Where Angels Prey

by Ramesh S Arunachalam

  “Are you...sure...you’re from the auditor’s office?”

  Chandresh assumed his most solemn expression as he reassured him.

  The man seemed somewhat mollified. Then he opened the gate and waved Chandresh in.

  The buildings seemed even more impressive from the inside. There were six buildings—three possibly housed the academic block, and three more at a distance, possibly the hostels. As he entered the centrally air-conditioned reception area, he was struck by the sheer opulence. The interiors were nothing less than what you would find in a similar institution in the metros or even abroad. A receptionist dressed in formal clothing manned the front desk.

  He walked up to her and asked her if he could meet Kumudini Potluri.

  She seemed surprised at the request, but tried to conceal it.

  “She does not sit here. You will have to get in touch with her office in Hyderabad, please.”

  Her tone was courteous, yet firm.

  “No ma’am, her office has asked me to meet her here!” he said as earnestly as he could.

  “Are you sure, Mr...?”

  “Ma’am, my name is Chandresh Rajan. This is to do with a story on the burgeoning growth of MFIs in India...it’s for The New York Post .”

  He threw the last phrase in casually, knowing it would have the maximum impact.

  Her eyes widened and her demeanour became a lot more friendly.

  “Oh...I’m sorry! I was not informed that you were coming. Please have a seat? I’ll just inform the administrator, Mr Radhakrishna. What would you like to have? Coffee, tea, or maybe something cold?”

  Chandresh gave her his most charming smile.

  “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I am fine, though, and looking forward to meeting Ms Potluri. And may I say what an international class institution you have here, Asha!”

  The receptionist flushed with pleasure as she realized he had taken note of her name from the badge she wore.

  “Ms Potluri must be very proud of the fine job you all are doing.”

  A shadow seemed to cross her face at that, possibly thinking back to the income tax raid.

  She recovered quickly and smiled graciously.

  “Ma’am is just wonderful. We are all in awe of her.”

  “Really? I’ll make sure to quote you in the article!”

  Her eyes widened at the thought. She gave him an extra sweet smile, which he returned without batting an eyelid.

  She picked up the phone to alert her superior.

  “Mr. Radhakrishna will join you in a few minutes. In the meantime, you must have a cup of coffee!”

  “If you insist...please make that black without sugar, and maybe a couple of biscuits?”

  “Of course, right away.”

  Chandresh picked up the magazine lying on the coffee table and browsed through it. It was a dated issue of a national news magazine but interestingly, it carried a glowing profile of Kumudini Potluri.

  As Chandresh scanned through the article that was almost a litany in praise, he heard a deep voice bark at him.

  He looked up to find a gigantic figure looming before him.

  “Are you Chandresh Rajan?”

  Chandresh merely blinked in response, before finally finding his tongue.

  “Yes, I am..and you are...?”

  “I am part of the Sowjanya administration. Why have you come here to meet Ms Potluri? This is not her office, and her office has denied asking you to meet her here.”

  Behind him, the receptionist looked at him with reproachful eyes but he blithely ignored her.

  “Sir, my colleague, Bob and I have been repeatedly requesting an appointment with her for a story to be published in The New York Post, and we’ve been assured that we would be given time at the first opportunity. Since we heard that Madam Kumudini is here, we thought this just might be that opportunity. I would request you to please inform her that Chandresh Rajan is here to meet her. She knows me!”

  “This is a school premises. You cannot walk in here to meet her on unrelated matters.”

  Chandresh gave him a hard look.

  “I don’t think it is all that unrelated. I believe she is here in connection with an investigation by the IT department. As a journalist, it is very important that I get to speak to her.”

  Radhakrishna’s face darkened.

  “That is a school-related issue. It has nothing to do with Madam Kumudini.”

  “Well, she must be concerned since your correspondent, Srinivas Potluri is her uncle!”

  Radhakrishna glared at him for a few moments, then asked Chandresh to follow him.

  He made Chandresh sit in his room and warned him that he may have to wait long. It was also possible that he might not be able to meet Kumudini.

  Chandresh assured him that he had nothing better to do with his time.

  After a further half hour wait, Kumudini Potluri deigns to make an appearance, striding into the room along with a couple of her assistants. Of medium height and build, she exudes an aura of control. She is simply, yet tastefully dressed.

  She lowers herself on the sofa across from Chandresh and waves the others away. Even the domineering Radhakrishna follows her instructions without demur, much like an obedient puppy.

  “Yes, Chandresh, so what is it that couldn’t wait until you were given a formal appointment?”

  Seeing that she isn’t going to waste time on pleasantries, Chandresh decides to take her cue.

  “Madam, surely a response to the rising number of suicides on your watch cannot wait?”

  “What do you mean on my watch? There have been four or five cases but they are the MFI’s clients and that is about it. We don’t control every aspect of their lives. I am sure you are aware of the growing suicide rate in the country as a whole!”

  “There are eight documented cases and in every instance, the cause has been identified as inability to service the debts that have been piled on them!”

  “I think that is an unfair criticism, Chandresh. We do not pile loans on to reluctant or unwilling clients. They exercise full and free will in every instance. And I repeat, there is no proof that they are debt-related suicides.”

