MONEY TREE

by Gordon, Ferris,

  The jeep was quiet for a time as the facts tore home. Erin’s nausea shifted from the physical to the mental.

  ‘But. . .’ Erin pointed out the window. ‘The dams – did they at least improve the water situation? Drinking, crop irrigation?’

  Meera had been waiting for this. ‘When we meddle with nature, we get it completely wrong. The earth has always depended on the monsoon. It happens once a year and gives the land time to recover. The dams make it worse. No-one thought to look out the window and ask if the earth could take a continual deluge from irrigation. We are drowning the land. All the water is forcing the salt that lies deep down in the earth to come to the top. Then it kills the land. It is so funny. Only a madman would have dreamed of such an idea.’

  ‘Is this throughout India, or just around here?’ Erin asked desperately.

  ‘India has 55 billionaires, the nuclear bomb and sends rockets into space. But around 150 million people – twelve per cent of our country – still have no access to clean drinking water. UNICEF says more than 500 children die every day in India from diarrhoea – that’s like a full jumbo-jet crashing to the ground. Each day.’

  Erin winced. ‘Why won’t the government stop? They must know what’s going on?’

  ‘And admit they were wrong? Would yours? Loans are a drug, don’t you see? We have become dependent on loans from the West, from your World Bank. We just took another $360 million loan for more waterworks in Uttar Pradesh. How much of that will end up in the pockets of the politicians? They are wined and dined and taken on foreign trips and they use the loans to keep them in power. It is the most vicious of vicious circles.’

  Erin looked at Ted and shared the shame. They were relieved as their vehicle trundled into the outskirts of the village of Chandapur. They drove past a lone tree that looked like an oak but wasn’t, in some indefinable way. Then Ted noticed the olive-like fruits hanging in the branches. He placed it. It was the bank’s logo. A neem tree.

  The Land Rover jolted in and out of the ruts scored in the bare earth by trucks and carts. Curious faces came to the doors of dilapidated huts and scrutinised the travellers unashamedly. To the Western eyes the villagers seemed poorer even than the poorest they’d seen in Delhi. Their skins were darker and their features coarser. Two dogs chased them all the way in to the centre, marked by the round wall of a well. The jeep drew up under the spreading shade of five neem trees, and quickly gathered a crowd.

  They stepped out of the Land Rover into a minefield.

  THIRTY EIGHT

  Ramesh Banerjee was staring ruin in the face and trying not to let it show in front of his two colleagues. He was sitting in the courtyard of the office in Delhi reviewing the trial papers. His lawyer, Medha Sardar, had just taken him though the written evidence to be presented by the prosecution team. There were depositions from twenty six key witnesses that were particularly damning. Ramesh stabbed the document.

  ‘I’ve never even met these men!’

  ‘I know, Ramesh. I know. It is all innuendo and exaggeration. But the difficulty is disproving it.’

  ‘Why? These are lies! There is not one iota of truth in any of this. And that is your job, is it not? To expose the lies.’

  ‘Of course. And we will attack them good and hard. But these men,’ he swept his hand contemptuously over the pile of typed pages, ‘have been well paid I think. And maybe they are terrified too.’

  ‘Tell me again why we can’t have a jury trial? I wanted this to come in front of the people. They would have defended me.’

  Medha Sardar shifted his broad bottom on his seat and tugged at his tunic, smoothing the front down over his prosperous belly.

  ‘You have answered your own question. That is exactly why the Government has set it up this way. The last thing they want is a populist movement starting in their courtroom. Their excuse is that the case is too complex for a lay jury, and that the three trial judges will be able to make better sense of the arguments and deliver a safer verdict.’ He shrugged.

  CJ Kapoor, who made up the third member of the little group sitting in the early morning light, leaned forward.

  ‘What do we know about the three judges? Are they fair men? Will we get a good hearing?’

