Where Angels Prey

by Ramesh S Arunachalam

  As the two wait in the anteroom to the CM’s office, MR points to the files that Rashid is carrying.

  “I hope you are carrying documentary proof of one or two of these MFI-related suicide cases?”

  “Yes, sir. There is information on as many as seven of them here.”

  MR nods as they wait to be summoned in. He hopes the documentary evidence will convince the CM of the need for urgent action.

  Rashid starts flipping through his papers like a student outside an examination hall. MR can’t help but feel somewhat amused at his junior colleague’s obvious nervousness.

  Just then, the door opens and the CM’s private secretary beckons them to enter.

  Rashid jumps, almost dropping the file in a hurry. MR gives him a calming look before walking into the room.

  The CM and his cabinet colleague, the Rural Development Minister, are already seated. The officials greet them with the customary deference before gratefully taking their seats.

  The CM, a former footballer, is of athletic build. The rural development minister, who belongs to the moneylender community, is prosperously plump.

  “How did things turn so bad all of a sudden? Why was the administration at the ground level not alert to the goings on?” asks the CM.

  “Sir, it is obviously not an overnight phenomenon. The MFIs’ activities have clearly gone unchecked for some time now, thanks to the perception that they are our partners in change.”

  The CM is perceptibly disturbed.

  “I understand that development initiatives need to be able to sustain themselves. But growing at the cost of the very lives that they swore to better?”

  MR is only too aware of the CM’s way with words. That and his oratory skills have won him both hearts and votes in the last thirty years of his political career.

  “True, sir. The situation is quite grim and getting worse as we speak. And of course the Maoist threat is only compounding it.”

  The CM glances at MR at the mention of the Maoists. He knows of his history with them. MR was among the seven officers kidnapped by Maoists while visiting a village in their stronghold territory where a dam was to be constructed. He had successfully negotiated their freedom, with some help from the government, of course, but was since identified as someone who had some influence with them. In fact, writing a book on the incident was on MR’s post-retirement agenda, but that would have to wait for another three years.

  “So what are we going to do about them? And I mean the suicides, of course.”

  MR looks up as the CM shoots the question at him. Nodding his head, he points to Rashid.

  “Sir, Rashid will apprise you of the situation first. He has prepared detailed case studies of the seven suicides triggered by the actions of the MFIs. He is ready with a presentation.”

  Rashid is taken aback. He had thought he would be required to chip in with a few odd statistics here and there. He never expected to have to make a presentation!

  “Sir...that is...the situation is very grim, sir.”

  The CM cuts in rather abruptly.

  “I don’t think we have time for long stories. Keep it quick and short. We need to be looking at corrective actions.”

  Rashid is half relieved that he will not be expected to expound at length.

  “Sir, nine people have died in Warangal and Ranga Reddy districts due to harassment by MFI agents.”

  The Rural Development Minister decides to offer an opinion.

  “These MFIs are like leeches that bleed people dry. First, they over-lend and then they arm-twist people into repaying the loans at really high rates of interest. They even put my moneylending caste to shame!”

  The CM is not particularly impressed by the minister’s efforts to seek brownie points for his caste. But when caste and coalitions are what help governments in India stay in power, it is important to ignore irrelevant details.

  “Looks like the government and the Maoists are fighting the same evil for a change, eh Marutigaru?”

  The CM looks at MR with a half-smile. MR nods, fully aware that the CM is trying to test his allegiance. Who is he to disappoint him?

  “Indeed sir! The Maoists have a history of locking horns with informal financiers. That was made amply clear to us all those years ago when they took us captive at Gurtedu. But of course, the onus is now ours.”

  The CM acknowledges this with a nod before gesturing to Rashid to continue.

  “Sir, in almost all the cases, there has been an instance of over and multiple lending, There has been indiscriminate lending and gross violations of all ground-level procedures, sir.”

  The CM turns to MR.

  “I want a report from across the state. Get your teams in all the districts to file a report on all such instances within their purview within the next 48 hours.”

  He turns back to Rashid.

  “I want TERP to come up with a comprehensive report on the causes of the suicides.”

  He finally turns to his cabinet colleague to issue another set of directives.

  “Consult with the Ministry of Law on the status of the existing laws that apply to MFIs. Get hold of the Memorandum and Articles for some of these MFIs and have our legal experts study them. Talk to the Federal Banking Regulator and see what they advise on treating the MFIs as common moneylenders under these circumstances.”

  He returns his attention to MR.

  “About this threat...have they targeted the MFIs directly? Or are they reserving all their ire for the government?”

  “Sir, they have issued a direct threat to them. Here, I have a copy of a newspaper report on it.”

  SHUT SHOP IN VILLAGES, MAOISTS TELL MFIs

  ENN Sep 23, 2010, 03.33am IST

  WARANGAL: Taking a tough stand against micro finance institutions (MFIs), the Maoists have asked MFI managements to close their operations in villages immediately in the wake of series of suicides by women. Maoist party KKW (Karim-nagar-Khammam-Warangal) Secretary Sudhakar warned MFIs of dire consequences if they do not shut shop. In a statement here on Friday, he said agents and representatives of MFIs are humiliating rural women and insulting their family members because of which several villagers have committed suicide.

