I'm a Master in India

The slum remained the same, with small, fragile huts made of reed mats. They were built haphazardly, crookedly, occupying every available corner with all their might.

There was no planning here, and not a single alley was straight. Strangers who came here would likely get lost after turning two corners without someone to guide them.

Anand led Ron through the maze-like alleys, and the surrounding residents greeted them with smiling faces and warm greetings.

A group of young men were clearing the drains of debris that was blocking the flow of water, and some were helping widows, orphans, and those who had lost their ability to work to repair their huts.

They helped each other and had a clear division of labor. Ron guessed that someone was planning and deciding all of this behind the scenes, and that person was likely their target.

Tajji Ali's hut wasn't much bigger than the others, with the same bamboo poles, plastic sheeting, and reed mats. The only difference was a small open space next to his hut.

At the moment, it was crowded with people. Anand told Ron that Tajji Ali's eldest son, Farouk, had just returned from working in Kuwait, where he had spent six months.

The young men in the slum liked to listen to him tell adventure stories from the outside world. Farouk was tall and strong, with straightforward eyes and a shy smile.

Many young men were asking him for advice on working abroad: what were the best jobs, who were the best employers, who had the worst reputation, and how to earn extra money in the bustling black markets of the Persian Gulf and Mumbai?

Farouk, following his father Ali's instructions, held classes here every afternoon for a week, passing on his experience to everyone who came.

So many people came to listen to his valuable knowledge that the room couldn't hold them all, and they spilled out into the small open space outside.

Anand pushed through the crowd and led Ron into the room with difficulty. Tajji Ali waved the copper-bound wooden stick in his hand when he saw them, and Farouk tacitly led the crowd outside the hut.

"Mr. Sur, please, sit wherever you like."

"Just call me Ron."

The two parties were already acquainted, and Ron didn't stand on ceremony.

Seeing him casually sit on a wooden stump, the smile in Tajji Ali's eyes became even warmer.

"The young men outside now most want to work in two places: Kuwait and your travel company. But just over half a year ago, their only choice was the first."

"They're all good lads."

Ron glanced outside. "They're hardworking and never complain."

Honestly, Ron liked hiring people from this slum. Whether it was because of Tajji Ali's restraint or Anand's teachings, not one of the people who had gone from here to work at his company had ever caused trouble.

They had never secretly embezzled money, nor had they asked tourists for tips. On the contrary, they would try to save Ron money. For example, they would carefully pick up manuals discarded by tourists, clean them up, and then continue to use them.

Although it wasn't much money, what employer wouldn't like such employees? Ron was no exception.

"You give them work and pay them generously, so dozens of families in the slum can live in peace. That's hundreds of people, and they should thank you, not complain."

"They do, and I'm very grateful to them."

Ron was just giving them the rewards they deserved according to common sense.

However, what he considered common sense was already an incredible thing to Tajji Ali and Anand.

There was the consistent discrimination of the caste system and the nature of capital, which together built a strong secular barrier. In short, Ron's common-sense approach seemed rare and precious.

In fact, he really didn't treat anyone preferentially, but India was just too magical.

"Ron, Anand says you're a very good doctor."

"Uh, I'm not a real doctor. I just know a little bit."

Ron turned to look at Anand beside him, who happily swayed his neck.

Usually, if these people under his company bumped or bruised themselves, Ron would basically handle it himself.

From ordinary external injuries to common diarrhea and colds, he could treat them. There was no shortage of medicine, and all kinds of medical tools were complete, so there was nothing he couldn't solve.

The reason why Ron dared to treat others so boldly was because he knew that if he didn't care, Anand and the others would never go to the hospital.

What hospital would people from the slum go to? Did they really think India could achieve universal free healthcare? What a fantasy!

"You are a good doctor," Tajji Ali didn't care about Ron's modesty. "There are more than 20,000 residents in this slum, and dozens or hundreds of people encounter various illnesses every day."

"Why not go to the hospital? St. George's Hospital isn't far from here," Ron asked.

St. George's Hospital was a charitable medical institution, funded by a charitable trust fund. It not only had luxurious wards for the rich but also a free medical center for the poor.

"There are always too many people there. I've asked. They receive more than six hundred patients every day, sometimes more than a thousand. They're doing their best.

Even for emergencies, they suggest that I first get a referral from a licensed practicing doctor. In other words, with a referral, you can cut in line.

The problem is that people here look down on licensed, qualified doctors and can't get a referral to cut in line at a large hospital. They're too poor, and they can't even guarantee tomorrow's meal.

I'm not blaming those hospitals. I know they have their own problems: not enough staff, too many patients. People from several nearby slums go there, and they're doing their best.

But some emergencies, like diarrhea, can be solved with a few pills. Instead of spending a sky-high consultation fee to get a referral from a licensed doctor."

Tajji Ali slowly told the medical situation in the slum. His tone was calm, and there was no hint of complaint in his eyes.

Everything was supposed to be like this. The situation in the slum was supposed to be like this. No one was surprised.

"So what do you want me to help with? I repeat, I'm not formally trained and can't be considered a real doctor."

Ron sighed. This was a dead end. Poor people needed to wait in line to see a doctor, but often they couldn't wait. Children could die from diarrhea if they didn't get timely treatment.

In India, as many as two to three million children die from diarrhea every year, and these are all children of the poor. They can't cut in line, and they can't afford a referral. The so-called free medical care is out of reach.

Ron also knew that it was time to return the favor. Without Tajji Ali's help, Luka wouldn't have been able to thrive at the docks when he shipped that batch of goods last time.

"I hope you can teach in the slum like Farouk."

"Teach?"

"Once a week, for two months, come here to treat patients. I'll pick a few young people to learn from you. They don't need to be very proficient. You just need to tell them the general efficacy and usage of the medicines.

We'll provide all the medicines, we'll take care of everything, and no one will bother you."

Ron looked at the slum leader in surprise. He was once again shocked by the rules here.