MONEY TREE Read online

  Ted was thinking that this guy was just too good to be true. He couldn’t see his angle yet, but there had to be one. Maybe it was a power thing? Some people just got carried away with an idea and needed to prove it. Ted stayed on the offensive.

  ‘So how is it that a bank with such scruples and integrity ends up in a court case accused of corruption and profiteering? Smoke without fire?’

  Behind his glasses Ramesh blinked. ‘Shall we have some tea? This is thirsty work, Ted. Let me show you our canteen.’

  Ted picked up his recorder and set off after him. He wondered how fast those little bugs in the tea would take effect and whether this was how Banerjee got rid of unwanted guests.

  SIXTEEN

  Anila was squatting in her hut trying to appear nonchalant to her mother and daughter. She had not told her mother about the confrontation with the money lender and the sarpanch. It would have worried her even more. As she prepared the water to soak the rice, she was listening hard. Time stretched out. Perhaps he would not come today? Perhaps his ancient truck had finally died under him? Perhaps. . .

  Far off came a growling which died away and rose again. Then it came closer and the growling stayed more or less constant. There was no mistaking the grinding noise of the gears and the bucking and clattering axles bouncing over the ground. The engine always sounded in pain. She was told that it was because he mixed too much kerosene with diesel to make it go further. Though she knew nothing about mechanics or driving a car, Anila could tell that the wood gatherer was a terrible driver. It was a miracle that the engine didn’t explode with the strain he put it under.

  By the noise, she could tell exactly where the truck was in relation to the village. When it was drawing towards the little square in the centre of the village, she got up, went to the side wall and lifted off the small carving of Krishna hanging at eye height. It revealed a hole that she had painstakingly carved out of the hard mud and straw. The hole went four inches deep into the nine inch thickness. She took out the precious little parcel with its cord strap. She put it round her neck and under her sari and walked out of the hut.

  Anila strode down her lane with an air of greater confidence than she felt. There was no reason why the wood gatherer would not sell her what she wanted. Was there? Did he care where his money came from? But this was her first transaction in her own right. And once she’d bought the wood she was stuck with it. She would then have to make the little stools every day and sell them to the agent every week, to have a hope of making enough money to live on. Until that first step was taken, until that first little amount of money was handed over, she could still back out. She could keep the money from the bank and give it back to them. Maybe they would not ask for interest if she paid it back quickly?

  Her heart was beating like a goat’s before the knife, as she came into the open area of the village centre. The truck was there and its sickly engine had just coughed and died. A noxious cloud of smoke was drifting away through the neem trees. The driver was getting out and already several people had gathered: some women who had come to see Anila make this first step, and a group of men including the money lender.

  By the time she got to the truck there was a small line. A few men were buying wood for roofs, or fencing, or a lean-to. She waited patiently until no-one else stood before her.

  ‘Namaste, Mr Roy.’

  The wood gatherer looked up at her and away from her. ‘Namaste, Anila Jhabvala. What do you want?’

  ‘I would like to buy a bundle of cane and two lots of good flat wood, please.’

  The wood gather looked down and away from her. His eyes kept flicking over to the money lender whom Anila had seen standing a little way off near the back of the truck.

  ‘I am sorry Anila. All the wood is sold. I cannot sell you cane or wood.’ He turned as if to make off.

  ‘That is impossible, Mr Roy. You always have wood. And I can see your lorry is half full.’ There was a growing panic in Anila’s voice. Her worst fears seeped into her bones like mountain mist.

  ‘No, no. You are wrong, Anila. It has all been sold.’

  Anger was beginning to take over. ‘Who has bought all the wood Mr Roy?’

  The wood gatherer was dancing in front of her in his anxiety to be away from her. ‘Mr Chowdury has bought it all.’

  Anila looked over at the money lender. He was standing smirking at her while one of his men off-loaded the canes and raffia that she wanted.

  ‘Now I have to go, Anila.’

  She was desperate. ‘Wait Mr Roy. Are you coming back tomorrow? I want to buy wood tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes I will be back. But Anila, it is still no use. All my wood is already promised to Mr Chowdury. He has guaranteed me payment for tomorrow and the days after.’

  Anila could feel the tears well in her eyes. She was nearly paralysed with anger at the unfairness of it. ‘How many lots of wood has Mr Chowdury bought Mr Roy?’

  The wood gatherer shook his head. He was in torment standing in front of her. ‘Anila, I am sorry. Don’t you see that I cannot sell you the wood. Mr Chowdury is my best customer and he has told me not to sell you the wood. If I do he will not buy any of my wood in future. There is nothing I can do.’

  ‘That is not fair Mr Roy. You know that is not fair! I told you before that I wanted to make my own business and you said you would sell me the wood. Did you not?’ Anila felt her face burning with her hot tears. She would not wipe them away. She would not give him the satisfaction. Or the grinning Chowdury in the background.

  Knowing he was in the wrong, Mr Roy turned to anger himself. ‘I did not promise you. I am a business man, don’t you know?! How can I sell one little lot of wood to a woman who will not last five minutes in business?! Why should I put my whole business at risk? I have a family you know. Your requirements are piddling compared to Mr Chowdury’s. Don’t you see that! You are only a woman!’