  Chandresh wonders if she is simply trying to brazen it out or if she actually believes what she is saying.

  “There is a definite pattern, Madam, and even you cannot be blind to it. What started out as a means to save lives is now taking them instead. There is a definite rot and there is no denying that.”

  Kumudini changes tack and speaks in a slightly softer tone.

  “Well, what has happened is unfortunate and we are trying to see what we can do to help. In fact the insurance money has already been paid to the families and, of course, the loans have been written off.”

  “But I just visited Mylaram Kavala’s family today and they claim that they have not received any settlement!”

  Kumudini’s face darkens.

  “If that is true, I will ensure that the anomaly is addressed immediately and action is taken against the negligent staff.”

  “Madam, I am working on this story along with my colleague, Robert Bradlee of The New York Post. He is rather keen to meet you and, in fact that is why we have been bombarding your office with requests for an appointment. Anyway, the thing is, Bob has been keen to find out more about Wall Street investments in MFIs here. I’m sure you understand that this angle is of particular relevance to him. Don’t you think it’s interesting that the western capital markets are so keen to benefit from an industry primarily established to alleviate poverty in this country?”

  Kumudini gives him a level look.

  “Come on, Chandresh. Even you must admit that welfare models cannot sustain beyond a point. We need professionally managed self-sustaining business models that yield profits. What kind of lessons in enterprise management will we be teaching our clients if we are a loss making unit ourselves? And isn’t it but natural for capital markets to be interested in profit-making enterprises?”

&n
bsp; Chandresh gives her a half smile.

  “I do not question your argument on self-sustaining models at all. However, given the very nature of the industry, the profit motive dominates the self-avowed motive of poverty alleviation and sustainable growth, to the point where MFIs are turning predators and devouring the very clients that they have sworn to serve!”

  Kumudini shakes her head, and her lips curve in derisive amusement.

  “Come on now, Chandresh. Aren’t you being a tad melodramatic here?”

  “Pardon me if I am. Maybe spending half a day under the very roof from which one of your clients hung herself has gotten to me.”

  Kumudini’s face turns a deep red.

  “Chandresh, I have a series of meetings lined up. So if we are done here...?”

  “Madam, you’d have to agree with me when I say the objective of the sector is the financial inclusion of the poor and sustainable growth. But after the MFIs have converted to NBFCs, don’t you think the poor have taken a backseat? I remember your statement around the time of creation of the MBTs7 that it was to be wholly owned by your poor women clients. But your promoters and employees bought out their stake after hardly a couple of years at possibly a nominal value, and earned huge profits by selling out to foreign investment firms and venture capitalists.”

  Kumudini snaps at him.

  “The inflow of commercial capital meant an expansion of our client base and their portfolios! How would you describe that as selling out?”

  “It would be, wouldn’t it, if the interests of your original clients—the ones who bore all the risk during the initial phase—are compromised in favour of the owners of the MFI and their employees?”

  It is clear that Kumudini is losing her grip on her temper, but at this point, Chandresh is past caring.

  “Madam, I must also tell you that we have found numerous irregularities on the ground. The records maintained at your branches are at variance with actual reality. There are several instances of ghost lending; some of the clients named in the records are either long dead or they do not even exist!”

  Kumudini makes to get up.

  “I will look into all these anomalies. Maybe you can share the specific instances with us?”

  “Surely your internal audit must have thrown up all of this?”

  Kumudini folds her hands as a parting greeting.

  “Of course, we will take care to correct all the wrongs that you have so kindly pointed out. Let me take your leave now.”

  Chandresh is on his feet too.

  “Madam, one last request. Could I be allowed to a look into the financial records of the Sowjanya Group of Institutions?”

  Kumudini frowns at him.

  “Chandresh, I don’t see how that has to do with anything. DevEx has nothing to do with this group. It just so happens that Srinivas Potluri is my uncle. And besides, the Income Tax raid was based on a wrongful complaint made by a detractor. The IT department has given them a clean chit!”

  “That is wonderful, Madam. I don’t see any reason why the records cannot be shared then?”

  “Why should they be shared? This group has nothing to do with your story. And they are not obligated to share their records with whosoever wants to take a peek!”

  Chandresh nods in assent.

  “The group has nothing to do with the story...as long as there is no overlap between the finances of the group and those of DevEx?”

  Kumudini loses her cool.

  “I could sue you for defamation for accusing me of financial fraud without a shred of evidence!”

  Chandresh shrugs.

  “Following through leads and looking for evidence are part of my job. You have no cause for concern as long as you are in the clear. Thank you so much for your time and patience, madam!”

  Chandresh walks out of the room, closing the door on a furious Kumudini.

  CHAPTER 14

  NEW DELHI, 4 OCTOBER 2010

  The colonial-style bungalow in Lutyen’s Delhi basks in the benign warmth of an autumn sun. It is that time of the year when the weather Gods are at their kindest towards the city’s denizens. The pleasant nip in the air allows the society ladies to wrap themselves in Kanjeevaram silks and Pashmina shawls while the men strut around in nattily cut bandhgalas and Nehru jackets. The flurry of flunkies and the red beacon cars outside the bungalow indicate that it belongs to someone in the higher echelons of government. The allotment of the bungalow had, in fact been a subject of bitter dispute, owing to both its location and the spacious grounds it stood on. Many a politician had wrangled for it before it fell to the lot of Nageshwara Reddy. Although not a senior member of the union cabinet, Nageshwara Garu wields great influence as leader of a regional party that is an important member of the ruling coalition.

