Where Angels Prey (9 page)

“Of course, Bob, I’d be glad to be of help. Maybe we could look at running a parallel story if something big comes out of it, you know, sort of like a joint operation!”

Bob smiled, thinking no journalist worth his salt would ever be guided by pure altruism when it came to a story that had the kind of ramifications as this one did.

A loud ping brings Bob back to the present.

It is the promised mail from Maarten.

Bob feels an all-too-familiar tingle at the back of his neck, a definite indication that he is on the verge of making an important breakthrough.

He quickly opens the mail and starts scanning through the documents Maarten has sent him. His instinct had not let him down after all. They were definitely onto something big here.

He suddenly has an epiphany and quickly glances at his watch. Singapore was just two and a half hours ahead of India. It must be late evening there.

He picks up his phone and dials Ron Whitefield, his colleague in Singapore, even as his mind continues to process all the information that he has received in the last few hours.

There is a long ring at the other end before the call goes through to Ron’s voicemail.

Bob’s lips curve in a faint smile as he listens to Ron, in his clipped British accent, request his caller to leave their name and number after a beep.

“Ron, this is Bob, Robert Bradlee from the New York bureau. Please call me the minute you hear this...top urgent!”

Bob slumps down into the couch, wondering idly if Lady Luck had favoured Chandresh too.

He discreetly looks at his watch. It has been three hours since he was told to wait. He wonders if there is any point to it. Maybe he would be summarily dismissed in another hour or two?

“Do you have any idea when Ms Kumudini is likely to meet me?”

The Boxer gives him a baleful glance in response.

“Firstly, you do not have an appointment. Secondly, she
has been kind enough to accept your request!”

Thirdly, shut up unless you want your face rearranged
, Chandresh thinks to himself.

He pulls out his phone, thinking of calling Bob. But the phone network seems weak and anyway, there is not much he can tell Bob without Radhakrishna listening in. He slips his phone back into his pocket and leans back in his chair.

Just then, the peon enters with a cup of tea.

For all his hostility, Radhakrishna has been a thoughtful host. This is the third cup of tea he has been served. A plate of assorted biscuits lies on the table next to him. Chandresh wonders idly if the hospitality is on Kumudini Potluri’s orders.

Chandresh gives the peon a friendly smile, who seems about to respond but catches Radhakrishna’s eye and scurries away after placing the cup noisily on the table.

Chandresh smiles determinedly at Radhakrishna and receives a glowering look in response.

Shrugging, Chandresh picks up the cup. The tea is particularly sweet, almost as if to make up for the company.
He had taken leave of Bob at the main road leading to the Gandhipura market more than five hours ago.

He had hailed the first auto that came his way.

“Padmavathi Nagar
pothara
?”

Thankfully, the driver agreed without any fuss—a pleasant change from his whimsical city-bred colleagues who were notorious for quoting exorbitant amounts.

The auto driver politely requested him to move towards his right to ensure balance. A tad puzzled, Chandresh nevertheless tried to comply and settled down on the middle of the seat.

During the bumpy ride through pot-holed streets, Chandresh wondered how to explain his sudden appearance to Kumudini and get her to agree to an interview. They were barely halfway when his reverie was broken by a huge thud. The auto toppled to the left and came to a screeching halt. Chandresh was thrown to the side and hit his head against a rod. It took him some time to recover and compose himself. As he had stepped out, he saw that the left wheel had come off. Even while profusely apologizing, the auto driver pointed out that he had asked Chandresh to sit to the extreme right and not dead centre.

Still smarting from the blow to his head, Chandresh glared at him and handed him a twenty-rupee note before walking away.

Although Ramu had mentioned a landmark or two while scribbling down the school’s address on a piece of paper, Chandresh kept getting lost and retracing his steps. It turned out that the auto had dropped him off at least a couple of kilometres away from his destination. As he plodded on in the oppressive heat, he realized he had no way of knowing if his quest was even going to yield any returns, but he couldn’t possibly turn back.

Finally, he had come upon a half broken board that read Rajaji Nagar. Such was the joy he had felt on spotting the board that he had wondered idly if he would be happier standing at the pearly gates! Yet another passerby had given him directions to Sowjanya International School and kindly added that it was hardly a three minute walk from where they stood. Chandresh was hard pressed not to give him a hug out of sheer relief.

Finally, he stood before the massive gate that guarded the premises of Sowjanya International School. As he made to enter, his path was barred by a uniformed guard with a large moustache, an abrasive voice and a hand on his shoulder.

Chandresh mustered his most polite tone.

“Excuse me, I am here to meet...”

“No one is allowed to go in. The school is closed for two days.”

Clearly, the management wanted to protect itself from nosy intruders.

Chandresh realized that he would never get into the compound if he were to reveal his true identity. One look at the high compound walls revealed that stealth wouldn’t work either. So how to get past Mr Moustache?

After some quick thinking, he decided that aggression would be the best way forward.

“If you don’t let me go in, you are bound to lose your job!”

That got him the man’s attention. His composure cracked and an element of uncertainty crept into his body language.

“Listen, I am from the auditor’s office. The income tax guys are coming again. I have some important papers here that I need to get to your boss before they arrive. If you don’t let me in, I’ll simply take them back. There will be a lot of trouble thereafter and your boss surely won’t be happy to know that you were the cause!”

The man’s face lost all colour and Chandresh knew his ploy had worked.
“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.

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?”