  Some of the Mr Roy’s words triggered off a fearful idea in Anila. ‘What does Mr Chowdury want the wood for?’

  The wood gatherer calmed down to reply. ‘You know what he does with it. He sells it to women like you. He has many women who buy the wood from him. He lends them the money.’

  ‘How much does he pay you for the wood?’ A terrifying impulse was growing in Anila’s stomach. It seemed like it would eat her insides and burst out of her.

  Mr Roy wondered where this was going. He didn’t want to give out this sort of information, yet he recognised an opening. His brows furrowed and his voice quietened. ‘He gives me 500 rupees for my load. Every day.’

  ‘What if I gave you 600 rupees for your load?’ Anila scarcely knew her voice. A demon was driving her forward. She could hear someone talking and asking wild questions but her head was on fire and she felt the demon controlling her.

  The wood gatherer looked at her differently. 100 rupees extra every day would make a big difference to his profits. If only he could believe in this woman. She had shown she could find the money for her own plans but where would she get so much?

  ‘You do not have such money. How would you get it? That’s what I want to know. And how do I know that you would be able to get so much money every day? I cannot afford to lose a good customer like Mr Chowdury. He might never buy wood from me again.’ The wood gatherer had moved closer to Anila and was speaking quieter to her so he could not be overheard. In the background, the money lender had stopped smiling and was peering at them, wondering what was being said.

  ‘I have enough money for five days on my person, you know. And I will get money from all the women who borrow from Mr Chowdury. We have a -’ Anila searched for the word, ‘- a cooperative.’

  Mr Roy stood weighing up the arguments and the risks. Anila felt the demon rise in her again and it took over her voice. ‘Mr Roy, we know that you get your wood from Udaipura.’ She pointed. ‘I have a cousin there and we stopped with her last week when we were travelling from Delhi. I know the place you get your wood. If I can’t buy my wood from you then I w
ill walk into Udaipura and make arrangements for another lorry to deliver wood to the village. And I will get all the other women to buy their wood from the other lorry.’

  Mr Roy looked as though he’d been struck on the head by one of his biggest planks. He was not a weighty businessman. He was good at one thing and had been doing this one thing for thirty years. His mind could not accept the possibility that there would be competition for his business. It was impossible!

  He thought of his wife waiting for him at home. He thought her wrath would be without bounds if he told her he’d let another lorry take away his business. He thought too of the extra 100 rupees every day. 700 rupees extra every week! Why, his wife would be amazed and delighted. She would stop her scolding. For a while. If he told her. He looked at Anila and searched her face. This sort of woman never gave up. He did not think she was bluffing about going to Udaipura and arranging for another lorry to deliver. She’d gone to Delhi! And the same determination might just make this proposal of hers work.

  ‘Are you sure you can get the other women to cooperate with you?’

  ‘I am sure.’ She was not, but one battle at a time.

  ‘Then I will do it. I will come tomorrow and you will pay me 600 rupees and I will give you my load. And we will do this every day?’

  The deal was struck and Anila stood rooted with terror at what she’d just agreed to. She watched as Mr Roy got into his now empty truck and cranked the ancient engine into life. She watched as he crashed the gears and bumped his way out of the village. And she watched as Chowdury gazed thoughtfully at her before shouting at his assistants to prepare the piles of wood for the women who would shortly be coming to pick up their small stocks and commit to the daily embrace of his usury.

  Anila drew back and found a seat in the shade by the pumps to wait for the women. She knew most of them already of course, but now she needed to choose her allies. She also needed some time to think quietly about what she would say to them. It would have to be such a wonderful opportunity that they would not be able to resist. If she failed to get them on her side, then she might have to throw herself down the old well. It was the first place people looked if someone had gone missing.

  SEVENTEEN

  Ramesh Banerjee led the way, conscious of the big white man bearing down on him like a threatening devil. They pushed through some doors and into the canteen. It was a bare hall with plastic tables and chairs, all looking second hand or rescued from the dump. Against one wall was a trestle table with a steaming urn, cups, saucers and milk and lemon. They helped themselves. Maybe a third of the tables had people at them. Nobody got up or batted an eye at their Chief Executive in their midst making his own tea.

  Ramesh was pleased at this. It was how he wanted it. He knew how it would come across to this reporter so conditioned to the trappings of rank and power in the west. They found a quiet table. Ted looked gingerly at his plastic cup. Ramesh read the signs.

  ‘It’s perfectly all right. The water has been boiled and the milk is pasteurised. But I will tell you something.’ His voice dropped conspiratorially. ‘If there is one thing I miss from New York, it’s Starbucks.’

  Ted whispered back, ‘I know exactly what you mean. Now, can we talk about these charges against you and the bank?’ He took out his tape recorder.

  ‘It will not surprise you to hear me say that the charges are trumped up.’

  ‘Now why would anyone want to do that? If your bank is such a success at alleviating poverty?’