  He also warned SAMMAAN Microfinance Chief Prasad Kamineni, owners of DevEx, Asshray and Sowmya, of serious consequences as “they are responsible for the spate of suicides in the state,” he said in the statement.

  Sudhakar said the government should grant five acres of agricultural land, an ex gratia of Rs 5 lakhs, and employment for one member of the families of the deceased.

  Making an appeal to the youth and women associations to fight against the fast-mushrooming MFI branches in the state, he said the government must take necessary steps to cancel the licences of these MFIs. Sudhakar warned MFIs about their anti-people policies. “If you do not change your attitude, we will teach you a fitting lesson,” he stated.

  Meanwhile, four Maoists have been arrested in Moran-chapalle village in Bhupalapalle mandal. They were nabbed from the forest area. Fourteen country-made rifles have been recovered from them.

  The CM seems perturbed as he scans the report.

  “Have you alerted the police and the home ministry on this? We need to provide the MFIs security whatever be their crimes.”

  The CM closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “And keep the media at bay until we come up with a plan of action.”

  CHAPTER 7

  PADERU VILLAGE, ANDHRA PRADESH,

  24 SEPTEMBER 2010

  “It is even being said that some MFI bosses have hired private security guards to protect them from the ire of their clientele. The incident at the offices of SAMMAAN and the subsequent threat by the Maoists has the sector truly shaken up. Once regarded as a gold mine, it is now a hornet’s nest that the recent spate of suicides has stirred up. This is Bhagyaraj S. reporting for Zion TV from Warangal.” Chandresh Rajan stubs his cigarette into the chipped coffee cup being used
as an ashtray. He picks up the remote lying on the table and cuts the anchor short as she launches into a story on factional fighting in the ruling party. It will be another couple of hours before his escort arrives; for now, the dingy walls of his hotel room seem to be closing in on him. He remembers spotting a small tea shop down the road. The idea of a cup of tea is appealing to him.

  As he steps out of the spartan building, he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the pristine air of the hills. It feels good to be inhaling something other than diesel fumes and the stench of rotting garbage or human waste. There are hardly half a dozen people on the road, four of them on foot and two on cycles. They eye him suspiciously. Despite his inconspicuous personality, they clearly identify him as an outsider. Strangers are not greeted warmly in these parts. One can hardly blame the locals, though, for such has been their experience.

  Paderu, a remote village in the hills of Vizag, a district of coastal Andhra, is Maoist heartland, after all. A part of the Dandakaranya region spreads across Andhra Pradesh, Chhattisgarh and Orissa, and Paderu has a significant tribal population. A significant raison d’être for the Maoist movement is the exploitation of tribal resources by the political class. It is to speak to one of the Maoist leaders that Chandresh is here in Paderu. After years of working for a leading publication in the country, he is now a syndicated columnist focusing on development and grassroots issues.

  As Chandresh walks towards the tea shop, his mind goes back to the news report that he just caught on TV. Clearly the issue is erupting and in a big way. What is surprising is that it has taken so long for the can of worms to open. He had written an article almost a year ago indicating that the growth of the sector was more a matter of concern than celebration, since it was happening at the cost of the very clientele it had sworn to serve. In fact, infamy and the sector were no strangers to each other. Less than five years ago, a tussle between two competing MFIs had thrown up a stench so strong that a magisterial enquiry had been ordered. What was happening today was the same in many ways and yet had a whole new dimension to it, in the form of commercial and foreign capital.

  Chandresh is so caught up in his thoughts that he ends up walking past the tea shop before realization strikes. He retraces his steps and slumps on a bench outside the tea shop.

  “One chai please...and make it double strong!”

  The shop owner nods as he pumps the kerosene stove hard, to get it to burn better. He does not appear inclined to chat, quite uncommon given that tea shop owners are quite often a great source of village gossip. Like before, Chandresh recognizes this as a peculiarity of the territory they are in. The tea shop owner makes a froth on top that would put a barista from Starbucks to shame, by pouring one cup of tea into another—the further apart he spreads his arms, the better the froth.

  The tea arrives, piping hot and with a lovely aroma. Chandresh sighs in appreciation after the first sip. It is so different from the tea you find in tea shops in the city, so much better than the weak tea that he is forced to sip at fancy five-star hotels, while attending seminars and the like.

  Chandresh’s gaze wanders around, looking for interesting sights the details of which he could incorporate in his column. He spots an old man sitting on a bench placed just a few feet away from the tea shop, quietly sipping his tea and trying to look inconspicuous. However, almost every passerby greets him respectfully, indicating that he is a man of some local repute.

  The man’s face is deeply tanned and wrinkled, bearing testimony to long years of hard living. His eyes are deep-set and penetrating. He looks up for a moment and catches Chandresh looking at him. He reciprocates with a long measured look of his own. Chandresh, who has met more than his share of intimidating personalities in the course of his career, is not one to be easily disconcerted. Yet, he is the first to avert his eyes, feeling almost guilty for having invaded the man’s private space, even while the journalist in him feels compelled to reach out and speak to the man, to know the stories hidden in the depths of those sunken eyes. He pays for the tea and a handful of nuts wrapped in a paper cone, before walking toward the old man.

