I'm a Master in India

Ron had never been to New Delhi, neither in his past life nor this one.

Now this city, the capital of India, the location of the residences of the Parliament, President, Prime Minister, and ministers, the pride of Indian urban planning, the exhibition hall of democracy boasted about in newspapers, was at his feet.

"Anil, go and see why the driver hasn't arrived yet?" Ron raised his wrist again at the airport exit.

Although this was his first time in New Delhi, the Sur family had already made arrangements here long ago.

To be precise, ever since Ron took over the limestone mine in Mirzapur, he had asked the family to find a place to stay in New Delhi as quickly as possible.

For a business involving large-scale mining development like this, how could it work without some connections in New Delhi?

Chief Ministers from various states would be stationed in New Delhi for a long time, including Yadav from Uttar Pradesh.

Indian business and politics are naturally deeply intertwined, and they had to constantly pay attention to news from New Delhi.

Ratan, as the representative of the Sur family, had been staying in New Delhi during this period.

This city is right next to Uttar Pradesh, and he is familiar with the customs and practices of the North India region.

Ron had called him in advance, and Ratan had sworn he would be at the airport on time, but nearly an hour after landing, there was still no sign of him.

Anil returned, driving a Civic.

The driver, pale-faced and sweating profusely, opened the car door and jogged over.

"Young Lord, I'm late, the traffic in New Delhi is too bad," he bowed and touched Ron's toe.

"Where's Ratan?" Ron noticed the car was empty.

"Lord stayed with a minister's assistant last night, got drunk, and is still not awake," the driver said.

"Never mind, let's go back first," Ron waved his hand.

He knew this driver, named Ishan, and had ridden in his car before in Uttar Pradesh.

Ishan eagerly stuffed the luggage into the trunk and then bowed to open the car door.

Ron had just stepped in with one foot when he stopped again.

"What is this?"

At the feet of the luxurious leather seats in the back, there was a large, shining steel helmet.

"It's a spittoon, Young Lord," Ishan said.

"Why is it in the car?" Ron frowned.

"Some guests like to chew betel nut, and if they spit the residue out the car window, it might stick to the side of the car. So Lord put a spittoon in the car, so it doesn't damage the car," Ishan explained with a smile.

Usually, after each trip, he was responsible for the cleaning. Those betel nut residues stuck to the car were troublesome, and Ishan was always careful, afraid of damaging the beautiful paint.

With the spittoon, it was much more convenient; he just needed to wash the shiny steel helmet clean.

"Put it in the back," Ron frowned in disgust.

"Okay, Young Lord," Ishan quickly stuffed the thing into the trunk.

"Where are we staying?" Ron asked.

"Defense Colony, Buckingham Tower Apartments, Young Lord," Ishan started the car.

New Delhi also has its own wealthy areas, such as Defense Colony, Greater Kailash, and Vasant Kunj, which are close to India's center of power.

Ron was observing the city; it truly lived up to its reputation as the pride of Indian urban planning.

All the roads looked similar, forming circles with large patches of grass in the middle.

Many people sat on the grass, sleeping, playing cards, or eating, and then four roads extended straight out from the middle of the grass.

Driving onto any one of them, you would see another circle. In the middle, there was another large patch of grass, with many people sleeping, playing cards, and eating on it.

It was easy to get lost driving on such roads, and Ishan in the front was constantly looking around, seemingly trying to figure out the direction.

The roads were very neat, more orderly than most streets in Mumbai.

However, New Delhi and Mumbai shared a huge commonality that undermined the city's dignity as the capital.

The poor, the ubiquitous poor!

Tens of thousands of people lived on the sides of the roads in New Delhi, most of them from Uttar Pradesh or Bihar.

The poor from these two places were easy to distinguish because they were thin, dirty, and lived like animals under bridges or flyovers.

Cars whizzed past them, while they were there making fires to cook, fetching water to wash clothes, and occasionally picking lice from their heads.

These homeless people were a big trouble for Ishan; they never waited for red lights, always running across the road whenever they pleased.

Whenever Ishan braked to avoid them, Anil in the passenger seat would curse loudly.

New Delhi is also a crazy city.

As the car entered the city center, it drove slower and slower, stuck in heavy traffic.

Every five minutes, there would be a jolt in the long line of cars, and then Ron and Anil's Civic would move forward about thirty centimeters.

A large area of car taillights ahead lit up, and everyone impatiently honked their horns, including Ishan.

Horns blared all along the road, each with its own pitch, forming a traffic jam symphony.

The air was filled with car exhaust, and wisps of blue fumes swayed and flickered in front of the car headlights, gathering thicker and thicker, unable to rise or dissipate, only slowly and shimmering spreading horizontally, like fog enveloping the cars.

Ron looked out the car window; the road was packed with cars, bicycles, autorickshaws, cycle rickshaws, and taxis, all vying for lanes.

People on bicycles and motorcycles had their faces wrapped in towels, and looking back, there was a string of people wearing sunglasses and masks behind the car.

It was as if everyone on the street was a bank robber.

The air pollution in New Delhi was too severe! Even the resilient people couldn't stand it.

After more than half an hour, the Civic finally squeezed out of the traffic jam, but Ishan encountered another problem.

The houses in the wealthy area all had house numbers, but the letters and numbers on the house numbers were completely illogical.

