I'm a Master in India

Time entered January, ushering in the new year. The streets of Mumbai lacked the festive atmosphere of New Year's Day; instead, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense. The crowds of demonstrators were like ocean waves, with each wave followed by another surging from behind.

Vendors no longer frequented the streets, and some shop owners with makeshift stalls simply closed down.

Their experience told them that Mumbai was now a powder keg, and any trivial conflict between the two religious groups could ignite riots.

The palpable tension in the air made foreigners hesitant to walk the streets openly. Ron's business had clearly entered a downturn, even more severe than during the rainy season.

The large team of nearly two hundred people had now dispersed by half. Some may have joined the demonstrators, while others may have hidden at home.

Ron didn't care or mind; it was best not to get involved in this murky situation at all, otherwise, endless troubles would follow.

The Grant Road slum, where Anand and the others lived, even had its entrances and exits blocked with wooden planks.

The people under Tajji Ali's jurisdiction included both Hindus and Muslims. In the past, they had helped each other, but if there were riots outside, no one could guarantee what might happen.

He didn't want the harmonious neighbors of the past to turn against each other, so sealing off the entire slum was the safest approach. Except for a few people like Anand and Vinod, most residents no longer went out.

This sudden standoff disrupted all of Ron's plans. Not only was there no business to be done, but even the newly purchased land had to be left idle for the time being.

He had originally planned to have people clean it up and then recruit some talent to work on the cheap electronics business, but now he couldn't find anyone at all.

With nothing to do, Ron could only go to Leopold Cafe to gather some news and, incidentally, have Deejay and the others help him with something.

"Mumbai is getting worse," Deejay sighed mournfully.

"You're damn right!" Viraj slammed down his glass. "Those bastards in the streets are just taking advantage of the situation to cause trouble!"

"I'm not talking about the demonstrators outside; I'm saying that the whole of Mumbai is getting worse."

"Oh, brother, what brilliant insights do you have this time?" Viraj quipped sarcastically. He had been in a bad mood lately because his equestrian show business had been affected.

"When I first came to Mumbai a few years ago, opening the window of my apartment revealed parrots flying back and forth. Now, all I see are plastic bags fluttering like rain.

If you dare to leave the window open when you go out, you're guaranteed to find the floor covered in black dust and a dazzling array of garbage when you return.

Leftover sugar syrup and cream from ice cream cones, milk bags, plastic lids stained with betel nut juice, and even discarded baby diapers..."

Deejay's face was full of pain as he listed the garbage he had seen one by one. His fingers were white, with long nails, and dirt hidden under the edges, noticeably black.

"Speaking of which..." He looked at Ron. "You need to find someone for me quickly; my apartment is about to turn into a cesspool."

"What?" Ron refocused his attention from the street outside.

"A plumber, I need a real plumber! The guy I hired before, with his rotten teeth stained with betel nut juice, is the worst and most despicable person I've ever met. I'd love to strangle him!"

Deejay gnashed his teeth in hatred; he had had enough of that guy. The plumber's hobby was to stir up trouble between the residents. He told Deejay's upstairs and downstairs neighbors that Deejay should pay for repairing all the plumbing problems, big and small, and then told Deejay: 'You have to find a way to convince your neighbors to pay for it.'

He stirred up trouble on both sides, eagerly hoping that Deejay and his upstairs and downstairs neighbors would fight. As for the work he was responsible for—water heaters, faucets, toilets, sewers... nothing worked. The ceiling was also leaking, with drops of brown liquid constantly seeping out.

Deejay had complained to the building's property management, but the members of the owners' committee said that all the pipes in the building were substandard. The outsourced plumbers were not under their control, and the sewer pipe connections were sealed in the walls.

As a result, residents privately dismantled pipes, arbitrarily changing the direction of the pipes, causing the pipes not to run straight and unable to drain properly.

The more the drainage was not normal, the more people had to be found to repair it every now and then, arbitrarily dismantling and modifying it at will. As a result, the more it was repaired, the more outrageous it became, even connecting the sewer pipe to the water supply pipe.

"Can you imagine? When I brushed my teeth in the morning, the water in the cup waiting under the faucet was a brown, smelly, suspicious liquid!"

"Oh, God!" Viraj put down his golden beer. "You shouldn't have said that now, or at least wait until I finish this drink before talking about it."

"I was worried you'd throw up." Deejay shrugged, then turned to Ron again. "How about it? I know you have a lot of 'talented people' under your command. There's no problem here in Mumbai that you can't handle."

Because of the recent demonstrations, Deejay couldn't even find a qualified plumber. They didn't know where they had all gone; maybe they were among the rioters outside.

"It's no problem to deal with it temporarily, but to completely find the root cause, the difficulty is comparable to getting Hindus and Muslims to shake hands and make peace."

