MONEY TREE

by Gordon, Ferris,

  Both their ears pricked up when Stanstead made a call that was answered personally by the President of the World Bank. It was obvious by the ease of access to Alexander D. Paterson and by the subsequent tone of conversation, that these two top executives were on very friendly terms.

  ‘I see the court date’s set, Alec.’

  The answering voice was in a deep Boston drawl, the tones of a senior statesman, sure of his breeding and position. ‘For once they seem to have gotten their act together. But it’s taken some persuasion, I can tell you.’

  ‘I bet. How’s the case looking? I mean do we need to do anything more? Will it stick?’

  ‘As much as anything seems to stick in the third world, Warwick. Of course they could throw the whole game away by calling an election between now and then. It’s been at least 18 months since they last changed governments. I forget who’s turn it is this time, but I’m hopeful that all parties will take the same line on our little problem. After all, we bailed them out. Mmmm?’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Alec. Banerjee is slippery as a greased pig – maybe I shouldn’t use that allusion with these guys?’ There was laughter. ‘But as far as I’m concerned he’s not down till he’s behind bars and their whole set-up is dismantled.’

  The languid voice took on an edge. ‘We need to talk about that. The aftermath. We don’t want any panic. No runs. No mess. God knows we’ve had enough of that these past couple of years. We want the bank transferred intact to the control of the Indian Government. We need to show the international community working together, dealing fairly and equitably with all account holders. And saying we mustn’t let this sort of shady business happen again. Back to basics. Back to the old order, because it works and can be relied on.’

  ‘Well, GA is standing by of course, but just so’s you know Alec, I don’t want to take any of the small accounts on my books. That’s pissing money away. I reckon we should just call in the loans for anyone with less than a three star credit scoring, and write off the rest.’

  ‘That would eliminate most of their accounts, I imagine. There’s a better way. We’ll need to walk carefully. Moral outrage and all that.’

  ‘I thought that’s where you came in, Alex?’

  ‘Most certainly. We’ll move quickly to offer new loans to India and any of the other ASEAN countries with high levels of small debtors, so they can cushion the effect locally. We don’t want civil unrest do we? Or the markets disturbed. We’ll probably cordon off the small debtors in one area of the bank under our control – I’ve got some bright young things standing by eager to show off. Then we’ll just let the debts run off. Most seem to get paid back, amazingly. Might as well maximise the returns. We can then put the profits down to our prudent governance, can’t we.’

  The conversation ended in discussion of families and holiday plans. Alexander D. Paterson was looking forward to giving Warwick’s new yacht a ‘spin round the bay’ as he called the two week trip in the Caribbean. There was the sound of Stanstead hanging up.

  Albert twirled on his chair. ‘Holy shit, Batman!’

  ‘Let’s not confuse ourselves, Tonto. But yes, indeed, holy shit. I think Theodore Saddler may have found himself another Pulitzer Prize story - should he live long enough to write it.’

  THIRTY SIX

  Anila had heard nothing in the night, sleeping solidly for the first time in days. It wasn’t until she became aware of a little more light in the room than normal that she focussed on the carving of Krishna that hung on the wall. The carving that now had an aura behind it. The carving that covered the hole that was only supposed to go part-way into the wall. The hole where she kept her 4000 Rupees safe. This was no godly visitation. Unless it was Kali.

  Her heart flipped and she gently disentangled herself from her daughter, easing the sheet back over her sleeping form. Anila rose and moved in slow motion towards the crude wall-safe already fearing what had happened. She hoped she was having a very bad dream and that she’d wake shortly. She touched Krishna and lifted the god from his hook. Light hurt her eyes. There was now a hole all the way through to the outside, letting in the day. It wasn’t a dream. The money had gone.

  She searched futilely and frantically through her hut and outside, knowing she hadn’t put it anywhere else, but needing to believe anyway. Before she went mad. This wasn’t possible, not after her success yesterday. Not after things had begun to go right for her. Not after consigning her money to Krishna for protection! Her noise woke her daughter and her mother. All three stripped the hut again, but their eyes told each other the truth.

  Krishna had decided to punish her. For her hubris, no doubt! For the first time in months she had slept a dreamless sleep. She had woken refreshed and eager to get about her new business. Which is exactly when the gods punish pride. From the outside it was clear how it had been done. Very carefully the robbers had soaked the wall, patiently eating away at the hard-dried mud until they’d broken through to the brick. Then they’d eased two bricks out from the crumbling mortar. The wonder was that they’d known exactly where to attack.

  Anila was in tears of anger and terror. She knew they were wasting their time rooting through all the pots and her few clothes in case she’d put the money elsewhere. She knew she hadn’t, knew it was pointless, but she kept trying, to divert herself from the grief that was banking up. But finally she threw herself down on her bed and wept in despair and self-pity. Her mother and daughter sat by her, helpless and with stricken faces. And that was how Divya and Leena found them.

