Chapter 4: The Price of Curiosity
The night after finishing the tattoo, my uncle-master, Uncle Mo, came to see me.
He was a regular at my shop—thick moustache, paan-stained lips, the smell of Old Monk always clinging to his clothes. When he showed up that night, I knew this wasn’t just a social call.
He’d been Arjun’s personal tattoo artist, the one who inked all of Arjun’s women.
In our line, you hear stories—Arjun and his endless string of girlfriends, each with their own tattoo. Uncle Mo had been the craftsman behind all that. It was almost a badge of honour in Mumbai’s underbelly.
The women around Arjun were countless, changing like scenes in a baraat. Uncle Mo used to joke, "Beta, Arjun’s love is like shaadi ka procession—never ends, always new faces, all wanting something special to show off." But tonight, that sparkle was gone from his eyes.
"If I hadn’t drunk so much these past two years and gotten shaky hands, this job wouldn’t have landed on you."
I quickly made chai, poured him a cup, and nodded. In our world, sharing chai is loyalty. He sipped slowly, as if bracing himself for something he didn’t want to say.
"Remember, keep your mouth shut. There’ll be plenty of chances to make money in the future."
His warning was clear, but not new. Mumbai runs on secrets—everyone knows when to keep lips zipped. Still, a shiver ran down my spine.
I took the chance to ask Uncle Mo about the tattoo I’d done that afternoon. It looked sinister.
I kept my voice low, like asking about a neighbor’s family fight—curious, but pretending it’s none of your business.
Uncle Mo was stunned for a moment and said, "It’s for attracting wealth. Don’t ask too much, just do the tattoo. The young prince doesn’t like curious people."
He looked away as he said it, tapping the rim of his cup. Something in his tone told me he didn’t believe his own words.
But what happened later proved it was clearly not just about attracting wealth.
In Mumbai, money always comes tangled with something darker. I should have listened to my gut.