Ron could mobilize people from the slums at any time; the people who lived there had a wide variety of occupations. The most common were cleaners, toilet repairmen, and plumbers—those who dealt with dirt and filth. These were exclusive jobs for Dalits.

Having said that, tracing the direction of the sewer, from the top floor to the first floor, would be like walking on an extremely winding mountain road with countless forks.

If Mumbai's apartment buildings were compared to a person, then he was terminally ill, with severe thrombosis, arteriosclerosis, and annoying psoriasis.

"It's fine as long as you can deal with it. I'm planning to move to a new apartment in a while. By the way, Ron, where you live is nice. How's the rent there?"

"Twelve thousand rupees a month. The toilet has never been clogged."

"Okay, never mind I asked." Deejay felt that he was getting ahead of himself. He was actually asking about Ron's rent. What level was he at?

"Isn't anyone going to discuss the upcoming situation in Mumbai?" Kavia, who had been whispering with Hira, couldn't help but interject.

"Is there even a need to discuss it? This city won't be peaceful for the next few months!" Viraj said with certainty.

"I think so too. They're going to fight sooner or later. Everyone is full of anger; they need to vent." Kavia agreed.

"That's terrible," Deejay said, looking miserable.

Yes, that was terrible. Ron also had a headache; his business would suffer significant losses.

Suddenly, the commotion outside attracted everyone's attention. The people in the bar couldn't help but run out to watch the excitement, and Ron and his friends followed.

On the street outside Leopold Cafe, two streams of people slowly converged at the intersection. People were crowded onto trucks, some dressed as Hindu gods, others as saints.

Three people stood at the front of the vehicles, looking incredibly imposing. They were surrounded by old and young, more than fifty people, with the one leading the way wearing a red, white, and blue British flag hat.

"It's Rafiq of the Shiva Sena, that bastard who shut down the opium dens in Mumbai!" Deejay recognized the burly figure at a glance.

"It should be called the Shiv Sena now," Ron added.

"The Shiv Sena?" Viraj sized up the figure, eager to try something.

"Yaar, they've recently gotten money and even have their own newspaper called 'Confrontation'." Kavia, as a journalist, had more up-to-date information.

The convoy and the crowd slowly passed Leopold Cafe, with the Chistiya Sufi Shrine in front of them and the police station at the end of the road.

As they approached the Chistiya Sufi Shrine, the procession almost came to a complete stop. The drummers beat their drums wildly, and the crowd danced erratically. Many of them were already drunk before arriving.

At the end of the procession was a small group of women, one of whom was waving a huge orange Shiv Sena flag. The men were not picky about their dance partners, wriggling their waists and hips, posing coquettishly in unsightly ways.

Some of the children imitated them, becoming restless with the drumbeats. Cloud-like colored powder was thrown among the dancers. Then firecrackers went off, boom! Crackle! Fireworks were lit, illuminating the entire Chistiya Sufi Shrine in red.

The air was thick with the smell of sulfur, the stench of open sewers, and the sour smell of the crowd's sweat.

Rafiq provocatively waved the flag towards the Chistiya Sufi Shrine. "Long live the great King Shivaji!"

Shivaji was the name of the founder of the Maratha Empire, and also the origin of the Shiv Sena's name.

The crowd echoed the sentiment, waving the orange flags madly, drawing arcs in the air with the tall flagpoles.

"Long live Hinduism! Long live Shivaji!" This was the Shiv Sena's slogan.

Some Muslims watched silently from the side, some holding stones in their hands, seemingly ready to throw them at the crowd at any moment.

People in the procession were not to be outdone, some holding pork, aiming to throw it at the white caps on the roadside.

The atmosphere was tense, with drumbeats, fireworks, and the bells of the Chistiya Sufi Shrine's minaret erupting in succession.

Just as a conflict was about to break out, a sharp whistle suddenly sounded. From the police station at the end of the street, a dozen turbaned patrol officers came running.

They were Sikhs, temporarily ordered to stop the conflict. Their Hindu colleagues had been kept in the station by the chief, as sending them would only make things worse.

Ron recognized the one leading the way; it was Deputy Chief Amol. Because of business, they had a close relationship.

Amol directed his men to create a human wall between the Muslims and the procession, while blowing his whistle to order Rafiq's group to move on.

Rafiq didn't resist forcefully; he quit while he was ahead. The procession left the front of the Chistiya Sufi Shrine and gradually moved away. For them, this was already a victory.

"Ron, hide quickly! Something very bad has happened in the Jogeshwari area. Mumbai is in trouble!" Amol hurriedly advised, turning to direct his team, covered in sweat.

"What?" Ron asked subconsciously.

"Don't go out! Don't open the door for anyone who knocks!" Amol led his team north.

Boom! In the direction where those patrol officers went, a fire flashed in the sky.

"Shit! Guys, go home now! Quick! Lock the doors and don't let anyone in!"

Ron cursed and immediately turned to call his cronies to slip away quickly.

His intuition told him that this time, something big was really coming.