I'm a Master in India

Chapter 240: Bandit Style

Lucknow is actually quite good; not only does it have many well-preserved ancient buildings, but its modernization is only slightly inferior to New Delhi.

The train station here is even more spectacular than Mumbai's Victoria Station, and King George's Medical College is even somewhat famous internationally.

If you only look at the city center, Lucknow can be considered a modern city.

Ron flew in from Varanasi. He had originally planned to rest for two days before visiting Yadav, but reality didn't allow it.

Somehow, The Daily News, which had quieted down, suddenly went full throttle, reporting on the demonstrations at Sur Cement Factory for three consecutive days.

Damn it, is the Tripathi Family having a fit? Coming in waves?

Putting aside his leisure for sightseeing, Ron immediately called Kavia, who was far away in Mumbai.

Half an hour later, he met the local editor-in-chief of The Times of India in a cafe in Lucknow.

When it comes to public opinion, he has never been afraid of anyone.

The Daily News is just a small paper; any section of The Times of India can instantly kill it.

Just right, Muna is doing publicity in Mirzapur, and the materials are already available.

Ron gave the editor a small gift as a meeting present, and they agreed that the report would be in the paper tomorrow, with the materials being sent over before evening.

After making some arrangements, Ron rushed off to see Yadav without stopping.

His intuition told him that the King of Mirzapur seemed to have quickened his pace.

This time, Ron didn't go to Yadav's office but visited his official residence.

It wasn't their first meeting, so there was no need for an intermediary to convey messages.

Having given away close to nine million rupee in total, Ron was now an important figure on Yadav's list.

After hearing about his visit, Yadav directly sent a servant to welcome him.

The meeting place was the garden. When Ron came in, Yadav was heartily enjoying mangoes.

"Want some?" He licked the juice from his fingers.

"My stomach hasn't been good lately." Ron politely refused.

With that way of eating, he found it hard to have an appetite.

"The fruit from Uttar Pradesh is no worse than Mumbai's."

"That's right, which is why I came back."

"But you'll still leave," he said, putting down the towel he used to wipe his mouth and looking over. "You need to put more effort into the cement factory; we made a guarantee in front of the reporters."

"The cement factory is fine; there will be an answer in tomorrow's newspaper."

"Newspaper?"

"Not a tabloid like The Daily News. Sur Cement Factory has provided thousands of jobs and solved the road problem in the north. Isn't that worth promoting?"

"Roads? What do you plan to do?" Yadav waved his hand, signaling the servant to leave.

"Build a cement road from Mirzapur to Varanasi, covering sixty kilometers. This would be unprecedented in the eastern region."

"Good." Yadav nodded with satisfaction; this would also be one of his political achievements.

"As for The Daily News..." Ron looked up at him.

"I'll speak to them, but you need to settle those farmers as soon as possible. Some reporters are always looking for big news."

"I understand." Ron nodded.

"It's still the same thing: don't let it get into the newspapers; everything else is negotiable."

Ron's expression shifted slightly; he didn't hear the phrase "don't cause any deaths."

"The cement factory will definitely be completed on time, right? I've listed it in Uttar Pradesh's strategic plan. If something goes wrong, both you and I will become laughing stocks." Yadav's tone carried a warning.

"Of course, the cement factory will start trial production within two months, but..."

"Hmm?"

"The power supply isn't stable enough, so I'm planning to build my own power station."

"Tell me what you need?" Yadav asked directly.

"Coal! Coal from Sonbhadra!"

Yadav leaned back, resting his back against the chair, his eyes sizing up Ron.

Just as he was about to say something, someone suddenly came in; it was his younger brother, Satya.

"Hey, Satya, come here." He tilted his head, introducing them to each other.

Satya looked very much like his older brother, with the same dark skin and round face.

He performed the Anjali Mudra towards Ron, then eagerly had his subordinate unfurl a poster.

"This is the campaign poster I made, Brother. What do you think?"

"Oh, you're running in the regional election?" Yadav examined the poster.

Yellow background with red text, typical Indian style. The poster showed two figures performing the Anjali Mudra with smiling faces; it was the two brothers.

The slogan was "Long Live the Great Socialist Party!", just like the slogans on the streets, visible everywhere.

"This is the final version guided by the Holy Master; he said I will definitely win." Satya smiled with anticipation.

Yadav didn't speak; he looked up and sized up his younger brother. "How tall are you?"

"172 centimeters." Satya replied without hesitation.

"How high is your position in the party?" Yadav asked again.

"Uh..." Satya froze.

"Why are you the same height as me on the poster? Can you be on equal footing with the Chief Minister?"

Satya's smile froze, his face showing embarrassment.

"It's just a small regional election, and you still need to borrow my reputation. What will you do during the state election?"

"I'll change it right away." Satya replied with a forced smile.

"How many did you print?"

"Two hundred thousand..."

Yadav didn't speak, suddenly turning his gaze to Ron beside him.

Hmm? Ron looked up, met his gaze, and then understood somewhat.

"Mr. Yadav, after the posters are revised and printed, send the bill to me."

"Aren't you going to thank Mr. Sur?" Yadav looked at his younger brother.