  Nageshwara Garu sits in his study, in deep discussion with his secretary, Gopal Krishna and his political confidante, Suresh Babu. They are trying to chart out a strategy to handle a subject that is tabled to come up for discussion in Parliament later in the day. It has to do with the increasing number of debt-related suicides in Andhra Pradesh. Although he is a minister of state for environment, holding independent charge, he is one of the most vociferous MPs of the ruling coalition in Parliament. It would be incumbent on him to participate actively in the discussion, particularly since it is in the context of his native state.

  “What is with our state and suicides? First the farmer suicides and now this. We must commission a study on why our people are so prone to taking their lives.”

  “Possibly because they are amongst the poorest and mostexploited people in the country,” Gopal Krishna thinks to himself, but is, of course, careful not to voice it.

  “Annayya, you must highlight how our party has taken the district administration to task in Warangal and Ranga Reddy, with all those protest marches, etc.”

  “Suresh, in case you have forgotten, the party that governs our state is the very same party with whom we have since joined hands to form this national coalition. So we can’t go into details of how we protested against them!”

  Gopal Krishna intervenes.

  “Sir, my informants tell me that the SAMMAAN issue will be raked up in particular. There have been more than 12 documented cases of suicide amongst their clients; and then the fire that destroyed numerous records at their office.”

  “My memory is excellent, thank you, Gopal Garu.”

  Gopal knows better than to respond.

  “The member who has demanded a discussion on the topic, Rajendra...he claims to have toured five districts where there have been instances of MFI debt-related suicides. You must have seen the detailed report on his findings that he has tabled.”

  Nageshwara Garu closes his eyes and swears under his breath.

  “I have. That chap is determined to settle past scores. All because we got his mining license revoked. It is a personal grudge, I know.”

  The door opens and a steward steps in.

  “Sir, breakfast is laid. Madam has requested me to inform you that the guests are waiting.”

  “They are waiting to eat my head in parliament, and I am supposed to eat breakfast!”

  The steward politely withdraws.

  “Annayya, you need your strength to take those fellows on. Go and have breakfast. I will take my leave too. I’ll meet you in the central hall at 10.30 sharp.”

  Gopal Krishna leaves.

  Nageshwara Garu rests his forehead on his palms, gently kneading his temples as he tries to come up with a plan to counter the opposition charges. Meanwhile, his stomach rumbles in protest.

  The array of dishes on display before Prasad Kamineni is no less than a spread fit for a king. There are the ubiquitous Indian dishes like idli, dosa, pongal, poori aloo, sambar and chutney, as well as traditional English breakfast fare including toast, porridge, an assortment of cakes, cereal, boiled eggs, pancakes and syrup, and a platter of fruit. It certainly looks more like a banquet one may expect to find at a five-star hotel than a home-cooke
d breakfast. Krishnaveni Atha, his father’s older sister, has always been extremely conscious of her status as erstwhile royalty. She married into an extremely wealthy industrialist family, and stood by her husband when he chose to enter politics. He had joined a national-level political party and was allotted a seat in the constituency that he was best suited to in terms of the caste mix of the voter population. As expected, he won by a landslide. However, because of internal party politics he was denied a party ticket the next time round. Smarting from the insult, he contested as a rebel candidate but lost by a small margin. Thereafter he formed his own regional party and contested the state assembly elections and managed to win a handful of seats. Buoyed by his success, he contested the parliamentary elections and won enough seats to emerge as an important member of the ruling coalition. His success had been attributed in part to a couple of matinee idols campaigning across the state on his behalf. The people of Andhra had always had a great fascination for film stars, whose support stood parties in good stead at the hustings. What the voters did not know was that the film stars supported Nageshwara Garu’s party not because they subscribed to his ideology but because he was involved in financing their films, albeit always through an intermediary.

  “Are you hungry, Chinna? We can get started if you like.”

  His aunt’s voice breaks Prasad’s thoughts. He shakes his head. That would defeat the whole purpose. He had been hoping to share his problems with his uncle over breakfast. “Not really, Atha, let us wait for Mamaiyya. He must be

  caught up with some important work.”

  “You know how it is, Chinna, now that he is a minister, he hardly has time for anything other than work. The family is last on his list of priorities!”

  Although it was supposed to be a complaint, Prasad could sense the pride in her voice. She was clearly enjoying holding court in Delhi as the wife of a central minister. No slouch when it came to fashion, now she looked even more the part with her silk saris in sober shades, an elegant string of pearls around her neck and a pashmina shawl draped over her shoulder. All the heavy gold jewellery was reserved for when she was back home amidst her own people, particularly in her maternal home where such simplicity would be found appalling. Privy purses and the concept of royalty may have been abolished but she remained their rajkumari or princess.