Means to the Ends

by Francine L (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find India

"67.5 RUPEE to USD," beckoned a sign. I pull up my phone, googling the exchange rate, checking the deal. “66 RUPEE to 1 USD". The sign wasn’t updated. I walk into the small kiosk, capitalizing the offer before someone adjusted the mistake. *** I thumbed through the cash. The notes looked legitimate, the rate as advertised. "So, I don't know anything about trading currency," I say, hoping to coax a response if I appeared friendly enough, "How do you make money giving me a better rate than the market?" He smiles appreciatingly at the observation, drawing a slow breath from his cigarette. "You want to know how I make money selling currency?" Smoke begins to fill the space between us. "I'll tell you." * * * Let me fast forward to our third meeting. It’s significant. It’s when I notice the shelves are dotted with homemade kombucha, tofu, and dried mushrooms—testaments to the man’s earthy hobbies outside of this money business. It’s when I learned he hoped to provide healthier food for himself and his village. He envisioned an off-grid community living from the land, liberated from hunger and poverty. “India is poor and corrupt. Look at the food we eat, the air we breathe. Nature has many gifts. We can be healthy and free.” I thought about the tomatoes I grew once. I asked what he needed to make this vision happen. “More money,” he replies, a man of few and concise words. A drag on the cigarette allows a moment of pensiveness. “In a few years, I'll have enough.” * * * We’re back in our first meeting. I’m sitting patiently in the small kiosk made for two. He barks out a name, and from a back door emerges a younger, skinnier man. Words are said in tones I don’t understand. Something about tofu, while boss man gestures towards me. The younger man nods, disappearing behind the door. I think I’m about to receive a gift from my new host. I’m uncertain if I’ll like it. But I’ll stay for the story. The man inhales from his cigarette. “Are you in a rush?” he asks. I pause to consider. It’s daylight, and the kiosk is on a main, public road. “No,” I say. Don’t fidget, I think to myself. Shows weakness. A plate of tofu arrives. It’s homemade. This seems to be a necessary precursor. I oblige. “Do you like it?” I shrug. “It’s pretty good,” I say. A suave performer, who holds his audience captive. He takes his time. A cloud of smoke dissolves. "I sell the notes on the black market." I try to process what this means. How this works. Unmoved, I ask, “why do people buy notes on the black market?” A subject I have utterly no knowledge in. "Immigrants, travelers, and the wealthy move to another country for a new life. They want more currency than they're allowed to carry. So the black market gives them the money.” An exhale. “I don't report my business to the government, so I don't pay taxes. They don't pay fees, and you don't pay fees. Everybody wins," he smiles cooly, before adding, "the government never helped me with anything. Why should I give them money?" I sit back, speculating on the model. It seems to add up. He laughs. "Keep looking at me that way, and I'll fall in love with you." He puffs from his cigarette. It’s time for this little fawn to go. I clasp my hands together and bow my head, acknowledging his company. His gaze understands and follows my departure. “Darling, we met for a reason. The universe makes no mistakes.”