Chapter 2 – Indians Don't Cheat Indians
Anand had tricked Rohan. Again.
Getting to Victoria Station hadn't needed to be so troublesome after all. That day, the Hindus were holding a festival.
Wealthy patrons had hired out taxis lined along the streets, generously offering free rides to fellow devotees.
Anand simply parked his rickshaw with his friends, grabbed Rohan, and flagged down a taxi flying an orange-red flag.
Pointing at Rohan, he told the driver, "This is a Brahmin master, a most devout believer."
The driver gave Rohan a single glance—and agreed without question to take him, free of charge, to Victoria Station.
The whole thing went shockingly smoothly. The driver never even doubted whether Rohan was really a Brahmin or not.
But Anand didn't get in. He went back to pedaling his rickshaw.
Which meant Rohan had just tossed away 10 rupees for nothing, while Anand pocketed it without lifting a finger.
Even standing in the plaza before Victoria Station, Rohan's brain was still catching up.
Had Anand agreed to that 10-to-1 bargain so quickly because he already knew this festival was happening?
Goddammit. For the first time in his life, Rohan began doubting his own IQ.
But this wasn't the time to stew over it. He was here to pick someone up. And he had heard the stories: Indian train stations were chaos incarnate—no different from a refugee camp.
Yet when he lifted his eyes, Rohan froze in shock.
That building… was this really a train station?
It looked more like a cathedral. Or a museum.
Magnificent, towering Gothic spires, exquisite carvings, sheer grandeur—
Too gorgeous. Too beautiful.
And the strangest part? It was standing here, in the middle of India's streets.
No wonder people said Mumbai was both Indian and not Indian at all—closer to Europe than the subcontinent around it.
Even on the ride over, Rohan had noticed how many Western-style buildings stood in this district.
Walking here felt like stepping into a sun-drenched version of London.
Though, of course, that illusion only covered this one small area—just north lay Asia's largest slum.
The station was stunning, but the inside was exactly as chaotic as he'd been warned.
People everywhere—sitting, lying, balancing things on their heads, packed shoulder to shoulder.
Groups chattered in clusters, half the words incomprehensible to Rohan.
India had more than a thousand languages. Of those, 120 had over a million speakers.
On the rupee notes, 14 were printed as official languages.
And English? Yes, officially recognized—but out of 900 million Indians, fewer than 5% actually spoke it.
Those few Indians who did speak English mostly came from the higher castes. Ordinary folk? For the most part, they couldn't understand a word.
Rohan, fortunately, had a knack for languages. In India, he could get by with Hindi, English, French, and the local Marathi spoken in Mumbai.
He glanced up at the big clock in the station hall—9:45. Exactly five minutes before the train he was waiting for.
Good. Just in time. Without slowing down, he headed straight inside.
Indian stations had no ticket barriers. Anyone could wander right onto the platforms.
Ticket checks? That was the train conductor's problem after boarding.
The problem now was the bodies sprawled everywhere. To avoid stepping on someone's arm or leg, Rohan had to pick his way carefully, taking several minutes just to reach the platform.
And right then, a train pulled in.
The crowd roared to life. Luggage carriers rushed forward. Shepherds tugged at their goats. Parents called desperately for their children.
A moment ago it had been almost peaceful—now it was instant bedlam.
The train hadn't even stopped when people surged to board, shoving in before passengers could get off.
Shouts, curses, crying, shrieks—enough noise to split a skull.
One overeager fellow even tried climbing through a window, only to be met with fists from inside. Still, he didn't let go, shoving his suitcase through as he took the beating.
Rohan's jaw nearly hit the ground. How is little Nia supposed to survive this?
Without hesitation, he rolled up his sleeves and shoved into the crowd.
At a time like this, forget Brahmin pride or caste distinctions—finding Nia came first.
Fifteen sweaty minutes later, Rohan staggered back, staring blankly at the thinning crowd.
The train was gone. The people had dispersed.
But Nia—she wasn't there.
Had he missed her? Or had her small frame simply been swallowed by the crush?
Panicking, Rohan rushed to the ticket window and asked about the train.
The clerk told him the truth: the train he was waiting for hadn't even arrived yet—it was delayed.
"How long delayed?"
"No idea, sir."
"No idea?"
"Yes. Nobody knows. Initial estimate, four hours. Maybe longer."
"Four hours?!"
Rohan asked again, hoping he'd misheard, but got the same answer.
Bloody hell. So this is Indian time—delays measured in hours.
Now he had two choices: wait it out, or head home and sleep.
Four hours, maybe more. At this rate, he might collapse from heatstroke before seeing Nia.
With a sigh, he decided to go back. But then raised voices caught his attention.
"I told you, I want to go to the hotel. I don't understand what you're saying!"
"I'm cheap! I'm Mumbai's best guide. Trust me, sir, you need me!"
"Sorry, I don't understand—please leave me alone!"
"You want cheaper? No problem. Two hundred rupees. Final offer!"
A foreigner, speaking English. And a local, answering in Marathi.
Neither understood the other. Voices rising, tempers flaring—it was about to turn into a full-blown fight.
The foreigner, an older white man, was already looking around for a policeman.
That was Rohan's cue. He stepped in smoothly.
"Sir, need some help?"
Fluent, native-sounding English. The old man lit up like he'd just been rescued.
"Thank God! Finally, someone who speaks English. Please tell him to stop harassing me, or I'll have no choice but to call the police."
"OK, OK." Rohan soothed him gently, then turned with a smile to face the wide-eyed local staring at him.
"Well, well. Anand. Fancy seeing you here. Didn't you say you weren't coming to the station today? And yet—here you are."
"Ahaha! Rohan, it's you! I'm a rickshaw driver. Wherever there are customers, there I go. Perfect timing! Come, tell him—hire me as his guide! I'll give him the best service!"
Anand grinned as if the morning's scam had never happened.
What an actor. Rohan almost laughed.
"My ten rupees?"
"Huh?" Anand's pudgy face stiffened, but he quickly blinked innocently.
"Rohan, I brought you to the station. Our deal is done."
"Or should I tell this gentleman that you plan to stalk him instead of leaving?"
"Wait, wait! Don't!" Anand waved frantically, glancing at the foreigner, torn.
One look and it was clear—this was no ordinary tourist. This was a fat sheep. A very rich fat sheep.
He hadn't understood the English, but he had caught one word: "Taj Mahal Hotel."
Mumbai's legendary five-star hotel.
Anyone staying there had to be filthy rich.
Anand was already calculating—land this client, and he could live comfortably for half a year.
"Alright, Rohan. You win. I'll give you your ten rupees back when we're home. We both know where we live."
"Good." Rohan's smile widened. Score one for him. Making money off him wouldn't be so easy.
Then he turned to the old man, explaining what had just happened—that Anand was harmless, actually a decent guide, and such services were often useful in India.
Once he understood, the man—Mr. Smith—finally relaxed his guard.
"I do need a guide," Smith admitted. "But I'd rather hire you, Rohan."
"Me?" Rohan blinked.
"Yes. You're clearly the right man for the job. That short fellow looks like a scammer."
Smith shot Anand a glance. The rickshaw driver instantly plastered on a sycophantic grin.
Ugh. Pathetic.
Smith's resolve hardened.
A guide, huh? Rohan's eyebrows arched. It wasn't a bad idea. And he was short on money.
"Mr. Smith, it would be my honor. But let's be clear—my services don't come cheap. Starting now, I charge fifty rupees per hour."
"Of course. Quality service deserves proper pay."
They shook hands lightly.
Anand, watching on the sidelines, nearly exploded.