  ‘It is a sad reflection on this world of ours that there is quite a list. Let us start with the Government of India. Ten years ago I applied for a banking licence and got it. At the time I had good contacts in the Finance Ministry and also in the Banking Supervisory Board. Now, not only have all my old contacts gone, but we are on. . .’ he counted on his fingers. ‘the sixth change of Government since then. Unfortunately the bank does not get on with this one.’ He considered for a moment. ‘Or indeed the previous three.’

  ‘But I still don’t see why they would want to close your bank. If I’m to believe you, it’s taking one of their problems off their plate?’

  Ramesh sighed. ‘Many honestly believe that microfinance will simply lead poor people into deeper debt they cannot repay. South Africa is just such an example.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Micro loans were handed out willy nilly to the poor in the townships. No saving accounts, just loans which they spent on consumer goods. Sky Sports to watch Manchester United and Real Madrid in a tin shack. They had no way of paying back the debt. It was not invested, just spent.’

  ‘But you can point to a different model?’

  ‘Yes, but some in the Indian establishment think it disturbs the natural order of things. They preach democracy but really prefer to act like the Raj. We are making a difference to millions of people across the country, and they have nothing to do with it. We show them in a bad light. They want to control us and put their people on our board and run the bank as a state bank so that they can get the kudos.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘And big salaries.’

  ‘I can see how that might be. Why don’t you give them a slice of the action? Take the heat off?’

  Ramesh slammed the table with his open hand.

  ‘Because they would kill us! With bureaucracy, hierarchies, conditions, rules, restrictions, delays, and the usual layers of bribery. I would rather they closed the bank!’

  Ted was taken aback. Silence fell briefly at the other tables, then the chattering took up again.

  ‘What about at the grass roots? Don’t you have a big following there? Wouldn’t they stand up for you?’

  Ramesh took a deep breath and clasped his fingers together.

  ‘Our account holders are poor, they have no voice, no power. Between them and the ruling classes sit a very large number of people who don’t want to see their own position eroded. Money lenders or local politicians who don’t want their system of corruption bypassed.’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  Ramesh smiled grimly. ‘All the people with caste, who lord it over those without. Over 150 million people in India have no caste. The euphemism is they belong to the ‘unscheduled’ caste. But they are still the old Untouchables, the Dalits. They sit at the bottom of every heap. They do the most menial jobs – like carrying away the shit of the higher castes. We lend money to anyone – especially to the Dalits – so the upper castes are faced with the possibility of having to clear up their own shit.’

  He saw the reporter wince. It was funny that Westerners used the word so often but only in the abstract. When confronted with its real meaning they were disgusted. A useful weapon.

  ‘I can see how that would make you unpopular.’

  ‘Yet there is another even bigger group who are not happy.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Men. Over 97% of our loans are to women. It frees them. It gives them power over their own destinies. Men don’t like that.’

  ‘Why don’t you lend to men?’

  ‘Women have more to lose. Women pay us back.’ He leaned closer. ‘It is their life we are giving them.’

  Despite himself, Ted was finding it hard to stay cynical, far less angry at this quiet little man. He mustered another argument

  ‘Why are you a pariah with organisations like the World Bank? They keep offering you cheap money. Surely you have common goals?’

  ‘They too want me in their pocket. They want to list me in their annual report. To launder their conscience. While I keep them at bay, they are embarrassed by me. Ted, may I go off the record for a moment?’ Ted pressed pause on his recorder.

  ‘A few years ago – before the Credit Crunch - I gave a speech at a conference in New York. Alec D. Paterson, the President of the World Bank was in the front row. But I did not pull any punches. After my speech – which was well received – he came up to me and shook my hand. Very deliberately and publicly. In front of the press, all the important people and a five hundred strong audience. Al
l I could do was smile back. He said. . .’

  ‘Ramesh. Loved your little talk. Goes right to the heart. But I think you have us wrong you know, and I’d like to straighten the record. Why don’t you and me get together and sort out how we can help? I’ve made plenty of offers, but you keep turning me down.’ Paterson kept smiling as he talked.

  Ramesh smiled back. ‘Thank you, but perhaps you missed the middle part of my talk? Where I set out why organisations like yours have never helped the poor and never could. By their very nature.’

  To the rest of the audience they were key figures on the world financial stage, talking like colleagues, sharing ideas and intents.

  ‘I heard it. And I wanted to get my side over to you. I told you, I think you’ve got us wrong. You’re going to need us, you know.’

  ‘Thank you. But you have nothing we need.’

  ‘Everybody needs money. Especially charities.’

  ‘We are not a charity. We are a bank. We make our own money. We have 250 million customers who borrow from us and – unusually it seems – repay us.’

  Paterson took his arm. ‘Ramesh, you’re a smart guy. You’ve been on Wall Street. Don’t you want to play at the big table again? Where it matters? I could get you on to the right boards, get you the right - shall we say recognition? Including financial recognition?’

  Ramesh looked down at the white hand gripping his arm.

  ‘My present recognition as you put it, is adequate for my needs.’