According to normal order, Building A should be followed by Building B. However, the houses in front might be A211, and the houses in the back might be F332.

Which genius invented building Unit F after Unit A, and building number eighty-two after number thirteen?

Ishan had been in New Delhi for nearly a month, but he still often got lost.

"Are you lost?" Ron saw his difficulty.

"Young Lord, I don't know English," Ishan smiled awkwardly.

"This building in front is Windsor Manor, and the one on the right is Green Heights."

"Oh, I know how to go now, Young Lord!" Ishan turned the steering wheel and turned into another road.

These high-end apartments all looked similar, with shiny glass everywhere, making it difficult for Ishan to remember them.

He still preferred the manor in his hometown of Varanasi, where the kitchen was larger than the entire apartment here.

Buckingham Tower was the most upscale apartment in this area, with a luxurious lobby on the ground floor and an elevator in the lobby.

Ratan's apartment was on the twelfth floor. Ishan parked the car and took Ron and Anil directly up by elevator.

The interior decoration was very modern, and the sofa was luxurious and soft.

Ishan first knocked on Ratan's door and then went to the kitchen to put away the dishes.

He was not just a driver but also served as other servants.

Away from the manor, the treatment of a country Lord had dropped by more than one level.

Ratan came out of the room, still sleepy, reeking of alcohol.

"Brother, sorry, that scoundrel didn't let me go until midnight last night."

"You've already made connections with people here so quickly?" Ron sat down relaxed on the sofa.

"You don't know how difficult those thugs around Yadav are; they always try to get benefits from you."

"How are things in Uttar Pradesh? I mean the mine in Mirzapur."

Ron's trip to New Delhi this time was not only to meet with the Chief Minister of Maharashtra, Pawar, but also to deal with the cement factory.

He had already secured a loan of thirty million rupees in Mumbai, which was used to order equipment and purchase basic building materials.

Now he needed Yadav from Uttar Pradesh to fulfill his promise and get the other seventy million rupees. As soon as the money was in place, construction would begin immediately.

"Those experts you found are constantly wandering around the mine. They drew a lot of blueprints that no one can understand."

"We are going to build the largest and most advanced cement factory in Uttar Pradesh; it's always right to be patient."

The preliminary exploration work had been completed, and building materials were being continuously sent to the mine.

"Anyway, you came at the right time; we'll deal with that Yadav and then go back to Uttar Pradesh. I don't want to stay in this鬼地方 for another day; I can't play with guns, I can't find women casually, it's too boring," Ratan had a bad impression of New Delhi.

"I thought you'd like big cities."

"I prefer the countryside, you know, that's our territory," Ratan made a gesture of shooting a gun.

"I'll make an appointment with that minister tomorrow. Before coming, I had already found a connection in Mumbai."

Ron had gotten the Maharashtra Minister's phone number from Shawan; they talked for a few minutes but didn't go into detail.

Of course, you can't openly discuss corrupt business on the phone; they also have a habit of tapping the phones of important people.

He had to come to New Delhi in person, which was both safer and showed sincerity.

"That's good; we'll meet Yadav today first. His assistant is glib and very unreliable."

"Today?" Ron was a little surprised.

"In the afternoon, life in New Delhi begins in the evening," Ratan winked.

This was exactly what Ron wanted; he was tired from the journey and needed to rest for a while first.

In the meantime, Anil had taken the elevator to the second basement level while the two brothers were talking.

This was the servants' quarter; in India, every apartment building, every house, every hotel has special living quarters for servants.

Some are built in the back, and some, like at Buckingham Tower, are built underground.

The servant rooms were like interconnected rabbit cages, housing drivers, cooks, cleaners, maids, and chefs.

They could rest, sleep, and wait there. If the master needed anything, they just had to press a doorbell.

Anil was purely out of habit, checking every corner of the servant rooms to ensure there was nothing that could be detrimental to the master's safety.

He had undergone such training in Mumbai; that Police Officer Ajay had used his connections with the Special Operations Group and put him in classes for several months.

Ishan led the way; he and Anil had known each other before and were acquaintances.

"There's nothing to see here, just a bed, nothing else."

Ishan felt that Anil had changed; he used to be a country bumpkin like himself.

Now, he walked with his head held high, and his eyes looked intimidating.

He was a little jealous; they were both servants, so how did you do better than me?

You dare to look directly into the master's eyes, you dare to straighten your back, you are not a qualified loyal servant!

"Open the door," Anil said flatly.

"Coming!" Ishan nodded and bowed.

Damn it, he would never be able to get rid of his servant habits.

The servant room was indeed very simple; the floor hadn't been laid yet, the walls were painted with cheap white plaster, and there were still the workers' handprints on them.

In the middle of the room was a dilapidated small bed, just big enough for one person to sleep on, with a mosquito net hanging overhead.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling... A sharp electronic bell rang in the corridor.

Ishan darted out, leaving the still-stunned Anil far behind.

Ha, I am the best servant, he thought proudly.

This was the bell from upstairs for the master calling the servant; Ishan had been trained like a dog and had a natural conditioned reflex.

As expected, Ratan's instructions came from the loudspeaker-like intercom.

He told Ishan to get the car ready immediately, as they were going to a certain minister's residence later.