Chapter 3 – The Fat Sheep
"Wait, Rohan! Did you two make some kind of deal behind my back?" Anand's sharp little eyes darted across his round face.
"This gentleman has hired me as his guide during his stay in Mumbai."
"What?!" Anand shrieked. "You can't do that! I was the first one to touch his luggage! He's my customer!"
"Calm down." Rohan patted him on the shoulder with perfect composure. "Mr. Smith asked me himself. Don't believe me? Ask him."
Smith, watching Anand turn red and flustered, instinctively edged behind Rohan. Inwardly, he made a note: Keep your distance from this manic fellow.
Poor Anand, cracked and broken, still had to plaster on his brightest smile to win the foreigner's favor. But Smith ignored him completely.
"Rohan…" Anand whined, face like a wilted flower. "I swear I won't cheat you anymore. I'll even refund half of that twenty rupees from last time. Just let me have this fat sheep, alright?"
"This isn't up to me. Mr. Smith needs a guide who speaks fluent English and knows Mumbai."
"I know Mumbai better than anyone! Every corner, every street! The sights, the hidden spots—everything. I can even take you to some… extra exciting places."
"Exciting?" Rohan raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"Like Falkland Road, Leopold Café—those are where the truly successful people go. Silver trade, weed, loan sharks, black market deals, smuggling, fake passports, and—"
"Stop!" Rohan had to cut him off. "Mr. Smith is retired. At his age, women are probably… irrelevant."
"Then maybe—"
"Enough. I get it."
Rohan waved him aside and turned back to Smith.
"This man is Anand. He's a friend of mine. No bad intentions—just some misunderstandings because of language. But he does have a rickshaw, and he can take us to see Mumbai's charms without reservation: Gateway of India, Gandhi Museum, Mahalakshmi Temple, Elephanta Caves…"
"Oh, that sounds wonderful." Smith nodded eagerly. That was exactly why he had come to Mumbai.
He'd seen enough big cities in Europe. What fascinated him was India's unique cultural style. As an artist, he needed to see these things with his own eyes.
"So if I sit in a rickshaw and slowly savor the city, that would be more interesting?"
"A fine idea." Rohan nodded approvingly.
Then he turned back with a smile. "Do we need you, Anand?"
"One hundred percent yes!" Anand bellowed. "You desperately need me! I could cry for your situation—without me, who knows what terrible dangers you'd run into!"
"And your rickshaw?"
"Coming right up!" Anand shouted, bolting off the platform toward the station entrance.
By the time Rohan helped Smith carry his luggage outside, Anand's rickshaw was already waiting at the door—spotless, neatly arranged, canopy raised for shade.
Without waiting to be asked, Anand was bustling about, loading bags, adjusting the seats, fussing like a loyal servant.
"Mr. Smith, shall we head back to the hotel first?" Rohan asked as he hopped into the backseat like a gentleman-guide.
"Is there anywhere worth stopping along the way? I'd love to browse a craft market." Smith's eyes shone with anticipation.
"In that case—Colaba Market. Clothes, jewelry, souvenirs, handicrafts—everything you can imagine. And most importantly, it has Mondagar Café, authentic Indian flavor."
"Splendid! I can't wait."
After flattering Smith with a few words, Rohan smoothly switched from English to Marathi.
"Anand, to Colaba Market."
"Wait—what were you two just talking about?" Anand pedaled furiously, scratching his head. His English vocabulary extended to "Yes, No, OK, No Problem"—and that was it.
"Not important. First answer me one question."
"What?"
"Do you know anyone in Colaba Market?"
"Of course. Every shop, every owner. I know them all!"
"Good." Rohan nodded with satisfaction. "When we arrive, go to your reliable contacts and tell them: for every purchase my guest makes today, I want twenty percent commission."
"That's impossible! Rohan, that's insane!" Anand was so shocked he nearly forgot to pedal.
"Nothing's impossible. Or we could take Mr. Smith to other shops. The choice is yours. Just pass along my exact words."
"But twenty percent is too much…" Anand grimaced.
"Don't pretend I don't know how obscene the profits on those trinkets are. Handmade? Please. They cost nothing. And don't talk to me about labor—here in India, people are the cheapest resource of all."
Anand opened his mouth, then deflated. Finally, he nodded weakly. "Fine. I'll try."
Now came the tricky part. Rohan had demanded 20%. So how much should Anand tack on as middleman?
