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instead, and labelled it as jute? It is jute after all.’
    ‘But sir, who’ll buy rubbish from us?’
    ‘I will.’
    ‘What exactly do you suggest, sir?’
    ‘What if we get Agrawal Hong Kong to buy your rubbish? You could buy jute waste here in India—which costs virtually nothing—and sell it to our own foreign subsidiary as jute.’
    ‘But the profit will be fictitious. Our Indian arm would show a profit while the foreign arm would show a loss. It would still be a zero-sum game.’
    ‘Not really, munimji. The government is offering import licences of equal value as incentives if we export the stuff. We may not necessarily make money on the transaction but we’ll rake it in with the premium on the import licences!’
    Gangasagar vowed to himself that he would work overtime to acquire the raw cunning of his mentor.

    One morning, Agarwalji was taking a walk. His usual route went by his office. It was a cold wintry dawn and most of Kanpur was still asleep. The security guard outside saluted smartly as his boss strode towards him.
    ‘ Ram Ram , saheb ,’ he said.
    ‘Ram Ram, Gauriprasad,’ said Agrawalji. ‘Why are the lights on in the office? Who could possibly be inside at this hour?’
    ‘Gangasagarji switched them on,’ said the guard.
    ‘Gangasagar comes to the office so early in the morning?’ asked the incredulous Agrawalji.
    ‘No, saheb. On most days he doesn’t come in early,’ answered Gauriprasad.
    ‘Good! He has a mother and two sisters at home. He ought to spend some time with them, too,’ said Agrawalji.
    ‘No, no, saheb. He doesn’t come in early on most days because he doesn’t leave the office on most nights.’

    Gangasagar was with his boss in his office, discussing an idea. Agrawalji always had profitable ideas, the latest one revolving around gold. The Second World War had concluded and Agrawalji had reason for optimism.
    ‘The American dollar has always been linked to the value of gold. Till recently, a troy ounce of gold was worth twenty dollars, but the recent world war has changed all that. The dollar has now been devalued and the price of one troy ounce is now thirty-five dollars,’ said Agrawalji.
    ‘So?’ asked Gangasagar.
    ‘What it means, Gangasagar, is that a dollar is worth one-thirty-fifth of an ounce of gold.’
    ‘How’s that an opportunity?’
    ‘Even though the American government has pegged the value of the dollar to gold, the intrinsic value of the dollar will continue to fall as they print more money to finance the war deficit.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘And as the intrinsic value of the dollar falls, the intrinsic value of gold must increase.’
    ‘So there’s an opportunity in this?’
    ‘Not just an opportunity—an arbitrage opportunity!’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘Simple. If I own a dollar, I should be able to exchange it for one-thirty-fifth of an ounce of gold, right?’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘But the value of that fraction of an ounce of gold is intrinsically much more than the value of the dollar, right?’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘So, if we keep buying dollars and selling them in exchange for the official gold value, what happens?’
    ‘We’re in profit?’
    ‘Right. So what are you waiting for?’
    Agrawalji earned his company millions by arbitraging the dollar against gold. Gangasagar watched, listened and absorbed.

    On another occasion it was cotton-trading. India had gained its independence from the British a few years earlier and a new government was running things.
    ‘The new industries minister plans to nationalise textile mills,’ said Agrawalji casually one day.
    ‘We’re not affected. We’re traders, not textile manufacturers,’ replied Gangasagar cautiously.
    ‘You’re wrong, it does affect us. The industry will go into a slump.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘The price of cotton will fall.’
    ‘And how does this concern us?’
    ‘Short-sell cotton.’
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘Sell cotton today and buy it later at a lower price.’
    ‘But if