"Thank you very much for your help." Satya performed the Anjali Mudra towards Ron again.

"You're welcome." Ron shook his head, a hint of helplessness in his expression.

"Go on down." Yadav waved his hand, sending his younger brother away.

"It's his first time participating in an election; he doesn't understand the rules."

"Supporting the Socialist Party is our common goal." Ron nodded politely.

"Everyone says politicians are greedy whores, but it's actually the voters. They vote for whoever gives them more money." Yadav spread his hands helplessly.

"That makes sense."

"Right, where were we just now?"

"Power plant, coal mine."

"It's yours now." Yadav wiped his hands and stood up to leave.

Ron pursed his lips, also silently stood up and turned around.

What an insatiable fellow, as crude as his caste.

Things like coal mines, the government gives them to companies, and no one wants them.

But with Yadav, it was as if it were a gift.

For the printing costs of two hundred thousand posters, God knows how big a bill he would issue.

These bandits hardly miss any opportunity to make money; no amount of money can shut their mouths.

Leaving Yadav's residence, Ron was even thinking about whether to contact other opposition parties in Uttar Pradesh.

He was a businessman; betting on multiple sides, wasn't that standard practice?

Yadav's behavior was too much like a bandit's, and Ron didn't want to put all his eggs in one basket.

Thinking about these issues, Ron got into the car and told Anil to go directly to the airport.

Just as he left, an SUV with a Mirzapur 'Karim Bai' license plate also stopped at Yadav's entrance.

Returning to the cement factory, Ron was startled by the sight before him.

A long queue of people stretched for several hundred meters, lining up directly onto the cement road outside.

"What's going on?"

"Master, they are all here to register."

"Register?"

"Yes, everyone in Mirzapur knows that we are hiring here, and the great Mr. Sur is offering generous wages."

Muna had changed; in just a few days, he had undergone a complete transformation.

He no longer guarded the mine but specialized in publicity.

It was as if he was naturally suited for this line of work; every time he went out and came back, he was stronger than before.

He had a yellow cloth strip tied around his head with a sun symbol, indicating that he was a supporter of the Sur family.

Every day, he would give loud speeches in front of the tea stall or bounce back and forth on the dirty streets of Mirzapur, following the trucks.

Holding a microphone, he shouted loudly, "Mirzapur needs the great Mr. Sur!"

In less than a week, the two hundred thousand residents of this small town all knew the great name of Mr. Sur.

Of course, the 300 rupee salary contributed greatly.

"Has anyone caused trouble in the past few days?" Ron rubbed his chin, his eyes flickering.

"No, those farmers from before don't dare to come." Muna reported with excitement.

"Hmm?"

"They would be beaten back by the villagers, who would call them scum and traitors. If they still want to live in the village, they absolutely wouldn't dare to cause trouble again."

"Good, very well done." Ron hadn't expected Muna's performance to far exceed his expectations.

"Master, the tricks played by the Tripathi Family will not cause you any harm."

"The cement factory is about to start production; at this crucial time, be careful of their hidden arrows."

"Yes, Master, I will keep watching." Muna was now full of fighting spirit.

"Right, what is your surname?"

"Uh, Master..." Muna hesitated, unsure how to speak.

"Don't worry, I was just asking casually; caste doesn't matter." Ron comforted him.

"Halwai." Muna replied nervously.

"Are you sugar makers?"

"Yes, Master."

Halwai, in Sanskrit, means "one who makes sweets."

This was Muna's caste, and also his destiny; everyone living in Mirzapur would understand as soon as they heard it.

This was also why Muna worked at the tea stall at the village entrance. When the boss saw him, he would think: Oh, their surname is Halwai; they are born to boil sugar and brew tea.

Muna used to think, if they were truly born Halwai who made sweets, why didn't his father make sweets but pulled a rickshaw instead?

Why did he spend his childhood breaking coal chunks and wiping tables, instead of growing up eating sweet braised eggs and rose apples?

Why was he thin and small, with a flexible body, instead of being fair and plump with smooth skin like a child who grew up eating sugar?

Muna gradually understood later that his father might have originally been a sweet maker.

But when he inherited the sweet shop, people from other castes must have robbed the small shop with the help of the police.

His father's strength wasn't enough to fight back. So he was reduced to pulling a rickshaw, and he also couldn't become a fair and plump person with smooth skin.

Only with strength can one speak with confidence. This strength is not just fists; it can also be other things.

These past few days, he had tasted a bit of that feeling, but he hadn't fully understood it yet.

In short, in the past India, caste determined everything.

It still does now, but there are some differences after all.

Thousands of castes, thousands of destinies.

Continuing to the present, there are probably only two destinies: eating others, or being eaten.

Muna's Halwai is a Shudra caste; in Mirzapur, they can only be eaten.

He had been reading a lot lately and had already understood this principle.

"The caste that makes sugar." Ron had some understanding in his heart.

Making sugar is good. Uttar Pradesh is full of sugarcane, a solid pillar industry.

"Muna, are there many people from this caste?"

"Very many, Master." Muna was curious.

It seems the Master's focus isn't on the distinction between high and low castes.