Moong Over Microchips

by Venkat Iyer

  4

  Land at Last

  The Search Ends

  A few weeks later, we got a call from Ravi Dharmameher of Charoti village. He said he had heard that we were looking for land and he was interested in selling his farm. I told him I would check it out on my next trip. To my surprise, he told me that I had already seen the land. It was the one at Peth village, the one we had seen in October, which was unaffordable. I told him that we did like the place but it was beyond our budget and we could not afford it. To this, he said, ‘I keep the price high so I can ward off tourists who waste time. But I heard you are very keen and have been coming there very often.’

  I was pleasantly surprised at the conversation. The very next day I rushed to his house at Charoti to discuss the price. Ravi Seth, as he was locally known, was a successful transporter who belonged to the Koli or fisherfolk community. He had bought the farm at a cheap price from someone but had no interest whatsoever in farming. He was willing to sell if it made him a neat profit. I returned home that day for the first time feeling that things were in fact moving in the direction we wished. He had not thrown me out of his house on hearing my offer but had asked for time to think. That was a good sign.

  It was a tense week that passed. I would reach for the phone every day to call him and then stop. I kept telling myself, ‘Don’t show too much interest in the land. Let him call.’ He did call after ten days, by which time I had bitten off most of my nails. He wanted to negotiate. The next day at the farm, he took me around, making it a point to stress various things which would jack up the price. Each time he pointed to something and praised it, I would poke holes in it. We spent half the day haggling over each point till we reached a happy agreement.

  Two months after quitting my job, I had finally found the land I liked. I started to work on the tedious procedure to get the land registered in my name. The first task was to find a good lawyer who would not cheat. A difficult task but we did find one in Palghar who seemed to know the ropes besides being recommended by Raajen. He put a notice in the local paper stating that we intended to buy the land and in case anyone had objections they had to get back within fifteen days.

  The next step was to get a No Objection Certificate (NOC) from the deputy collector’s office which gave us permission to buy the land. Then we were to pay the stamp duty and get our agreement printed on stamp paper. After taking an appointment with the registrar, we were to pay the balance amount to the owner and get our agreement registered. The registered agreement would then be submitted to the local land records officer or ‘talati’ who would issue the relevant documents in my name. It sounded simple and straightforward to me.

  I expressed my surprise to the lawyer at the simple procedure. He smiled as if he had an ace up his sleeve. He told me that we should take it step by step and I should start with the certificate first. I understood the reason for his smile later. I was in for a shock when I reached the old cottage in Dahanu where the revenue department of the government is located. I was greeted effusively by the clerk who even offered me tea before inquiring what I wanted. I told him that I wanted to apply for permission and an NOC to buy land. He gave me a dirty look as if I had committed a crime by mentioning the permission. He said, ‘Please contact some local lawyer who will speak to my senior and all will be done.’ A bit confused about this procedure, I went back to the lawyer who told me that getting the NOC was not easy as it had to be done by underhand means.

  I was shocked when I heard this. I had not expected this at all. Besides, I was not willing to do something above the law. My lawyer patiently explained that this was the usual practice and if I wished to do it my way then I would have to go on alone. The only help he offered was to draw up an application for the permission. He told me to attach proof that either my ancestors or I owned agricultural land somewhere in the country or that I was a graduate in agriculture and then submit the form to the department concerned. He also added that he had little hope that I would get the permission without his intervention but wished me luck.

  I discussed the matter with Meena. She supported my decision and said that under no circumstance would we resort to any underhand deals. It sounded like a great principled stand till we discovered that neither she nor my family had any land with them now. Of course neither of us were agriculture graduates. Years ago both our ancestors had been farmers but over a period of time we had lost control of all our land. It was either sold or taken over by people. I called my mother and she too could not remember any land that belonged to us. All she could recollect was that my father’s father had owned huge tracts of land till the 1970s but no one had any idea what had happened to it after that.

  It looked like our little venture was not even going to take off. I even thought of an agricultural course since at that point that seemed the only option. I bought all the relevant books on the Maharashtra Land and Revenue Act and pored over them, trying to figure a way out of the situation. Buried among the inane texts of law and acts was one special clause which mentioned that the collector had the authority and right to give permission to a person to buy agricultural land even if he did not possess any land currently. Armed with this clause I went and visited the collector at his Thane office.

  The collector was an extremely nice gentleman who agreed the law existed but admitted that they never used it. He said it was a question of setting a precedent. If one person gets the permission, word spreads around and soon enough there would be hundreds lining up. He explained that the law was in place to avoid agricultural land being gobbled up by land sharks. I reasoned that he was right and it may be true that I intended to use the land for agriculture but how would the collector be sure of this? I returned home realizing that our only hope was to get some land record to prove we came from a generation of farmers or go back to college. The other option was to pay up the bribe to the gang of crooks and forget the whole procedure.