  Sardar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘It is hard to say. But I do not think we could say any one of them sits in the liberal camp. The senior judicial magistrate – Justice Nayak - is a pompous man. He is very full of himself and lectures his courts to show his great learning. He is more likely to side with the government, just because he is an establishment figure. He will not go against the mood of the ruling class. He would find it too difficult at cocktail parties and receptions.’

  Ramesh and CJ looked at each other with resignation. ‘What about the other two?’ asked Ramesh.

  ‘Judicial Magistrate Jhaveri is known to take bribes. All the judges take bribes of course, but Jhaveri is especially susceptible. And yet at the same time he is very hot on offenders. It is how he allays his conscience.’

  ‘It sounds like his pocket wins out over his scruples. What about the last man? Is there any hope there?’

  ‘Judicial Magistrate Sharma is something of an unknown quantity. A dark horse. He is new to the bench this year and we know little about him. But all we can say is that he is the most junior, and will tend – if precedents are anything to go by – to follow the line taken by the senior justice. We do not think he will step out of line. And remember, he was appointed by this government and will not want to bite the hand that is feeding him.’

  ‘So we should give up now and admit our guilt, and beg for a lenient sentence? Is that your recommendation?’ Ramesh looked crushed. His eyes were tired and unseeing.

  ‘No, no, Ramesh. There is still hope. We have good witnesses of our own who will testify to your honesty and probity. And we will go all out to pick holes in the prosecution witnesses. Some of these testimonies are so patently contrived that even the trial judges will have difficulty not being embarrassed by them.’ He lifted a pile. ‘Look, even the words are the same in each of the testimonies. I am sure they were all concocted by the same hand.’

  ‘But can we prove it?’ asked CJ.

  ‘We can draw the court’s attention to it. And then we will question the witnesses to shake them. We will also take each instance of supposed bribery and ask you and your officers what they were doing at the time. If we can find alibis for every occasion when some supposed bribe was offered or money was passed to make something happen, then it is just their word against ours.’

  ‘That sounds flimsy. What else?’

  Sardar looked hard at Ramesh.

  ‘The hardest charge to beat will be the political one. That you have worked to undermine the freely elected government of India. That through an insidious process of gaining control over the lives and minds of the poor you have incited them to rise up against the State. I am only quoting, you know!’ He saw how angrily Ramesh was reacting.

  ‘This is monstrous, you know! It is unbelievable! What possible proof have they?’

  The lawyer flicked through a second pile of papers.

  ‘They are citing five separate riots across the country by Dalits and Adivasi.

  ‘Riots! There were no riots! There were marches and demonstrations!’

  Sardar smiled over his glasses at him. ‘Do you think the Government sees any difference? These riots took place this year and the rioters were waving banners demanding positive discrimination for the Dalits, an end to dam building and a return to traditional irrigation techniques… and so on and so on.’

  ‘But why would they blame us for that? It is common sense.’

  ‘It is not State policy. Therefore it cannot be common sense. And they blame you – or your bank – as you are on the record for espousing this cause. They say that many of the rioters were account holders in the People’s Bank and that you coerced them to their riotous acts through threatening to increase the loan rates.’

  Ramesh and CJ were s
peechless with indignation and incredulity.

  ‘Moreover,’ went on Sardar, ‘they have photographs of crowds waving banners calling for foreign consultants to keep out and to get rid of the World Bank. Some banners read…’ he checked his notes, ‘… follow the way of the People’s Bank’ and ‘Small loans to the poor = democracy’. They are saying in their prosecution case that you are aiming to overthrow the government by ‘fomenting sedition and insurrection’.

  ‘But what is a few photographs?’ CJ tried to be dismissive.

  ‘They have so-called witnesses again. People who will swear that they were forced by the Bank to march against the Government. That they were threatened with ruin and told to break the law and to move against the State. It will be a hard one to fight against, I’m afraid, Ramesh.’

  ‘It seems we have no friends,’ said CJ.

  ‘Only our customers. It is a pity we cannot get them into the witness box.’

