Raghu Kurman sat in a private box on the third floor of the Twin Towers Arena. An immense satisfaction swelled within him as he looked down at the crowd pouring in under the scorching sun.
Opening a bottle of eighteen-year-old wine, he poured it into a stemmed glass and swirled it. He didn't drink, believing it would cloud his judgment, but he loved the aroma—a mix of sandalwood, dried citrus peel, and berries. That was the smell of success, and the smell of money.
"Dad, look, it's Teacher Toto!" his eight-year-old son exclaimed, gripping the railing and staring eagerly below. "Why don't we go sit down there? Wouldn't we see better?"
"Oh, no, no, no. That's where the lower class belongs. You should never be there."
