Chapter 5 – Treat It Like a Business
Before stepping inside, Rohan had tried to picture what a slum house might look like.
But when he actually saw it, the reality still stunned him—so much so that his face stiffened in shock.
Anand's "home" was a single room. Standing at the doorway, you could see everything.
A square space barely two or three meters across. In the far corner stood a "bed."
Though to call it a bed was generous. It was really just a net of ropes strung loosely across a wooden frame, the holes so wide you'd fear falling through.
At the foot of this "bed," a rope stretched diagonally across two walls, doubling as a clothesline and a wardrobe. Shirts, saris, damp and dry, all hung there in a muddled display.
Opposite the bed was a stone hearth with jars and bottles scattered about, plus dried cow dung stacked as fuel.
And in the corner to the left of the door lay a straw mat, rolled tight.
That was it. The entirety of Anand's world.
If it were just him, Rohan might not have been so surprised.
But this tiny ten-square-meter hut was packed with ten people.
Anand's wife glanced shyly at Rohan, gave him a polite smile, then clutched the baby in her arms a little tighter.
The other eight children—eldest around twelve or thirteen, youngest still crawling on the dirt floor—stared at him with wide, blinking eyes.
Curious. Nervous. Silent.
Meeting their bright, innocent gazes, Rohan felt a pang of shame. He shouldn't have come empty-handed.
The market was right below his apartment. A bag of sweets would have been enough. Anything, really, instead of standing here awkward under the children's hungry stares.
"Jamal, Tilak, take your brothers and sisters outside to play," Anand ordered with practiced ease.
Like a flock of birds, the raggedly dressed kids chirped their way out of the hut.
And once outside, their voices grew lively, chattering excitedly about how clean and fine the guest's clothes looked.
Anand's wife, dressed in a faded yellow sari, balanced the baby in one arm while pouring Rohan a cup of tea with the other.
"Anand, I didn't expect you to have such a large family."
Even now, Rohan struggled to imagine how ten people could pack together like sardines each night to sleep.
But Anand puffed out his chest, laughing proudly.
"Rohan, children are wealth! By five, Jamal and the others were already helping out. Now they can earn their own keep."
To him, raising kids wasn't a cost. The more you had, the better off you were.
"How old are you?" Rohan asked.
"Nineteen."
"Ha! Still a chick! I had my first child with Freida at fifteen."
Anand patted his belly smugly. His wife Freida giggled beside him.
In their eyes, reaching nineteen without having slept with a woman was a tragedy.
Rohan only shrugged and gave a thumbs-up.
More laughter. The tension in the room eased, the invisible gap closing.
Good-natured teasing did wonders.
"Freida, go check on the children. Make sure they don't damage my rickshaw."
With his wife sent outside, only the two men remained. Silence fell again.
Anand leaned in, dropping his voice.
"Here's today's tally. That fat sheep spent a total of 23,000 rupees at Colaba Market. Can you believe it?"
Rohan skimmed the numbers. They matched his own rough mental count.
"He earns in pounds. One pound equals fourty-five rupees. For him, this wasn't much at all."
"Exactly! We should've skinned him harder!" Anand's round eyes gleamed. Fat sheep like that came once in a year—what a waste to let him go so easily.
"That's for later. My cut?" Rohan reminded him coolly.
"Uh, Rohan… I hauled you around all day, negotiated with those tricky shopkeepers, you know, I—"
Rohan only rubbed his fingers together, silent.
"Alright, alright." Anand grumbled, pulling a paper bundle from his waistband.
Rohan took it without ceremony, flipping through.
4,600 rupees. Notes from five to five hundred, with plenty of twenties and fifties. A fat handful—comfortingly heavy.
"Pleasure doing business, Anand." Rohan was satisfied. No tricks this time.
But it was getting late. Mumbai nights weren't safe. And Nia was waiting at home.
"Wait, Rohan, we need to discuss tomorrow."
"What about it?"
"The commission. You took twenty percent. But I did the running around, the negotiating—I deserve a share, don't I?"
Rohan paused, smiling at him without a word.
"What… what's with that look?" Anand hunched his shoulders.
"How much commission did you tell them at Colaba?"
"Twenty percent. Of course."
"No thirty?"
"No! Absolutely not!" Anand's head shook like a rattle drum.
"Twenty-eight?"
"…Okay, okay! Let's not talk about commission anymore. Just go home already!"
Rohan chuckled and stepped outside. A dozen pairs of dark, shining eyes were staring at him in perfect unison.
He straightened up, turned back, and said, "Anand, take me home."
"By the saints, we only live a kilometer apart. Don't tell me you've gotten lost again, like the other day?"
Grumbling, Anand came out of the hut, shooed away the mischievous children, and began pushing his rickshaw ahead.
Rohan quickened his pace, then climbed onto the backseat without a shred of guilt.
"Anand, are there many tourists in Mumbai?"
"Of course! This is Mumbai—famous all over the world!"
"So that means being a guide could actually become a business?"
"Yes! That's exactly what I'm doing right now!" Anand declared proudly.
"No, not just a one-man hustle. I mean a real business."
"Exactly! Being a rickshaw driver and guide is my life's business!"
Sitting in the back, Rohan nearly burst out laughing.
"I've decided, Anand. I'm going into this business too."
"You're going to pedal a rickshaw like me?" Anand turned back, stunned.
"I'm a Brahmin lord. Obviously, my business will be greater than that." Rohan waved expansively, too lazy to explain the distinction.
"Hah. Then first, maybe learn how to find your way home."
Anand braked the rickshaw. They had arrived.
It was nearing dusk, but the market was still in full swing. The noise and lanterns made the streets even livelier than before.
"Wait here a minute," Rohan said, hopping off and disappearing into the crowd.
A few minutes later he returned, carrying several paper parcels.
"Here—fried bread, pani puri, masala dosa, and one curry chicken. Take them home to the kids."
Anand, who had been scowling with impatience, froze. His eyes went wide, his jaw hanging open.
"Ro… Rohan… I'm just a Dalit. And you, you…"
"Alright. Tomorrow morning, don't forget to pick me up." Rohan waved him off and vanished down a narrow alley.
He didn't seem to realize how shocking his gesture had been.
A Brahmin. A Dalit.
The gulf between them was one even India's constitution couldn't fully bridge. And yet, Rohan had stepped across it without a second thought.
He never considered how deeply that small act would move Anand.