  THIRTY NINE

  Anila sat in the dark of her hut, her legs folded under her, rocking gently as if in a trance. She was exhausted. The fight was lost. The dark rings round her big eyes testified to a night without sleep. Her mother had been gentle with her instead of railing at her. Which was of course worse. Her mother had taken Aastha to visit a cousin on the other side of the village to give Anila some quiet time on her own.

  She’d spent it obsessively rehearsing the options, such as they were. She could wait for the police to arrive and hope they would find the thief. But she knew – as everyone did – that the police were at best useless, at worst as corrupt as the criminals themselves. She could bring the cooperative together again and see what money they could find between them. But she knew they had so little, and they would not trust her again. It was impossible. Divya and Leena especially could never forgive her. Why should they? She had lost all honour among her friends.

  She was left with two choices. She could take her own life, but that would leave her daughter defenceless and destitute. Or she could flee with her daughter to Bhopal and join the beggars on the street. But it would be fierce competition among the blinded and the maimed survivors and deformed children of the Union Carbide disaster.

  Maybe her mother could find sanctuary with one of her cousins or more distant relatives. Maybe she could take her daughter with her. Anila could then vanish into the city and no longer be a burden on anyone. Yes, that was the way. She wasn’t sure how to kill herself anyway, not now the river had gone. She shuddered at the thought of throwing herself down the old well. Maybe she could lower herself down on a rope and just starve to death?

  Anila was hardly aware of the rumble of noise of a small crowd coming her way. It wasn’t until the noise was right outside her door that she became fully conscious of it. There were familiar voices and one she hadn’t heard before. She guessed they were coming to get her and take her before the council. They would drag her out and then beat her for all the fuss she caused. Maybe they would throw her on a fire. She deserved it. Then she heard Leena calling her name. Surprisingly the tone wasn’t stern or murderous. The next moment, her door was pushed open and light flooded the room.

  ‘Anila? Look whom we have we brought to see you.’

  How could Leena sound so happy? How could she even talk to her, after what she’d done to her? Leena was standing in the doorway, her head bent under the low frame. A strange young woman stooped and entered. Anila could not make her out against the white light from outside, but her head was bare and her hair was short as a boy’s. Then another woman was coming in behind her, a white woman, wearing jeans, she could see that much! Anila felt her small hut become too crowded all of a sudden. Were these people here to take her away for losing all the money?! She jumped to her feet. She backed away, fearful in her own house.

  ‘Leena, what is going on? Who are these people? Have they come for me?’

  ‘They are from the bank, Anila. They are from our bank!’ She sounded excited and worried at the same time.

  The Indian woman spoke. ‘Mrs Jhabvala, I am most sorry to arrive unannounced. My name is Meera Banerjee. I am from the People’s Bank. I am your regional manager.’

  Anila struggled to take the words in. They had come for her! This woman was the regional manager? How could she be? She was only a girl, surely younger than herself. And looking like she was going to one of those clubs, with her short hair and her trousers and blouse. She must be here to punish her. To demand her collateral! And why did she bring this white woman? Anila felt her heart loosen and everything poured out of her at once. Her guilt, her fears, her dashed hopes.

  ‘Namaste, Miss Banerjee. I throw myself at your feet. I have lost all the money your bank gave me. I let it be stolen. I will work for nothing to pay it off but I do not think I will ever manage to pay you back.’

  Meera reached out and touched Anila.

  ‘May I sit with you and talk about this? I am sure it is not so very bad. But first, do you mind if this Scottish woman sits with us? She does not understand Hindi so I may have to explain to her in English from time to time.’

  Anila was almost beyond surprise or shock. But why had a woman come all the way from Scotland to see her? She nodded dumbly and motioned to the three women to sit. She moved quickly to retrieve the little stools that her mother and daughter sat on and gave them to the strangers. She and Leena knelt on mats on the bare ground and began automatically to prepare tea. While she was doing this the bank woman was explaining a little of what was going on to the white woman in English – what did Scottish sound like? Anila understood some of the words. But they were speaking so fast. Her father had tried to pass on some of his own education, but there were too many strange words. She became conscious of the buzz outside. Leena saw her ears prick up and explained.

