In a back alley of Delhi's Connaught Place, there is a chaiwala. I do not remember his name. What I do remember is the dented angle of his nickel-silver pot, the direction his wrist would tilt as he poured the milk, and the smile he gave instead of change after receiving 15 rupees for a cup of chai.

Narendra Modi was once such a person. A boy selling chai on the platform of Vadnagar Station. Modi cherishes this fact. He brings it up at every election, speaks of it tearfully at rallies, and has successfully made chaiwalas across India identify with him. The narrative of rising from a chaiwala to prime minister is India's version of the American Dream, and it has truly made hundreds of millions of hearts flutter.

But the reality was different.

That chaiwala in the back alley of Connaught Place will likely never become prime minister. He will continue to sell 15-rupee chai. If he has a son, that son will also sell chai or, if lucky, become an Uber driver. In Modi's India, the GDP has risen to the fourth largest in the world. The number of digital payments through the Unified Payments Interface (UPI) has exceeded 228 billion annually, a system the world envies. India has even sent a probe to the moon. Yet, that chaiwala's daily life hasn't changed much.

This is the story I want to leave behind as I close this book.

There is one thing I've learned from visiting India for over twenty years: the more you know about India, the faster the things you don't know grow. The same is true of Modi. Over ten chapters, this book has traced one man's trajectory, but to be honest, there are still things that remain elusive.

We don't know what he saw or felt during the 2002 Gujarat riots. The courts cleared him of charges, while his opponents call him an accomplice to a massacre. The truth likely lies somewhere in between, but exactly where that 'somewhere' is, only Modi himself might know. Perhaps even he doesn't know. When power lasts a long time, memories are edited. This is not a story unique to India.

Similar things have happened in Korea—in Gwangju, Yongsan, and with the Sewol ferry. For decades, we have argued over what the state did and did not do. So, instead of passing judgment on Modi, I decided to leave behind questions. I believe that is a more honest stance.

In Seoul, if you go to Itaewon, you'll find Indian restaurants. There are others in the alleys of Haebangchon and near Dongdaemun. Order curry, and you get naan; order lassi, and you get mango lassi. Koreans eat "India" there. It's delicious, and the atmosphere is nice.

But have you ever asked the Indian chef standing in that kitchen where his hometown is? What caste he belongs to, why he came to Korea, whether he supports Modi, or where his family is? Most likely, you haven't. For a long time, neither did I.

Just as travel is not a greenhouse that grows only joy, understanding a country is not completed with a single plate of curry. If this book has conveyed even a little of the complex circumstances of the 1.4 billion people beyond that plate of curry, then it has served its purpose.

One more thing. Regarding the relationship between Korea and India.

Diplomats call it a "Special Strategic Partnership." Samsung built the world's largest smartphone factory in Noida, and Hyundai Motor recorded the largest IPO in the history of the Indian stock market. There are 15 million Indian youths who sing along to BTS, and Korea's favorability rating is reportedly the second highest in the world. Looking only at the numbers, the future looks rosy.

But I am reminded of the face of an Indian laborer I met near a Korean factory on the outskirts of Chennai. He said he was proud to work for a Korean company—that his salary was three times what he earned at his previous job. At the same time, he mentioned that the power goes out three or four times a day, the drinking water is poor, and he feels hurt when Korean managers occasionally yell at him. He said this with a smile. Most Indians do that. They smile even while expressing grievances. You could read that smile as optimism, or you could read it as resignation.

The story of Queen Heo Hwang-ok existing between Korea and India 2,000 years ago is beautiful—the legend of her traveling by boat from Ayuta to Gimhae. Prime Minister Modi brings this up every time he visits Korea. President Park Geun-hye mentioned it, as did President Moon Jae-in. This story is never missed when the leaders of the two countries meet. It's not a bad thing for a legend to become diplomatic lubricant. However, an engine does not run on lubricant alone.

The real engine is that worker in the Chennai factory, the assembly line in the Noida plant, the twenty-year-old student learning Korean at Delhi University, and the shop owner selling Indian groceries in Daerim-dong, Seoul. It is the accumulation of these people's daily lives that forms the relationship between the two nations. Their days are more important than photos of summit meetings.

And we must remember that India's trajectory is not a straight line. In April 2025, gunshots were fired at tourists in Pahalgam, Kashmir. Military tensions soared between India and Pakistan. The two nuclear-armed nations remained in a standoff at the border. The upward curve created by the world's fourth-largest GDP and successful moon exploration can be shaken by a single gunshot. To understand India is to understand its vulnerabilities as well.

Modi speaks of 2047. The 100th anniversary of independence. Entering the ranks of developed nations. Viksit Bharat. It is a grand vision. By then, Modi will be 97 years old. He may or may not be alive. But India will be there. A country where 1.4 billion people wake up in the morning to brew chai, take the train, go to work, and in the evening, tear into roti while watching a cricket match. Whether Modi is there or not, that daily life will continue.

The same is true for Korea. Even when presidents change, regimes shift, and at times the entire nation seems to tremble, people go to work in the morning and return home in the evening. They order fried chicken and tuck their children into bed. That is how a state endures. It is not the vision of a great leader, but the repeated daily lives of nameless people that sustain a nation.

So this book, in the end, is a story about one man and yet not a story about one man. It was a look at a nation of 1.4 billion people through the lens of Modi, and through that nation, a reflection on ourselves. We reflected India in the mirror of Korea, and Korea in the mirror of India. The image in the mirror is not always pretty. But it is better than not looking in the mirror at all.

Finally, let me tell one more story about chai.

In India, there are still places where chai is served not in paper cups, but in small earthenware cups called kulhads. After a sip or two, you set the cup down on the ground. Because it is earthenware, it breaks. That is the etiquette: never to reuse a cup that has touched another person's lips. Some call this a remnant of the caste system. Some call it a sense of hygiene. Others call it simply tradition.

I liked the sound of those kulhads breaking. A small, dry sound. The sound that something has ended. This book ends here as well.

Once you have finished reading, you may set down the cup. The next time you visit an Indian restaurant, try ordering a cup of chai. And take a look at the face of the person who made it. From there begins the first step toward understanding a nation of 1.4 billion.