Chapter 340 Shackles
Why do chicken coops still exist today? This is a question that Muna has always wondered about.
He was puzzled and even amazed.
Many things happened around him, but he never thought about why before, but instead took it for granted.
Munna felt a shudder; there was something terrifying hidden in Indian society.
Never before in human history has a few people owed so much to so many people.
The small minority of this country has tamed the remaining ninety-nine percent.
Although these people are in every way as strong, talented and intelligent as themselves, they let the latter live in slavery forever.
This servility even reaches such a point that if you put the key of freedom in his hand, he will throw it back to you with curses.
In big cities like Delhi and Mumbai, millions of people rise at dawn every day, pile into overcrowded and filthy buses, and get off in front of their owners' mansions.
Then they mopped the floors, washed the dishes, weeded the garden, fed the master's children, and massaged the master's feet, all for that meager salary.
Muna felt that those rich people in foreign countries had never enjoyed it at all.
Because there were no servants, the rich people there couldn't even imagine what a good life was.
Thinking of his own origins, Muna suddenly had a vague understanding.
The reason why the chicken coop was not broken into was probably due to caste and family reasons.
Caste is self-evident; his own experience speaks for itself. Family ties, however, further solidify the existence of the chicken coop.
If you want to break out of the chicken coop, you must be prepared to see your family completely destroyed.
His family would be hunted down, beaten, and burned alive by their master, so no one except a twisted psychopath would do that.
Munna walked back through Old Delhi's red-light district.
The women chattered overhead, laughing and taunting him through the bars of the brothel windows.
Muna ignored him, wondering if he had escaped from the chicken coop.
Yes, he is that lucky guy, an extremely rare lucky guy.
He walked on. Outside the gaudy blue gate of the nearby brothel, in a wooden stall, sat a betel nut seller, rubbing the spice with a knife onto wet leaves he had taken from a bowl of water, the first step in making betel nut.
There was another man sitting in the small space beneath his betel nut stand, heating milk in a container beneath which a gas burner hissed with blue flames.
"What's the matter with you? You're going to see a woman."
The pimp grabbed his wrist. The guy was short and had a big nose covered with red warts.
"If you're one of those rich guys who wants foreign chicks, get a Nepali chick. Aren't they beautiful? Just look at them, man!"
He grabbed Muna's chin and forced him to look up, perhaps thinking he was a shy newbie exploring the area for the first time.
The Nepalese girl behind the iron window above is indeed very pretty: she has a light skin and a pair of oriental eyes that drive Indian men crazy.
Muna broke free from the pimp's hand and continued to think with his head down.
"Call them any one! Call them all! Aren't you man enough, man?"
If it were any other time, Muna might not have minded, after all, it wasn't his first time.
But at this point, Muna looked at those women like parrots in a cage, waiting to be ravaged by another animal.
“Chew some betel nut, it can make you erect!” the guy selling betel nut shouted loudly beside the stall.
He lifted a fresh, wet betel leaf and waved it, sending droplets of water flying into Munna's face.
"Have a cup of hot milk, it will help!" The short, shriveled man who was boiling milk below also shouted.
Muna looked at the milk, which was churning and slowly overflowing from the stainless steel pot.
The little, shriveled man laughed and stirred the milk with a spoon. The foam on the milk became thicker and thicker, making a harsh hissing sound.
The chickens in the chicken coop are clucking, making a noisy and unpleasant sound.
Muna rushed towards the betel nut seller, pushed him down from his perch, threw his leaves all over the ground, and kicked over his water.
Then he kicked the dwarf in the face. Screams rang out all around him, and the pimps rushed towards him. Muna slapped them several times and fled down the street.
He returned to the second-hand bookstall, where the atmosphere relaxed him.
The pavements from the Derry Gate to the market in front of the Red Castle were piled with thousands of dirty, tattered, blackened books of all kinds.
Science and technology, medicine, philosophy, education and introductions to foreign countries, some books are so worn out that they break when you touch them, some have bookworms feasting on them, and some look like they were rescued from water or fire.
Most of the shops lining the sidewalk were closed by now, but the restaurants were still open, and the aroma of fried food mixed with the smell of moldy paper.
The rusty blades of the restaurant's exhaust fan turned slowly, like the wings of a giant moth.
Muna walked over to the books and took a deep breath. Compared to the foul air in the flower street, it felt like oxygen.
A large group of book buyers were bargaining fiercely with the bookseller. Muna walked quickly to the books, picked up one and flipped through it until the bookseller shouted, "Do you want to buy that book, or do you want to read it for free?"
"This book is not good." He replied, then put the book down and walked to the next bookstall, picked up a book and continued to read slowly.
