“It’s okay. Just take a deep breath to calm yourself.”
The cook had entered with a bottle of water and Vijaya quickly gulped the contents.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Vijaya shook her head vehemently.
Veena motioned for the cook to leave before turning to Vijaya, looking at her intently.
“Why do I get the feeling I have seen you somewhere?”
Vijaya was taken aback. She had been on the fringes of the crowd that had gathered around Gomti’s house when Veena had come visiting. Veena had spent almost an hour talking to Gomti’s daughter, Varalakshmi, one of the two abducted girls. The crowd had listened spellbound as she gently assured the girl and her mother of support and protection from the administration. It was the manner in which she spoke to them that had convinced Vijaya to seek her help.
“Amma, you had come to our Parichemam village...to meet Varalakshmi.”
“Wait, weren’t you the woman who kept ducking every time you caught my eye?”
Vijaya squirmed in her seat as she realized that her attempts to avoid being noticed had resulted in the reverse. Not that it mattered now.
“Amma, please help me...my children need their father!”
Vijaya poured her heart out to her. Her unhappy and abusive marriage and their four children, Ramaiyya’ history and how he had never paid heed to her fervent pleas to give up his violent ways for the sake of the children, the fact that Ramaiyya had been working closely with Chiranjeevi and his relative, who had spearheaded the SAMMAAN operations in the area and was responsible for many cases of kidnapping and extortion, including the latest kidnapping of the two girls from Parichemam. She begged Veena to grant her husband a pardon, and promised that he’d surrender himself and offer to turn witness to prove the coercive
tactics adopted by SAMMAAN.
Veena listened patiently before finally telling Vijaya that Ramaiyya would have to face punishment for his actions. However, if he did turn witness, she could request the authorities to take a slightly more lenient view of his actions. She promised Vijaya to help with their children’s education.
Vijaya fell at her feet again to thank her for her generosity and kindness.
Ramaiyya feels a nagging headache coming on as his wife continues to sing the DM’s praises. He resists a strong urge to wring her neck, just to make her stop. She seems to have developed some connections that might just come in handy. “I need some time to think.”
Vijaya looks at him like he is a mad man.
“Are you crazy? There is no more time to think. You don’t have any other option!”
Ramaiyya gnashes his teeth. The woman is clearly feeling bold after her tryst with the DM.
“Don’t tell me what I have and what I don’t. I have listened patiently to all that you have had to say. Now I need time to think and make my decision. Even if you run the family, I am still the man of the house!”
Ramaiyya pulls out the bundle of beedis tucked into his waistband. There is only one left. He curses under his breath.
“Get me a bundle of beedis,” he says, pushing Vijaya away. “I need tobacco to kick-start my brain.”
She looks at him beseechingly.
“I beg of you! Come with me to the DM now. She will keep you safe.”
“Scoot now before I give you another blow!”
She leaves reluctantly, repeatedly turning back to look at him pleadingly.
Ramaiyya wonders if the woman has a point after all. It might be his best option, even if for a while.
CHAPTER 11
GUDIPADA VILLAGE (NEAR GANDHIPURA),
3 OCTOBER 2010
Bob’s eyes keep straying towards the ceiling—at least a dozen times in the hour they have spent in the tiny house. His distracted behaviour can be blamed only in part on the fact that the conversation happening around him is in an alien language. He cannot shy away from the fact that he is in the grip of morbid fascination. He is, after all, sitting under the very same roof that a poor woman had hung herself from less than a month ago. All because Mylaram Kavala had not been able to repay a debt that ran into a few hundred dollars. Paradoxically, she had been one of the beneficiaries of what Wall Street considered a gilt-edged investment. Over 800 million dollars had been poured into an industry that the investor community thrived on even as recession broke the backbone of the world economy. And yet it was also what killed Mylaram Kavala, or at least that is what her daughter, Kala believed. Bob wonders if he is being a tad too melodramatic. Even so, there is no escaping from the truth behind the almost poignant display of emotion that they have just witnessed. The microfinance industry had indeed killed Mylaram Kavala. It kept pressing loan after loan into her hands, with hardly any thought to her capacity to absorb or repay. As it had done with numerous other women like her, if their research over the last few days was anything to go by.
Bob cannot help feeling shocked as he recalls the sheer impunity with which rules appear to have been flouted across institutions. When they had left Hyderabad in the rented SUV, Chandresh had suggested sampling the operations of SAMMAAN, DevEx, Aashray and Sowmya, the four major microfinance institutions in Andhra Pradesh across the districts of Ranga Reddy, Mehboob Nagar, Medak, Warangal, Krishna and Guntur. Since the highest number of suicides had been reported from Ranga Reddy district, they had decided to begin their research there. Despite Prasad Kamineni’s smooth assurances, Bob had observed that the branch officers at SAMMAAN and the field-level staff were not too eager to share information. While there was no open hostility, he had observed a marked reluctance to share records, a tendency to obfuscate or gloss over details whenever Chandresh pointed out or questioned any discrepancies or lack of information. Despite the language barrier that made Bob rely heavily on Chandresh, it had not been impossible for him to see through their avoidance tactics and shifty body language.