  ‘There is only one person who could have done this!’ Leena was puffed up and furious as they gazed at the outside wall and its hole all the way through.

  ‘But we do not have proof. How can we confront him?’ asked Anila.

  ‘We do not need proof! We know it was Chowdury and his thugs! Who else could it be?!’

  ‘First we must report this to the council and see if we can get the police to come to the village.’

  ‘What good would the police do?’ asked Divya. ‘They are never on our side. They are only on the side of the rich. You know that.’

  By mid morning, the hut was surrounded by a small crowd, mainly of the members of Anila’s cooperative. They were aghast at the crime and panicking over their stolen money. They began to think that they’d been stupid setting up this cooperative and letting Anila Jhabvala turn their heads. Things were fine before. This was a disaster caused by greed. That was how the gods worked. The village hardly knew what crime was. Everyone left their doors open. No-one – except one notable person – had enough money or possessions to worry about theft.

  The anger grew, and despite the pleas of the sarpanch the little army began to march on the money lender’s house. It stood on the edge of the village with its own land. It was two storeys tall and had – as much as anyone could conjecture – 6 rooms. Though what on earth one old man and his childless wife needed six rooms for, had long been a source of scandal. As was the dark curve of a satellite dish which stood arrogantly on the lip of the rooftop balustrade.

  Only two other houses in the village owned a television set: a wealthy farmer and a trader. At times of great national events - an international cricket match or a specially-loved film – the villagers were allowed to crowd round these two TVs, peering through glassless windows and the front door. But not so with the money lender. He kept what belonged to him tight to his miserly chest. Often, from his open windows, the sound of laughter and clapping could be heard across that corner of the village. There was no point having wealth if it could not be flaunted.

  Anila was carried along reluctantly in the angry mob, and stood back as they pounded on his front door. A face appeared at one of the small upper floor windows. It was Mrs Chowdury. She looked more annoyed than fearful.

  ‘What do you want, hammering on my door like that!?’

  The big woman with the four daughters called up, ‘We want your thief of a husband! And we want our money back. The money he stole from the
house of Mrs Jhabvala.’ This was greeted by noisy support from her colleagues.

  ‘How dare you! My husband is no thief! We do not need your money. We have plenty already.’

  ‘Where is your husband, then. That we may ask him?’

  ‘He is not here. He went to Sagar on business two days ago. Then he was going on to Jabalpur. He will not be back for two or three days, maybe longer. You see, he could not have stolen your stinking money. Could he! So now, go away.’

  The crowd was stymied. Even if the money lender had got his minions to steal the money, they could not accuse him till he showed up. All they could do was get the police to come from Sagar, and that would take two days at least. If they could be bothered to come at all. In the meantime, they had lost the money to pay for the wood today and Anila had lost everything. They could manage to scrape enough together for today’s purchase and maybe tomorrow, but further ahead looked desperate.

  Anila walked back up the hill to her hut, her bare feet scuffing the ground, her sari pulled up over her face.

  THIRTY SEVEN

  Eight hours after leaving Delhi, they fell out of the ice-cold train into the Tropic of Cancer. The noise and heat at Bhopal station concussed them. Erin was stiff and sore, and desperate to get back to her tree-lined running track or air-conditioned gym. She stumbled after the fluid young limbs of Meera Banerjee, Outside in the hard light, a long wheel-base Land Rover sat cooking in the forecourt. Its driver sprawled in the shade by the entrance. Meera strode over. The young man jumped guiltily to his feet.

  ‘This is it,’ Meera called to the travellers proudly. She patted the scalding metal gingerly but with affection. Close up it showed the scrapes and dents of countless miles on India’s roads. ‘We are buying second hand LRs and refurbishing them. These machines go on for ever.’

  ‘Of course. They’re British.’

  Erin tried to put some irony in her comment to cover an unexpected surge of pride. They opened all the doors to let the heat out and gazed inside. Even with the young man taking the train back to his base in the south, there was little enough room for three people and their luggage. The back of the jeep was already packed with equipment and boxes.

  ‘We have everything we need. We can operate as a remote branch of the bank for up to three months,’ said Meera.

  They were glad to be out off the train and glad – however briefly - to be on the main road heading east to Udaipura. They travelled barely 10 miles before pulling into a grubby car park at the back of the extravagantly named Hotel Splendid. It was a four storey concrete building, painted pink some time ago. The colour had faded unevenly, so that it looked like badly blemished skin. The acne-like effect was exaggerated by eruptions and flaking where the paint and the top layer of the concrete had reacted with each other. Ted and Erin entered the hotel warily and were pleasantly surprised to find the interior in better health.

  ‘This is wonderful, Meera.’

  Erin scooped her chapatti through the remnants of her vegetable curry and rice. She prayed she wouldn’t pay for it later and had taken precautionary pills. Ted grinned over his beer. There was nothing to do except talk after dinner and wait for the food to digest before bed. He turned to Meera.

  ‘If you hadn’t been stuck with us, you would just have gone off by yourself to set up the district?’