23%? 25%? He couldn't push it to 30%—the shopkeepers would spit in his face.
While Anand's mind whirled, Rohan turned back to Smith, smoothly pointing out landmarks along the road.
Truth be told, he wasn't all that familiar with Mumbai himself. But he remembered a lot, and that was more than enough to bluff a foreigner.
And it worked. Smith admired the scholarly air Rohan carried. To him, it was a noble quality. Anand, on the other hand, seemed petty and sly—the exact type he despised.
At Colaba Market, Rohan took the lead, introducing handicrafts, charms, sculptures, masks, temple models—talking like an expert.
Meanwhile, Anand had slipped away to coordinate with his "contacts" for the scheme ahead.
These tricks were second nature to them. After all, India was destined to become the world's scam capital—and Anand's people were naturals at it.
Rohan first teased out Smith's interests, then, using the list Anand slipped him, guided him to just the right shops.
Targeted placement. Bull's-eye every time.
Smith didn't disappoint. The wealthy London gentleman was entranced by the colorful handicrafts.
To reassure him, Rohan even haggled on his behalf—arguing so fiercely with shopkeepers that his face turned red.
An item priced at 2,000 rupees? He got it for 500.
So reliable! Worth every rupee of the guide fee.
Smith waved his hand. "Buy it!"
One pound exchanged for fourty-five rupees. This money was nothing to him.
In fact, he found India too cheap. Everything seemed worth buying.
Two hours later, Rohan and Anand's arms were full of bags.
Smith had gone on such a spree he even bought a traditional Indian tiffin box as a collectible.
Finally, exhausted, the old man announced he needed rest.
"Rohan, I just want a shower and a good sleep. Let's take a taxi back to the hotel."
"No problem." Rohan agreed readily. While flagging down a cab, he pulled Anand aside.
"Here's the tally I kept. Go collect the payments. I'll come by this afternoon."
"Relax—I kept my own tally too." Anand actually looked more eager than Rohan.
By the saints above, Anand was overjoyed. This one fat sheep was enough to feed him for half a year!
"OK! I'll go send off Mr. Smith now!"
With a taxi, the rest of the trip went quickly. At the hotel, Smith even invited Rohan to join him for lunch.
"I've had a wonderful day. Tomorrow, I hope we'll have an even better journey together."
As he said this, Smith slipped him a crisp £20 note as a tip.
"Of course. Tomorrow morning at eight, I'll be waiting for you at the hotel entrance."
Bloody hell, these Brits are loaded. Just like that, a few hundred rupees—more than his actual guide fee—tipped away casually.
Pocketing the note, Rohan bade Smith farewell and rushed straight back to Victoria Station.
By his count, the four hours still weren't up.
When he returned to the platform, the long wail of a train whistle echoed in the distance.
It was well past two in the sweltering Mumbai afternoon. Having rushed the whole way, Rohan treated himself extravagantly to two bottles of Indian ice-cold cola.
This time, he'd learned. Instead of getting trampled in the crush, he stood in the shade holding a sign, waiting.
He had no desire to once again be drenched in sweat and curry stench. Absolutely not.
But as the crowd thinned after the train emptied, Rohan's face clouded. The person he was waiting for still hadn't appeared.
Late again? He stood dumbfounded.
Surely the train couldn't be delayed two times in a row. He was about to go ask when—
He turned, and there she was.
A figure wrapped head to toe in a light turquoise sari, standing gracefully amidst the crowd.
Her face was veiled, her frame slender, black hair brushing her shoulders. From the delicate wrist peeking out, her skin was pale and fair.
"You are…?" Rohan felt a spark of recognition.
The girl lifted her veil. A tender face revealed itself, soft and alluring all at once. Bright emerald eyes shimmered with laughter, dazzling and unguarded.
"Baba~"
"…Wh-what?!" Rohan, caught in the moment, shuddered violently.
"What's wrong?" Nia asked, puzzled.
"What… what did you just call me?"
"Baba. In Hindi, it's a special form of address. A title of respect for teachers, holy men, powerful masters—and, of course, for one's lord."
Nia didn't understand why he asked. Surely he should have known that.
"If you don't like it, master, I can call you something else?"
"No! No, no… you should just keep calling me Baba."
Rohan's voice was firm, righteous even—but the smile spreading across his face grew more and more suspiciously twisted.