He could have flipped through the books for free, without spending a single rupee, and spent the entire night robbing the booksellers one after another!
Some of the books were written in Urdu, the language of the nomads, and were filled with crooked lines and black dots.
As he was looking through one such book, the bookseller said, “Can you read Urdu?”
This is an old herdsman with a dark face covered with sweat, like begonia leaves after rain, and a long gray beard.
"Do you understand?" Muna asked.
He opened the book, cleared his throat, and read aloud, "You have been searching for that key for years. Do you understand?"
He looked at Muna, his dark forehead full of wrinkles.
"I understand, Uncle Nomad."
"Shut up, you liar. And listen to me."
He cleared his throat again.
"You've been searching for the key for years, but the door has always been open!" He closed the book. "That's called poetry."
"Poetry?" A flash of lightning flashed through Muna's mind.
"Get out of here, you bastard." The bookseller drove him away.
Muna didn't care. He just wanted to go back quickly and tell his teacher about his discovery.
But Kishan suddenly came and said, "Sir, Sur sahib has left."
"Gone?"
"Yes, I left Delhi and returned to Bombay. No, I went further south. I heard there was something urgent."
"So urgent?" Muna felt a little regretful.
"Master Suer has such a big business, he must be very busy."
"Did the sir give any instructions?"
"Sul sahib has asked you to return to Uttar Pradesh, sir. There are many things waiting for you in Purvancha district."
"What about the others?"
"No, Master Sule will definitely call you if he has something important to do."
Kishan is just Munna's assistant and has no right to talk to Sur master.
This time, because they were in a hurry, they only spoke a few more words. Kishan was very excited and proud from the bottom of his heart.
In the filthy land, Master Sur's reputation is comparable to that of a god!
Countless people wanted to kneel down and kiss his toes, or even just to look at his face.
Not only did Kishan see it, but Sur sahib even took the initiative to talk to him, which was enough for him to brag about for a while.
Muna sighed. He felt that he had grasped something, and if he had the teacher's guidance, he would understand more.
Forget it, I gained a lot from this trip to New Delhi.
The subsidies he was going to receive were enough for him to do a lot of things in the Pufancha District.
As the leader of the Progressive Party, he is naturally prepared to do something.
Both Yadav and Mayawati are too greedy. They only care about the interests around them and cannot even take care of their own people.
This is wrong. Under the leadership of such politicians, Uttar Pradesh will never be able to get rid of the label of backwardness.
He had imagined countless times what he would do if he were in power.
First of all, there are irrigation canals and smooth roads. Without these two things, the filthy land will never break out of the darkness.
There are hospitals, hospitals with doctors on duty, not empty shell hospitals that throw a roster around and run off to private clinics to make extra money.
Fortunately, thanks to Mr. Sur's intervention, the hospital's problems were resolved. The three large rocks were finally removed, and construction machinery rumbled over.
Muna needs to go back and keep an eye on it, and he also has to realize his own ambitions.
I hope that next time you come back, you will see a completely different Purvancha district, at least in Mirzapur.
Ron left in a hurry because he was urged to leave by Kaavia's call.
Alas, he had been in North India for more than half a year when a lot of trouble started happening in the south.
Not Bombay, but Tamil Nadu, his dear 'Amma'.
Tamil Nadu and Uttar Pradesh both held state elections in 1996.
The election in Uttar Pradesh was settled earlier, around the end of March.
Ron has been consolidating his northern layout over the past two or three months, including personal connections, industrial planning, and intelligence networks in New Delhi.
While he was busy with these things, the general election in Tamil Nadu was in full swing.
The election there begins in mid-April and the outcome is decided by June.
Jayalalithaa suffered a crushing defeat, an unprecedented one.
Of the 186 seats in Tamil Nadu, the AIADMK led by her won only four.
Not even a fraction! Unbelievable!
What’s even more ridiculous is that Jayalalithaa couldn’t even hold on to her own constituency and lost to her DMK opponent.
As the leader of AIADMK and former chief minister, she unexpectedly lost her constituency.
That is like a base camp, the party’s iron vote bank, and there will never be any accidents there.
For example, Muna's Progressive Party, his constituency is Mirzapur North, the area around the cement factory and Khanna village.
How could we lose in such a chosen place?
The same is true for Yadavs and Dalit women. Their constituencies are either their birthplaces or the cities where they studied, and they are all closely related.
Regardless of the voting results, their constituency results will not change.
Jayalalithaa was even more disappointed, as she lost even her own base.
Ron had a headache, he knew there would be a lot of trouble ahead.
(End of this chapter)
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