  In March 2004, I decided to try my luck and embarked on a journey to my ancestral village somewhere in Kerala. I had never been there and knew nothing other than the name of the village. I called up my father’s brother who lived in Kerala and asked him to help me. He too had no records of any land but at least knew where our village was located.

  A few kilometres from Palakkad, on the way to Thrissur, was a small lane leading through rice fields to our village Kootala. I reached the village and looked around. There were only four houses and a temple left. The entire village had migrated to the city like my father and his family had. I knocked at the first house, explained to them who I was and the reason for my visit and solicited their help. They were not forthcoming at all and denied ever having heard of my family. I was summarily dismissed from there.

  The next house was more receptive and the old lady of the house remembered my grandfather and his family. She had also vaguely heard of my father and the fact that he worked in Mumbai in the Railways. I was glad I had finally managed to connect with someone in the village and explained my situation to her. It was heart-warming to hear that she did remember my grandfather owning huge tracts of agricultural land near the village but she had no idea what had happened to it. She called up her son Kannan who worked a few miles away and explained the situation to him.

  Kannan had worked abroad for a few years before he returned to his village to start a small business. He could understand what I was trying to do by getting into farming and going back to a village. His only lament was that I was doing it in Maharashtra and not in my own village. He was very helpful and promised to take me to the village record office the next day. He also explained the reaction of the first house I had been to. That was the family which had encroached on our ancestral property many years ago and I realized the reason for their animosity. They must have thought I was back to stake claim on the land. I had no such intention and made it clear to Kannan that I just needed a certificate from the officials.

  The next day, we met an old man named Thambi who was a broker in his heyday. He had e
xtensive records of the land in the village and was kind enough to look them up for us. He identified the land that my grandfather had owned and also gave us a survey number which was listed in his books. Armed with this information we reached the local land records office only to find that the number given did not exist in their records. It seemed that recently the government had repeated the survey and renumbered each piece of land. I was losing hope when I remembered that even if the new numbering system was introduced, the records would usually have the old survey number. How else would the officials connect the old documents to the new ones?

  Excited, I requested the officer to look for the survey number we had in the old registers. That seemed like a lot of work and our friend was not very forthcoming. I pleaded with him and explained that if I did not get the records, I would be on the streets begging. I have no idea if it was my pleading or the gentle prodding of Kannan, but he gave in and started looking for the number in the old registers. I could not control my excitement when in ten minutes he looked up and said, ‘Your grandfather has land in the village.’ The land may have been encroached upon but in the records they were still in my grandfather’s name.

  My joy was short-lived for the records were all in Malayalam and I could not read a word of it. I was sure that no officer in Maharashtra would know Malayalam to read it. I requested them to translate it into English and give me a certificate with the relevant details. This was now beyond the jurisdiction of the officer and he ushered us into the office of the area incharge. After another round of detailed explanations of who I was and why I needed the certificate, the lady in question agreed to give it if the tahsildar of the area agreed. She claimed that she did not have the powers to decide on this matter.

  We rushed to the tahsildar who coincidently happened to be from our neighbouring village. He heard my story and then without passing the buck, agreed to give permission. He made it clear that there was no official format for the certificate as these types of certificates were not usually given to anyone. We were told to draw up a draft of the certificate so he could clear its contents. We immediately got a typist who typed out the letter. He stamped his approval on it, wished me all the luck for my venture and packed us off. We went back to the local office and got the certificate signed and stamped by the lady in charge. My trip to Kerala was not wasted. I had managed to get the crucial certificate.

  I quickly faxed the certificate to Meena in Mumbai so she could show it to the revenue officials at Dahanu and get a confirmation that it was enough to convince them that we had land in India. I waited for a day in Kerala hoping to get a quick confirmation. Unfortunately it was not to be so easy. Meena’s visit to the revenue office in Dahanu was fruitless as there was no official present to confirm the document.

  On my return, I rushed to Dahanu to meet the elusive clerk, Mr Z, who looked extremely upset that I had returned with a document stating that our family had land in Kerala. He accepted the document and the application and told me to return after a week. I was jubilant at this breakthrough with the bureaucracy. I was sure that now I would get the permission and would soon be able to close the transaction and own the land.

  My joy was short-lived. When I returned the next week to Mr Z, he informed me with a grin on his face that the papers were with the ‘sahib’. I asked him who the ‘sahib’ was and he said the pranth or the deputy collector of the region. I was told that he was a busy man and not easy to meet but surely my papers would be passed next week. Of course, he informed me that if I was in a hurry I should just meet his senior, Mr X, who would sort out things for me. I knew meeting Mr X would put me in an uncomfortable situation.

  I kept visiting the office every week only to be told that the paper had not yet returned from the ‘sahib’ and maybe I should try my luck the week later. I kept asking Mr Z if I could meet with this ‘sahib’ and plead my case since it was now almost two months since I had applied and even Ravi, the land owner, was calling up as he needed the rest of the money. Finally I was informed that the ‘sahib’ would meet me on any day except Wednesday in the morning. But I would have to come and try my luck as he was a very busy man.