Every such visit confirmed their niggling suspicions; in fact, things turned out to be much worse than they had imagined. It soon became obvious that SAMMAAN was not alone in its methods. There were definite trends across institutions indicating a broader malaise that affected the sector as a whole.
Chandresh had shared with Bob that he had been hearing rumbles from the ground for some time now. It had seemed to Chandresh that the microfinance industry in the state was headed for yet another fall, the triggers for which had been the consequences of the 2006 Krishna crisis. The drying up of funds from public sector sources after the Krishna crisis had resulted in the industry turning heavily towards the profit motive-driven private sector. The resultant emphasis on bottom lines and profits had seen the MFIs violate their very founding principle, which was to ensure access to affordable finance for the poor.
Bob, in turn, spoke of his own initial reservations about the industry’s fairytale growth story. An industry with a self-proclaimed commitment to poverty alleviation boasted of a phenomenal growth rate at a time when the world economy had been in the throes of recession. Global investors flocked to it like bees to a honey pot, keen to invest in what they perceived as low on risk and high on returns, with a social sector tag to boot.
The discrepancies between the records and ground level realities were damning, to say the least. Bob had been prepared for some margin of error but what they uncovered was way beyond acceptable levels. Even while acknowledging that he probably had a developed nation or a Western world bias, Bob believed India to be a land where people had scant respect for the written law and found ways to bend, if not flout, rules to suit their interests. Since the unwritten law was to break the law, no one even batted an eyelid at any such instances. And yet, the degree of discrepancy or falsification of records observed on the ground during the field visits was indeed staggering. Almost every branch of every organization that they visited seemed to have ghost clients in their books of accounts. When Bob and Chandresh ventured into the villages, they found that the women named in the books either simply did not exist or had been long dead. In
one of those instances, the SAMMAAN agent accompanying them even tried to cook up a story about initials being mistakenly interchanged, to cover their tracks. She then produced a woman who she claimed was the person named in the books. The fraud was uncovered soon enough when another MFI, Aashray, produced the same woman as their client, albeit under a different name. In another instance, while the MFI representative claimed that a client was recently deceased, her family revealed that she had been dead for more than five years. It became obvious that loans were being issued in the name of a dead woman and her family was certainly not the beneficiary.
There was also the matter of multiple lending. Almost all of the MFIs operating in a village had lent to the same clients concurrently without a thought to their credit absorption or repayment capacity, a blatant violation of the norms established by the Federal Banking Regulator. Bob and Chandresh found that the MFIs had been colluding among themselves and had even charted schedules for village visits, allotting specific days of the week to each of them so as to avoid any clashes. Later, of course, they would be unsparing in their efforts to recover their loan instalments, pushing their clients up against the wall or, in extreme cases like Mylaram Kavala’s, to hang from the roofs of their homes.
“They would often tell her that she should make better use of her daughters!”
Bob’s reverie is broken by Chandresh’s harsh words.
Mylaram’s younger daughter is sobbing softly, while the older one seems too weary for even that. She leans against a wall, her eyes vacant, drained of all emotion.
Bob turns to Chandresh.
“Chan, is she hinting at threats of sexual abuse?”
Chandresh nods grimly.
“Yeah Bob, she is. Maybe Mylaram thought they might act on their threats someday. Maybe she thought she was saving them from harm by killing herself.”
Bob exhales roughly.
“She might have well made them more vulnerable. Do they have any other family? Where will these girls go? What will they do now?”
Chandresh gets up abruptly.
“I think we are done here, Bob. Let’s get going.”
Not quite used to squatting on the floor, Bob struggles to raise himself and takes Chandresh’s outstretched hand.
“We don’t have any pictures of hers to give out. You can click one if you like.”
Kala points to the photograph that hangs on the wall. The garland of flowers around it is a few days old. All that remains is a sorry looking string with a few stubborn flowers that refuse to fall off, even though they are long dead. The woman in the photograph is of indefinite age and so is the expression on her face.
“Would you mind posing beside it?”
Chandresh translates Bob’s request for the benefit of the girls before stepping out of the house.
The older daughter positions herself next to the picture and continues to stare at them vacantly. The younger one wipes her face clean with a towel and tries to set her hair right before she goes and stands to the other side of the picture.
Bob takes a couple of shots and nods to the girls in acknowledgement before he steps out.
Chandresh stands in the shade of a tree a few yards away, smoking a cigarette.
Bob walks towards him.
“I asked you a question in there, Chan. What of the future of these girls?”
Chandresh is silent for a moment before he replies, without looking at Bob.
“How does it matter, Bob? We have our story. Let’s go looking for the next.”
Bob touches his shoulder.
“Don’t be so harsh on yourself.”
Chandresh turns to look at him and gives him a half smile.
“You need to be strong!”
Chandresh shrugs and walks quickly towards the car.
Bob half jogs to keep up with him, wondering if he should have given the girls some money. Would they have been offended?
“How much could you have given? And how long would it have kept them? And how many of them would you give to?”
Bob is taken aback. How had Chandresh managed to read his thoughts?
“It wasn’t too hard!”
