Chapter 11: Scheming Out Loud
The restaurant Anand had promised—where the food was supposedly "so good it'll stuff you to death"—wasn't far from Victoria Station.
Standing at the entrance, Rohan felt a little uneasy.
"Why does this sign look… weird?"
"You mean the upside-down 'M'? That's trendy now—even abroad." Anand grinned, head wobbling happily.
"But this isn't McDonald's, is it?"
"Oh yes, McDonald's! Very good!" Anand beamed. "This one just flipped it. Here, it's called Wadonal's."
"…But it doesn't look like they sell fast food. I don't see any plates."
"We don't use plates."
"No plates?"
"Banana leaves."
Anand marched inside, washing his hands at the tap by the door. Rajesh followed suit, so Rohan had no choice but to imitate them.
The crowd inside seemed to be all locals, well-dressed—likely office workers or businessmen. The three of them picked a table by the window. A waiter laid out glossy green banana leaves and placed a glass of water beside each.
"Don't drink it," Rajesh warned. He and Anand poured a little onto the leaves, then wiped them clean with their right hands. Rohan followed, awkward but curious—it was his first time experiencing this, though some buried memory tugged at him.
"Mr. Soor," Rajesh began casually as they waited to order, "you speak French. Was that from university?"
"My parents taught me."
"Oh? And what business are they in here in Mumbai?"
"They were teachers. Both killed earlier this year in a religious riot."
Rajesh blinked—first surprised, then disappointed. His face hardened, and he spat, "Damn Muslims!"
"Lord Shiva will never forgive them," Anand muttered, pressing his palms together in prayer.
It was the first time Rohan had spoken about his family, and at last, a sliver of the mystery around him lifted.
"I'll carry their ashes back to the holy river," Rohan said calmly. "But before that, I have some things to do here in Mumbai."
Rajesh leaned in. This was the moment he'd been waiting for—today's lunch clearly had a deeper purpose.
But before they could dig into the real topic, waiters returned with food.
Crispy fried papad, roasted chicken, buttery toast, fruit jelly, pickled mango, onions with chilies, thick yogurt, and an array of masalas—all portioned neatly onto the damp banana leaves.
Behind them came a server with an enormous ladle of rice. He dropped a mountain-sized serving on each leaf, packed solid, then split it apart and drowned half in vegetable curry.
Rohan wanted to tell him to stop—he had never been a fan of curry—but it was too late.
They were far too enthusiastic. Before Rohan could object, the ritual of serving steaming piles of rice on banana leaves was already complete.
Conversation gave way to eating. Anand and Rajesh dipped three fingers into the rice, mixing it deftly with curry before flicking neat mouthfuls into their mouths.
"Delicious."
"The roasted chicken is excellent. The papad too—everything's good."
Rohan hesitated for a long time before finally stretching out his right hand. The sticky mess clung uncomfortably to his fingers, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't get the rice and curry to clump together.
Anand and Rajesh, by contrast, ate with the grace of seasoned professionals. Not a grain touched their knuckles, let alone their hands.
Within minutes, Rohan's hand was a disaster—rice smeared up to the third joint, even scattered across the back of his hand.
Defeated, he called for a spoon.
Finally, comfort. With each scoop, he began to eat properly.
Anand and Rajesh exchanged a knowing glance. Their eyes twinkled with mockery. This pampered Brahmin was softer than the maharajas.
Here, the custom was simple: if you were full, fold your banana leaf in half. Otherwise, the servers roamed constantly, topping up your rice and curry until you surrendered.
When the last of the sweets—toast, jelly, and fruit—were finished, the three men leaned back with cups of steaming chai.
"Mr. Soor," Rajesh said, wiping his mouth, "earlier you mentioned business here in Mumbai?"
"Yes. I plan to open a company."
"A company?" Rajesh raised his brows. Rohan looked barely older than a college student—hardly the type to be talking about business ventures.
"I've thought about it for a long time. This isn't a whim."
"And what kind of company?"
"A tourism services firm."
"Tourism?" Rajesh smirked.
"In short—guides, taxis, hotels, anything visitors to Mumbai might need."
Rajesh almost laughed, but when his eyes fell on the sacred red thread at Rohan's wrist, he swallowed the retort.
"That's a bad idea."
"Why?"
"Because every train station and airport in Mumbai is swarming with hundreds of men doing the same thing. They're your competitors—including your friend here."
Anand blinked innocently, pretending not to understand.
"This is different," Rohan said firmly. "Those are individuals—or, at best, small gangs. I'll be building a company."
"They'll steal your customers. Without business, what company will you run?" Rajesh shook his head.
"A company is an organization. An individual is always just one man." Rohan's eyes gleamed as he sipped his tea. "My goal is to recruit the best among them—not compete against them."
Rajesh shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"You have a reputation for influence in this area," Rohan pressed. "I want to set this up quickly."
"That'll take money," Rajesh said bluntly. "You know how it works—nothing moves without greasing palms."
His voice was loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear. Rohan cringed. Did he have to shout about bribery in public?
"I've prepared for that. My problem is knowing who to approach. Mumbai's public offices are too many—and often overlap."
"Then you've come to the right man," Rajesh puffed his chest. "Nobody knows Mumbai better than me."
When it came to business, his earlier skepticism vanished. Now he wore the smug look of a man who believed this venture couldn't happen without him.
"Fine. Let's take this conversation outside."
Rohan paid the bill—seventy rupees for all three. Less than three U.S. dollars, yet in Mumbai it was a lavish meal. Even a portly constable like Rajesh couldn't afford such indulgence often.
Outside, "somewhere private" turned out to be nothing more than a quiet street corner. In India, bribing a policeman in public barely raised an eyebrow.
After some haggling, Rohan parted with 500 rupees—his first true "investment."
Rajesh agreed to introduce him to a contact in the Mumbai commerce department within two days. After that, the deal would be in Rohan's hands.
"Don't worry, Rohan, you'll have your company soon," Anand said, head wobbling with certainty.
"Why do you sound so sure?"
"Because you're a Brahmin. Brahmins and officials wear the same pair of pants."
Rohan nearly choked. Was that meant as encouragement, or an insult? He decided it was comfort—Anand's logic was just too twisted.
"But tell me," Rohan asked suddenly, "why are you all so sure I'm a Brahmin? Just from my surname? Remember the cab driver the other day? He didn't even ask my name."
"Rohan," Anand said, "you broadcast it without knowing."
"Hm?"
"Your boots—they're camel leather. Most men go barefoot, or wear sandals. And that red thread on your wrist—it's cotton. Only Brahmins wear the sacred red."
Rohan raised his hand, looking at it anew. The thread had been there since the day he woke up. He'd never given it a thought.
"Wear the wrong color, or wear it without right, and the consequences can be severe," Anand added. His own thick, dark arms were bare. As a Dalit, he'd never even been allowed inside a temple.
Rohan sighed. Being Indian was complicated.
He had taken his first step toward building a business empire. But elsewhere in Mumbai, the French couple Henry and Anna were about to stumble into their second lesson.