  I went a couple of mornings only to find no one at the office and the elusive ‘sahib’ missing. Each time I was informed that he was on tour or out on the field or had gone to Thane. I had a sinking feeling that they were lying and were just not letting me meet the deputy collector. I decided that I had to try out some other way to meet him.

  From the next day onwards I went to Dahanu by the morning train and instead of going to the office, went and sat at the tea stall just outside the revenue office. I befriended the small boy who delivered tea to the office and told him to tell me if he ever saw the deputy collector in office. I would sit till evening at the tea stall and return by the evening train. This went on every day for a week except on Wednesday when I knew there was no chance of meeting the deputy collector officially. For one whole week there was no sign of the ‘sahib’. It did seem that the deputy collector was a busy man and kept touring all the time. I even met some other poor souls like me who were doing the rounds for their work and were being asked to pay up.

  The tea stall owner, Hari Om, was a kind man who asked me after a week why I was sitting at his tea stall every day. He said, ‘I don’t mind if you sit all day since you eat and drink tea here, but I am just wondering what you want.’ I explained to him that I needed to meet the deputy collector and was trying my best to catch him without the department officer’s knowledge. He calmly told me that the deputy collector had come to office on Wednesday. I explained to him that I had been advised by the officers not to come on Wednesday as he did not meet the public on that day. He almost rolled on the ground with laughter while telling me that I had been taken for a ride. He said, ‘Sahib meets the general public only on Wednesday and not any other day.’ I seethed with anger at Mr Z’s masterly deception.

  I told Meena about the whole episode and how the officers had taken me for a ride. She was livid. We decided that there was only one way out of this mess and that was to catch the deputy collector directly. Within a day or two she managed to get the contact number of the deputy collector from some friends in Dahanu and called him up. She explained to him that we needed to meet up with him for some land matter and requested an appointment. We were surprised when he gave the appointment for the following Wednesday.

  Next week on Wednesday, I reached the revenue office early. I waited outside at Hari Om’s tea stall. A while later Hari Om pointed to the official jeep of the deputy collector and said, ‘There comes your sahib.’ I called him up on his mobile after ten minutes and asked him when I could meet him. He paused for a moment before saying, ‘Why don’t you drop in now if you are in Dahanu?’ I barged into the office and ran up the stairs to the first floor where his office was located. I gave my card to the sepoy and waited outside. After what seemed like forever but was actually five minutes, I was ushered into his office.

  The pranth was a young man in his late thirties who smiled kindly at me and asked me to be seated. He completed the paperwork he was doing and then asked me what the matter was. I explained the entire story to him, leaving out portions where I had been asked to contact Mr X. He listened to me patiently, went through the documents I gave him and then called for Mr Z.

  On seeing me seated opposite the ‘sahib’, Mr Z almost burst a blood vessel but managed to maintain his composure. The deputy collector thrust my papers at him and asked him why there was a delay in processing them. Mr Z mumbled and fumbled before informing his boss that the papers were in the drawer of some other officer who was on leave and hence the delay. The deputy collector told him to process the papers at the earliest and dismissed him. The pranth had an IBM desktop on his table and we started talking about the computer and some minor problems he had with it. I helped him out with the settings and he seemed pleased with the solution I offered him. We chatted for some time over a cup of tea and I left with assurances from him that my w
ork would be done soon.

  As I triumphantly walked down the stairs I saw a purple-faced Mr Z waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. He rudely asked me why I had gone to see his boss. I calmly told him that it was he himself who had said the papers were with the boss and so I went to ask about it. I asked him when I should return to collect my certificate. He said next week. I gently told him that he would have to be more specific. He muttered Tuesday and walked away. The next Tuesday I landed up at the office and a sullen Mr Z handed the certificate to me.

  He was so shameless that after giving me the certificate, he asked me if I would part with some money as a tip. I replied in the negative and told him that he was getting his salary which should be enough for him to survive. To this he replied that their salaries had not come for the last three months and he was a poor man. This was now downright begging for money. I asked him if I should go and talk to the deputy collector and inform him that his staff were going hungry as their salaries were not being paid on time. He was quiet after that and I walked out of the corrupt revenue office with the NOC in my hand.

  It was the last week of May 2004. It had taken me almost four months and innumerous trips to Dahanu to get the certificate. Yet, it was worth it. We had not paid a single paisa to get this work done. It just meant that with a lot of effort and patience it was possible to beat corruption, but that was a luxury not everyone had.

  The lawyer could not believe that we did not pay a bribe. Finally, on 3 June 2004, we managed to get the agreement registered after paying the stamp duty and fee. Immediately after the registration, I rushed to the local talati’s office and filed an application to change the land records to my name. After the long wait, I would finally be the proud owner of land.