the black market to take some time. Surely, even there, things would be slow.
But from the moment Rohan stepped out of the taxi, to the moment he returned with a bundle of rupees—it had been less than ten minutes.
Too fast. So fast it felt un-Indian.
Opening the paper package, Smith counted carefully. Not counterfeit, not short.
"Rohan, honestly, that was… suspiciously smooth."
"Mr. Smith, I told you—my service is always worth more than you pay for."
"Yes. You've delivered on your promise."
Smith plucked a few notes from the stack and held them out.
"Here. This is your share. I know the custom."
Rohan's eyes flicked over the bills—about 1,000 rupees. He accepted without hesitation. It was, after all, standard practice.
Tourists who used local guides to access the black market usually tipped 3–5% of the total exchanged. After all, they'd just received far more rupees than the official rate would allow.
Smith, clearly pleased with Rohan, had been generous.
"Thank you for your kindness, sir." Rohan pressed his palms together in a respectful namaste.
Beside them, Anand's round eyes bulged as he watched the crisp notes change hands.
"Rohan, this lamb is too fat! I can already smell the mutton roasting!"
"Shut up, Anand. We've taken more than enough already."
From the black market, Rohan had skimmed a cut. From Smith himself, he'd pocketed another.
Two bites from the same sheep. Altogether, over 6,000 rupees in one run.
But Anand wasn't satisfied. Greed was written all over his face as he stared at the rest of Smith's bundle—more than twenty five thousand rupees still sitting there. To him, a foreign tourist was like a once-in-a-lifetime buffalo: if you didn't bleed it dry now, you might never get another chance.
Anand's mindset wasn't unusual. Many locals fleeced foreigners far harder than this.
But Rohan had other plans.
"I told you, Anand—I'm treating this as a business."
"Yeah, and our business is butchering fat sheep," Anand said proudly.
"No. Not a one-off slaughter. I mean long-term business."
Anand blinked. "Rohan, I've been butchering fat sheep for years. If that's not long-term, what is?"
The idiot. Rohan almost slapped the smug round face right off his skull.
"I mean a company, Anand! A company, do you understand? Real business is built on reputation."
"A… company?!" Anand hit the brake so hard the car lurched forward.
"Hey! Cut it out, you two!" Smith, clueless about their Hindi squabble, nearly flew into the front seat.
He shoved a 100-rupee note into Anand's hand, scowling. "Here. A tip. Now drive properly."
He assumed the two had been fighting over commission again—and, naturally, blamed the short, greedy one for starting it.
Just like at the train station yesterday. Smith already knew Anand's type: petty, conniving, impossible.
"Sorry about that, Mr. Smith," Rohan said smoothly, shooting Anand a sharp look to behave.
Pocketing the unexpected tip, Anand forced a curry-scented grin. "Th-thank you, sir!"
The rest of the ride passed in uneasy quiet, broken only by Rohan's cultured voice pointing out the passing sights.
Their next stop: a coastal Hindu temple, dedicated to the elephant-headed god, Ganesha.
The taxi had barely stopped at the temple gate when a swarm of children rushed the windows.
Dark, skinny hands shot upward, voices chanting in chorus:
"One rupee! One rupee! Sahib, just one rupee!"
"Out of the way! Move!" Anand snapped, flapping his hands like he was shooing pigeons. He'd seen this scene too many times.
He finally cleared enough space for Mr. Smith to step down. The old Englishman froze at the sight of ragged clothes, sunken cheeks, and hungry eyes. Pity welled up inside him.
"You can't treat them so roughly—they're just children!"
Anand, who couldn't understand a word of English, turned to Rohan for a translation.
Rohan coughed lightly. "He says you should be more gentlemanly. These are just poor kids."
To Anand, this was the funniest joke he'd heard all year. He muttered in Marathi, voice dripping with sarcasm:
"This old fool doesn't understand India. Without us, they'd strip him down to his loincloth."
Rohan ignored him and gestured politely. "This way, Mr. Smith."
But things didn't go so smoothly. The beggar children saw a foreigner step out of a taxi—and instantly swarmed back.
They knew the rules of survival: taxi passengers were rich, but foreigners were the jackpot.
Smith found himself ringed by grasping hands, frozen in place, face burning. Self-styled as a man from the civilized world, he reluctantly dug out a few coins.
And that was like kicking a hornet's nest.
More kids poured in from the alleys. Some sang, some danced, spinning and clapping to get his attention, all shouting:
"Me too! Sahib, me too!"
"Oh, Lord!" Smith was trapped, helpless and bewildered, smothered by voices and hands. He had never seen anything like it.
"See? Didn't I tell you this old man doesn't understand India?" Anand even had the nerve to sneer.
"Quit watching the circus and do your job!" Rohan barked. He was prepared. From his pocket, he pulled a fistful of tiny coins—paise, the lowest of the low denominations—and shoved them at Anand.
Anand barked a few sharp words in Marathi and flung the handful of coins far across the square.
Whoosh—like a tide reversing, the swarm of kids broke apart, shrieking as they sprinted to the scattered coins. Some dove, some clawed, some even fought each other in the dust.
Moments ago, the air had been a wall of noise. Now it was silent.
Smith blinked. The chaos was gone. The quiet was so sudden, so surreal, it felt like waking from a dream.
"Come quickly, Mr. Smith!" Rohan tugged his sleeve and hustled him toward the ticket booth.
In Mumbai, millions lived in slums. Children like these were everywhere—beyond counting.
"Thank God you were here, Rohan. I honestly wasn't sure I'd get out of there in one piece."
Rohan shook his head. "As much as I hate to admit it… this is India. Some of those children really are from the slums. Others… are organized."
"You mean there are gangs behind them?!"
Rohan gave him a thin smile. "You're a foreigner. In the short term, you won't have trouble. But don't let your guard down."
Mumbai's waters ran deep. Even Rohan only knew bits and pieces—most of it from Anand.
But he could already imagine it: with over two thousand slums spread across the city, these places were fertile ground for gray industries.
Sooner or later, he would have to deal with them.
After all, in India, meetings, promotions, contracts—all of it was greased by bribes and backroom favors.