Ignoring Bob’s incredulous look, Chandresh opens the SUV door and gestures for Bob to get in.
Bob clambers in. Just as Chandresh is about to follow him, he is hailed by a youth running towards him.
“Sir...please wait!”
Chandresh recognizes him as Ramu, the local stringer for a regional newspaper. They had met a couple of years ago when Chandresh was working on a story on farmer suicides in the region. The boy had taken to calling him whenever he thought of a local story that might interest him or merit nationwide attention. Chandresh had spoken to him over the phone just that morning to see if he could shed any further light on the ongoing crisis.
“Hello Ramu, what are you doing here?”
“Sir, I came looking for you. Your mobile was not reachable. And you had mentioned that you were going to visit Mylaram Kavala’s family.”
Ramu catches his breath.
Chandresh’s brows furrow in concentration. Ramu would not have come chasing after him unless he was on to something.
“Sir, you know that Sowjanya International School...that residential school on the outskirts of the town? I just heard that there was an IT raid there yesterday.”
Chandresh frowns.
“On a school premises? Okay, I’ll put one of the daily reporters in touch with you, Ramu. It might be of interest to them.”
Ramu shakes his head frantically.
“Sir...the raid is not the point... at least not directly. The thing is, Sowjanya is owned and run by Srinivas Potluri....”
He pauses and looks at Chandresh expectantly. Chandresh is puzzled.
“So, is this Potluri some local politican?”
Ramu looks a little disappointed.
“Sir,..he is the maternal uncle of Kumudini Potluri!”
Realization dawns on Chandresh.
Of course! And Kumudini Potluri is the CEO of DevEx!
“I had no idea! So, do you expect Kumudini to use her political connections to bail her uncle out?”
“Sir, forget that...the fact is Srinivas Potluri is her front man!”
Chandresh’s interest is piqued.
“Are you saying that she has other business interests besides microfinance?”
Ramu takes a deep breath before responding.
“I suspect that the school is a conduit to route money to and from DevEx.”
Chandresh lets out a low whistle.
“That is a big allegation to make. I am still waiting to hear from Kumudini’s office on an appointment. I’ll make sure to probe in this direction if she agrees to meet me.”
Ramu smiles broadly.
“That was the whole point of my coming here, sir. Kumudini Potluri is reaching the school premises as we speak.”
Chandresh feels a latent excitement kick in. As a reporter, he had always enjoyed corralling reluctant subjects down and coaxing them to speak. He claps Ramu’s shoulder before pumping his hand enthusiastically.
“I owe you one, Ramu!”
Ramu smiles modestly and wishes Chandresh luck before leaving.
Chandresh jumps into the SUV, eager to share the news of the lucky break with Bob.
“Bob, we’ve had a stroke of—”
He stops midway, on seeing that Bob is on the phone.
“Okay, please tell Maarten that I will call him within an hour, as soon as I get to the hotel. He should wait for my call...okay Priya, take care.”
Bob hangs up and turns to Chandresh with a quizzical look.
Chandresh responds with a query.
“Do you have to go back to the hotel right now?”
“Wasn’t that the plan anyway?”
Chandresh shakes his head.
“Something’s come up, Bob. The woman who heads DevEx is here. I want to get to her before she leaves.”
Bob’s forehead is marred by a frown
.
“That sounds important. What do we do now, Chan? I have just set up a con-call with Maarten, a financial journalist friend in Amsterdam. Apparently he told Priya he needs to speak to me pronto.”
“You head to the hotel, Bob. Let me go and try to meet the lady. For all you know, it may not even happen!”
“Don’t tell me she will turn down a meeting with the charming Chandresh Rajan?”
Chandresh gives Bob a droll look and asks the driver to drop him off at the main road.
CHAPTER 12
GANDHIPURA, 3 OCTOBER 2010
The receptionist at the hotel’s front desk is fast asleep. Polite clearing of the throat and drumming of fingers on the desk have no effect on him. Bob realizes that he can’t afford to waste any more time observing social niceties. He opens his mouth to call out to the man when the telephone on the desk starts ringing loudly and he wakes up with a start. Mortified at having been caught napping, he is confused whether to answer the phone or attend to the “gora” guest. Bob cannot quite come to terms with the embarrassingly deferential, almost obsequious treatment that the colour of his skin merits in these parts. Chandresh often pulls his leg about it, feigning gratitude because he gets to bask in reflected glory.
Having decided to answer the phone first, the receptionist hurriedly ends the conversation and turns to Bob.
“Sorry, sir...sorry to wait you...any help?”
“Not a problem, but could you please help me? I need to connect to the internet and my connection is acting up. Poor network. I was wondering if I could make use of the hotel’s business centre.”
The man looks at him in confusion.
“Business centre?”
“I mean the internet...the hotel’s internet connection?”
The man looks at him mournfully.
“Very sorry...modem repair...mechanic no come!”
Bob has a sinking feeling in his stomach. Maarten must surely have emailed him the documents by now. How is he to access them?
Bob turns away and starts walking towards the elevator when the receptionist calls out to him.
Where Angels Prey Page 8
