Chapter 6 – The Black Market
At dawn, the bustle of the street market below and faint sounds from the living room woke Rohan earlier than usual.
When he pushed open the door, he found Nia barefoot, darting back and forth preparing breakfast for him.
With every step she took, the tiny metal anklet bells jingled softly, filling the room with a delicate rhythm.
Indian women might be conservative, but they knew how to adorn themselves—especially at home.
Gone was the fatigue of yesterday. Today Nia had combed her hair neatly, and even painted her nails a glossy rose red.
On her pale little toes, that striking crimson shimmered with each movement, making Rohan swallow unconsciously.
"Baba, breakfast is ready."
Seeing him awake, Nia quickly set down the plate and began preparing his washbasin and towel.
"Nia, I can do that myself."
"This is my job, Baba."
Stubborn as ever, she filled the basin, wetted the towel, wrung it out, and then handed it to him with both hands.
Being served like this for the first time, Rohan felt both awkward and oddly comfortable.
After all, who wouldn't enjoy having a delicate, pretty girl circling around them every day?
When he was washed and sat at the table, Nia still remained standing demurely at the side.
"Come, sit."
"That's not the custom, Baba~" she teased, shaking her head shyly.
Rohan ignored her. He stood, caught her hand, and pressed her into the seat opposite him.
"In this house, the rules are mine."
Nia looked flustered at first, then her emerald eyes brimmed with delight as she nodded quickly.
Even then, she didn't let him serve himself. She carefully portioned out the food, making each piece just the right bite-size.
Watching her slender white hands flit back and forth, Rohan suddenly thought of something that ruined the mood.
"Nia, from now on, no water in the bathroom. Use toilet paper only."
"Ah?!" She froze on the spot, unprepared.
"That's also one of our house rules. Got it?"
"…Y-yes, Baba," she whispered, cheeks blazing.
Breakfast was the usual Indian style: chai with naan bread.
Since Rohan had made it clear before, Nia had only prepared vegetarian dishes.
The poor girl thought it was because he was keeping the habits of a high-caste Hindu.
In truth, it was all about protecting his own digestive system.
"I might not be home for lunch today. Buy yourself something from the market downstairs."
He counted out two hundred rupees and handed them to her with casual generosity.
"That's too much, Baba." She shook her head quickly, refusing to take it.
She knew Rohan had no job, only savings, and now with her added mouth to feed, the burden must be heavier.
"We've got money now. Take it." Rohan waved the wad of bills in his hand.
Yesterday's cut had been 4,600 rupees, plus the £20 tip from Smith. His savings now topped 5,500.
Rent—once a looming headache—was no longer an issue.
Seeing the stack of notes, Nia finally accepted the two hundred, tucking it away carefully.
"I'll spend it wisely, Baba."
Rohan pinched her soft chin with a smile, then wiped his mouth and prepared to leave.
"Oh, and don't wander anywhere except near the market."
Tch. I'll have to find time to show her around properly, he thought.
Downstairs, Anand was waiting at the alley entrance, grinning like a fool atop his rickshaw.
"I heard a little maid came looking for you yesterday. Thought you wouldn't be getting out of bed this morning."
"I can handle ten of you!" Rohan shot him a glare.
Anand roared with laughter. "Funny—usually the ones who can't handle it say that the loudest."
"You'll see soon enough." Rohan climbed onto the backseat with all the dignity of a lord.
"Seriously though—want a hit of paan to wake up? Crawling out of bed after a woman is tiring, eh?"
By paan he meant the local chew: betel leaf wrapped around areca nut and spices.
One bite and red juice would spray across your mouth. The locals adored it.
Rohan, however, had no love for the stuff. Betel nut was far too heavy for his taste.
"Just get moving. Don't keep Mr. Smith waiting."
Fattening sheep came first. Pleasure could wait.
From their neighborhood to the Taj Mahal Hotel was a fair ride, but Anand's stocky legs pedaled the rickshaw fast and steady. In less than fifteen minutes, they arrived.
"Here we are." He parked well short of the entrance.
"Why not closer? That's still a walk to the door."
"Rickshaws aren't allowed at hotel entrances. Not even nearby. For people like us, scraping a living—we're untouchables."
Though unfair, Anand's tone held no bitterness.
Perhaps that was the true attitude of high-caste India toward Dalits. Rohan, in this sense, was merely an anomaly.
"Fine. I'll go check. By the way, know any taxi drivers?"
"My cousin drives one. If you need, I can borrow it—I know how to handle a cab."
"Wait here. Let me ask first."
Straightening his collar, Rohan strolled into the hotel.
The security guard at the door gave him a glance and waved him through.
Anand didn't find it strange. If it had been him, he would have been tossed out immediately.
Looks, skin, bearing—those differences between high and low caste couldn't be faked.
Which was why no Dalit ever dared to pretend to be high-caste. They'd be exposed in an instant.
The lavish lobby didn't distract Rohan. He went straight to the front desk, explained his purpose, and was told the hotel had already given Smith a wake-up call.
Good. That made things easier.
With the help of a discreet 10-rupee tip, Rohan got through to Smith's room by phone. A few polite words, then he hung up and returned outside.
"Anand, borrow a taxi. Mr. Smith wants to visit a temple and Elephanta Caves today."
Both destinations were far—no way a rickshaw could get there before noon.
When it came to work, Anand didn't waste words. He hopped on his bike and sped off like the wind.
Twenty minutes later, just as a freshly dressed Mr. Smith stepped out of the hotel lobby, a bright yellow taxi pulled up to the entrance.
"Rohan, you've done splendidly! You're the most considerate guide I've ever met."
"As I promised, sir—full service, worth every rupee." Rohan bowed slightly and opened the car door for him. "Shall we head first to the northern temple, or the Elephanta Caves to the south?"
"The temple first. But before that, there's something else I need."
"Of course, sir. Whatever you require."
"I don't have many rupees left. I'll need to stop by the Foreign Exchange Office or a bank to convert more currency."
Yesterday's shopping spree had drained every last note Smith had exchanged.
And with today's excursions sure to involve more spending, he wanted to be prepared.
Hearing this, something clicked in Rohan's head—ding.
"Anand, do you know where we can exchange foreign currency? Not the bank, not the official bureau… I mean the other kind."
"Of course!" Anand blurted, eyes gleaming. "The black market! Their rate is way better than the bank's—and we get a cut!"
Private exchanges were a lucrative sideline. Just like yesterday's shopping commissions, it was one of a guide's gray-market tricks.
Though opportunities were rare. Most tourists were cautious and preferred not to risk trouble.
But now? Their fat sheep was practically dripping golden oil, and Anand could barely stop drooling.
A few whispered words later, Rohan turned back with a calm, reassuring smile.
"Mr. Smith, the official rate is only fourty-five rupees to the pound. But I know a place where you can get fifty-four."
"What?" Smith gaped. "Is that… safe? I don't want any trouble."
"Perfectly safe. I wouldn't offer this to just anyone. It's a risk for me too, you understand."
Rohan's expression softened into one of heartfelt sincerity—like he'd wrestled with a heavy decision and finally chosen to share a dangerous secret.