  ‘Why not? I am trained. Many have gone out before me. And the people need us.’

  ‘But aren’t you a little bit scared?’

  ‘What should I be scared about?’

  ‘It’s such a huge country and you’re miles – thousands of miles – from your family and your friends and colleagues.’ Ted knew he was viewing Meera’s challenge through his own fears at that age; uprooting and coming to New York.

  Meera looked at him curiously. ‘It is my country. Wherever I go, I make new friends and new family. The women look after me. Is there anything better to do with my time? It is maybe a small thing we do. Not on the scale of America.’ Ted picked up a little vinegar in the comment. ‘But when you add up all the small things they come to a big number. I am just one small person but there are thousands like me.’

  Ted leaned over, notebook in hand. ‘Meera, I’m still struggling with the profit side of your business. Do you mind if I ask this? If this was all about helping the poor, why don’t you simply take the money the West offers and give it them? Your bank is charging average interest of around 25% on loans. But in other countries it can be as much as a third of the capital. How can you justify that? It’s maybe a lot less than the money lenders, but it’s still a heck of a price to pay on a $50 loan.’

  Meera was nodding. ‘I used to think the same. I was always arguing with my father. Partly it is about the cost of transactions but it is also about how people behave. If we gave hand-outs, the people would simply expect more. They would take the money - especially the men - and spend it. If the money is free or cheap there is no respect for it. Or for the giver. That is one of the reasons everyone hates the World Bank except the politicians with their hands out. There is a saying: a hundred Rupees in Delhi is worth two in a villager’s pocket. There are so many layers. And every layer wants a little slice.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘We go directly to the people who need it. To the women, who will use it best and who truly value the money. It will make the difference between feeding their family or letting the weakest ones die. And we know that they will repay it. With the surplus – it’s not a profit - we give more loans to more people. Don’t you see? This is a great network of self help!’

  Meera was leaning forward, her hands underlining her message, her eyes brimming with certainty. Ted disliked sentimental speeches; they always came over false. But there was substance to this kid. Maybe he was getting old and emotional.

  Erin was watching him and thought she saw something new in him. It had taken a murder attempt to get Ted going, but there was no doubting he was now more absorbed. And as far as she could judge, it wasn’t all Dutch courage. Ted Saddler seemed finally to be getting off his knees. Was there a change in her too? That despite yesterday’s traumas, and today’s Spartan amenities, she could detect some lightness? Of being more at peace with herself than she’d felt in years? Maybe. Either that or she was coming down with something.

  In the morning, after a restless night fighting mosquitoes and heat, they bounced back on to the road. Meera took the wheel, and they drove for three hours through increasingly hilly and forested countryside to Udaipura. Once there they forked left and began the bumping ten mile ride to Chandapur.

  Within a hundred yards Erin was clutching her stomach, wishing she were dead. Sweat broke out on her brow and her face was blotched. She fought it off as long as she could but was forced to call a halt twice. She was beyond embarrassment. The yawing and pitching of the Land Rover’s hull over its much abused suspension had felt like all her worst school jaunts rolled into one.

  As they jolted down into the hollow of the valley they could see the same blasted scenery that Anila and her companions had crossed on foot just two weeks before. If anything, it was worse. The fields had been harvested. They stood bone dry and stubbled as though devoured and salted by a retreating army. The last tufts of green on the low shrubs and thickets had given up the fight and had turned the same dull ochre as everything else. The cancer spread from the valley floor up the hillsides where some last green tinges at the rim suggested what the valley had once been like when the river had run through it. Meera was shouting above the grind of the engine and the crunching of the jeep’s body on its springs.

  ‘This was all green once. Just a few years ago.’

  ‘What happened?’ called Erin, grasping at the chance to take her mind off the nausea.

  ‘Our government has big ideas. One administration starts off a grand project, they get voted out, and the next one cancels it, or they run out of money, or it all gets too hard. Usually it’s twenty layers of officials who all have t
o be bought. Maybe that works the first time. But a big project means doing it in phases, and every new phase requires more paperwork and more bribes.’

  ‘And this is what happened here?’

  ‘The Indian Government is very proud that we have built over 5,000 dams. Regardless of the Adivasi.’

  ‘The Adivasi?’

  ‘The original people. The ones who have always lived here.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We don’t know. Isn’t that funny? No-one knows. We have mislaid 50 million people. Like losing all the people in Britain. The government says they were displaced and compensated.’ Meera underlined the words with heavy irony.

  ‘They weren’t?’

  ‘They paid huge sums – bribes – to local officials and landowners who then drove the Adivasi off the land. Fifty million people were swept like dirt under our national carpet. To end up begging in the cities. The women becoming prostitutes, the men just dying of drink and shame. And the children. Oh, the children. India has nearly 60 million child labourers – slaves in all but name. In just one sector – cottonseed production – 400,000 children, aged between 7 and 14 are working 16 hour days. Mainly girls of course, because their parents can’t afford dowries.’