  The bench is placed to the right of the shack that houses the tea shop. Chandresh greets the old man politely before looking ahead at the majestic view that the spot affords. The sky is painted in shades of blue and white and the sun’s warmth is a benign grace that offers protection against the nip in the air.

  Chandresh rummages through his pockets for his pack of cigarettes when a thought strikes him.

  “Could I bum a cigarette off you, please?”

  It was a clichéd opening gambit but he couldn’t think of anything better.

  The old man looks at him in amusement.

  “Do I look like a man who smokes the expensive brands that you city folk patronize?”

  Chandresh shakes his head hurriedly.

  “A beedi would do just as well. I am not particular!”

  The old man gives him a knowing look before pulling out a beedi from a roll tucked away in the upper folds of his faded dhoti.

  He lights it with his own before passing it on to Chandresh.

  Chandresh thanks the man before drawing on the beedi, relishing its unrefined flavour for a change.

  “So, what are you nosing around here for?”

  The old man clearly believes in getting to the point!

  Chandresh decides that being honest and upfront will have the best pay-offs under the circumstances.

  “My name is Chandresh Rajan. I am a journalist and I write on serious social and development issues, focusing on the marginalized communities in particular.”

  The old man stares into Chandresh’s eyes as he comments bluntly.

  “You probably get paid well for your efforts and maybe get some awards even. Not much comfort for the people whose miseries you bare in print!”

  Chandresh realizes that he will have to earn the man’s respect if he hopes to get him to speak.

  “They would have no comfort even otherwise. I am not saying that I have achieved very much but please give me credit at least for the effort.”

  The man looks at him thoughtfully before giving a small nod.

  “It is the way I earn a living. So yes, I do get paid decent if not great money. And yes, it does feel good when my efforts are recognized. But in the process, along with my efforts, I am hoping the issues that I write about also get noticed.”

  Chandresh wonders if his justifications are meant to appease the old man or reassure himself. He does, in fact, often have moments of self-doubt, when his efforts seem futile and even selfish, but none had managed to veer him off course yet.

  “So, are you here to do a story on the movement?”

  Chandresh’s thoughts are broken by the old man’s question.

  He nods in assent before clarifying.

  “Yes, I am, in fact, waiting for Murthy, the local fertilizer agent, to escort me to meet the leadership.”

  The old man’s prickly stance seems to soften just a bit. Clearly, the fact that he has earned the trust of the leadership enough to be granted an interview counts for something.

  “What if I told you I was once part of a dalam3 too? That I was with none other than Chotanna!”

  Chandresh is a bit startled. Chotanna is a local Maoist legend, a folk hero, almost, in these parts. A high profile leader of the Maoist movement in Andhra Pradesh, he used to be a follower of Kondapalli Sitaramiah, one of India’s best known Communist ideologues. Chotanna’s heroics—before he was shot dead by the police in the late 1990s—had reams of newsprint devoted to them.

  “I am sure you weren’t a reporter already by then. But have you heard of the Gurtedu kidnappings?”

  Chandresh nods vigorously. The old man is referring to an incident that occurred almost three decades ago. The Maoists had daringly kidnapped a contingent of government officials who were on a site visit to inspect the check dam that had been built at Bodlanka, a small village on the Rampachodavaram hills in the East Godav
ari district of Andhra Pradesh.

  “Of course I have, sir. I even know one of the IAS officers from the contingent that was kidnapped!”

  “Yes, some of them must hold senior positions in the government now.”

  By mutual, unspoken consent, neither of them takes names.

  “It was the winter of 1987 and I was part of Chottanna’s dalam in Maredumilli in Rampachodavaram. We heard that a big contingent of government officials were to visit Bodlanka. I don’t know if you have been there but Bodlanka is a beautiful village, as beautiful as its tribal inhabitants. We planned on making a strike.”

  The old man pauses to take a breath. The word strike confuses Chandresh.

  “So, was the plan to kill them all? Did you have to change your plans and kidnap them instead?”

  “No, their deaths would not have served our purpose. They were to be held hostage, in return for the release of our comrades who were imprisoned for having murdered money-lending rogues who were exploiting the poor.”

  Chandresh cannot help but think that the issue has remained the same over time, with only the exploitative elements acquiring a different form.

  “Bodlanka used to be no man’s land and no officer worth his name would ever attempt to visit this deeply inaccessible place for fear of us Annas, or Maoists as we are called by the outsiders. But some foolhardy officers decided to test the waters and we kidnapped them all in Gurtedu.”

  “So, were you successful in achieving your objective?”

  The old man wears an expression of deep pride as he nods. His eyes twinkle as he recalls the satisfaction they derived from their success.

  “We got 13 of our comrades released in exchange for the lives of seven officers—brave men who had, between them, liquidated at least 27 moneylenders who had been exploiting and harassing the tribals in the Maredumilli area. In the time that they stayed with us, we worked on sensitizing the officers on the havoc that the moneylenders had caused. I think we succeeded because a few of them carried forth our message to the people at large!”