  ‘Anila, half the village has come to see the bank lady and the Scottish lady. And there is an American man – a great big one! – sitting outside. They came in a very powerful car.’

  Leena giggled and Anila could not suppress the smile that came to her lips. Meera too was smiling and explaining to the woman who also smiled. Anila kept staring at her. Anila whispered to Leena in Hindi.

  ‘The Scottish woman is so beautiful. Such white skin.’

  ‘It is their weather, surely. They have no sun, I hear.’

  ‘Her figure is perfect, so shapely in those blue jeans. The men in the village will go mad for her!’

  Ted Saddler sat outside, surrounded by a grinning mass of people. They jammed the narrow alleyway on either side, with a bunch directly in front of him. They were inspecting him hard, and discussing him freely. A stool had been brought so he could be exhibited properly. Meera had told him he wasn’t allowed into the hut under the rules of Purdah. He took off the hat he’d donned when they got out of the jeep. It was already sweat-stained. He used it to fan himself.

  Ted gazed back. He’d got used to close scrutiny by villagers during his Iraq tour. But he felt even more incongruous surrounded by these skinny people with scraps of cloth round them. A lot of bad teeth. Mainly old women and children. He assumed the young men and women were out in the fields. Though god knows what they grew in this heat. He felt the sweat coursing down his back and his sides. The underside of his trousers was damp. He would have given anything for a cool bath and a tall glass of beer with condensation running down the side. A scrawny boy approached, about ten years old and with big white teeth and a crooked arm.

  ‘Please sir? What are you doing here? Are you come to take Mrs Jhabvala away?’ He wore a knotted cloth round his thin hips and a grubby T shirt advertising Singa Beer. His feet were bare, his English laboured but understandable.

  Ted grinned back. ‘No, we’re not taking Mrs Jhabvala away. We are here to help her.’ He went beyond his remit. ‘We are here to help the village.’

  The boy translated and raised excitement through the crowd. He was encouraged to ask more questions.

  ‘Excuse me, what is your mother country, sir?’

  ‘America.
’ It brought a sigh from the crowd as though they had expected it from his size and colour. ‘A place called New York.’

  The sigh grew louder and became an Ahhh. ‘New York!’ interpreted the boy, ‘that is a wonderful city. We have seen it on television.’ He looked troubled. ‘9/11, yes?’ His hand did an aircraft dive. Then the smile came back. He pointed at the hut where Erin had gone.

  ‘Is she your woman?’

  The boy was completely without caution now and brimming with curiosity. Ted toyed with the notion of Erin as his woman. He wished Miss Cool had been around. How would she have answered? Fat chance. Without skipping a beat.

  ‘She is a friend. We are working together. We are working with the People’s Bank.’

  ‘Will you give money to everyone?’

  A woman had whispered the question into the boy’s ear then told her friends. They went quiet waiting for his answer.

  ‘It is not for me to talk about money. It is for Miss Banerjee, the woman who came with me. She is the bank’s representative here. You must ask her.’

  The crowd digested this and there was a general movement closer. Many of the women began to settle down on their hunkers. Ted realised his interrogation could go on for a while. He reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a damp fold of dollars.

  ‘Is there anywhere I can get a beer here, kid?’

  FORTY

  ‘She thinks we have come here to take her away. All her money has been stolen. The other women believe it was the money lender. This is not surprising. Often these men lose their power when the bank comes in and offers fairer loans. The problem is being able to prove this.’

  ‘How big was the loan?’ asked Erin.

  ‘4000 Rupees. Around 65 of your dollars. We gave them 3000. It was meant for use by three women. These two and a friend. I’m not sure how it got to 4000 rupees.’

  Meera turned and asked some more questions. There was rapid fire exchange with the two local women. She turned back to Erin.