MONEY TREE (41 page)

‘But what is the noise? What are they saying?’

‘It is just a bunch of mad people. Do not pay them mind.’

‘But we have to get to the court. We have a trial today.’

The policeman took a closer interest in them. He peered into the car and inspected
Ramesh’s face in the front seat. Then he peered at the two men in the back.

‘Maybe you should be walking to the court? But I am not thinking you will get through today. I do not think the judges even will be able to get through.’

Ramesh and his men climbed out of the car and pressed forward into the crowd. Suddenly there were cries about them.

‘Look! It is him! It is
Ramesh Banerjee!

‘Sir, Sir! We are here for you!

‘Let him through! Let Ramesh through!’

A phalanx of self appointed guardians formed in front and to the side of
Ramesh and his party and began to cut a swathe through the mass of people. Their shouts cleaved a path like a hot poker pushing steadily into pat of ghee. As they progressed, the crowd either side picked up the news and a steady chanting began.

‘
Ramesh, Ramesh, Ramesh!’

‘My goodness, they are going to make you Emperor I think,’ shouted CJ  in wonder. He smiled at the crowd to show them he was friendly.

‘Or lynch me,’ shouted Ramesh back at  him.

Steadily they moved on and the top cornices of the Supreme Court building could now be seen above the crowd. The chanting of the crowd immediately around them had changed to tie in with the better established chorus at the centre of the mass. Now t
hey could make out the words.

‘Bank for the poor!

Bank for the poor!

Don’t let them kill

The bank for the poor!’

R
ound and round went the simple rhyme like a temple chant. Banners grew in size and number with the noise and the chanting. Yet there was no bad mood about the crowd. It was festive. People were wearing flowers and carrying children on their shoulders. They were rough people, poor people mainly, but here and there was a well dressed Indian and the odd Westerner. Ramesh moved forward in an increasing daze. The day was growing crazier by the hour. But something in his heart was lifting and lightening. He smiled and waved and called his thanks as they made their triumphal progress.

Without warning
they found themselves pressed up against waist-high metal barriers that marked the edge of the crowd’s sway. Beyond was an open space with some figures planted on the steps leading up to the court. Flustered policemen were holding tight to the barriers, keeping them from being tipped over. Ramesh worked to the front.

‘I am in court this morning officer!’ He had to shout. ‘I must get through, please.’

‘Who are you?!’ shouted back the policeman,

Ramesh
felt a little silly in the circumstances. ‘I am Ramesh Banerjee.’

The policeman called to a sub-inspec
tor who was directing affairs. The sub-inspector summoned a harassed inspector who demanded proof of Ramesh’s identity. A barrier was pulled back and one by one the three men were let through. As they walked towards the steps and what looked like a camera crew, a shout went up like thunder behind them. The roar of support went on for long seconds and Ramesh wondered what he had let loose. A young Indian woman was running towards him. His day was complete.

‘Meera! What are you doing here?!’

‘Come to support my father!’ She gained another roar from the crowd as she hugged him and was hugged back.

‘Was this your doing, daughter? I cannot
approve of mob rule you know.’

The light in his eyes belied his words.

‘Not me. Your customers’. Come and meet the woman who started this.’

They moved hand in hand towards the camera. It was being held by one man and being directed by another tall westerner with a microphone in his hand. A white woman stood beside him. Alongside her was an Indian woman with the fold of her sari pulled up over her h
air. Her arms were wrapped round a little girl who stood in front of her. Both had the same big serious eyes. The white people’s faces came into focus, but they looked different these two.

Ted
Saddler was thinner and browner and had a large plaster on his head; Erin Wishart looked ten years younger and happier. And her hair was different. Was she using henna? What had he done? What had they done? As they got within range he could hear Ted speaking into the microphone. He was wearing headphones.

‘I’m now about to speak to
Ramesh Banerjee the Chief Executive Officer of the People’s Bank.’ Ted held out his hand and shook Ramesh’s.

‘Mr Banerjee, are you aware of the sensational overnight revelations about the plot to close down your bank?’

‘I have read some of this in the papers and seen the news.’

‘And what would you like to say about it, sir?’

Ramesh gave himself a second or two to think. ‘I would like to say how sorry I am for the misguided man who has been trying to close me down.’

Ted
looked surprised. ‘You mean Warwick Stanstead, the CEO of Global American. The man who has apparently tried every dirty trick in the book to stop you?’

‘If the reports are accurate, yes. It is a great tragedy when a man is driven to such lengths. It is the curse of our age. None of us starts out wanting to be more than we are. The pressures in our society have many harmful effects, and some of us fare worse than others because of flaws in our make-up.’

‘A generous interpretation sir. But what do you think these revelations mean for the trial today? Do you think the Indian government can possibly press ahead under the circumstances?’

‘That is not for me to say. We are here to defend ourselves in a court of law. If these so–called revelations provide us with more evidence to defend ourselves then that is good. But forgive me, we do not want to keep the judges waiting.’

‘One last question sir. Did you organise these crowds of supporters today?’

Ramesh
turned round and looked at the multitude packing the roads and stretching as far as he could see. The camera swung with him to show the world. Then it cut back to a close-up of the wonder on Ramesh’s face.

‘No, I did not. I am astonished. I don’t really know who they are.’

‘I can say who they are.’

Meera stepped into the camera a
ngle and held her father’s arm.

‘They are the customers of my father’s bank. They are the poor people of India. The ones that my father’s bank has helped. This woman,’ she tugged a shy Anila into the shot, ‘is the villager who started it all. She is a cu
stomer of our bank and she tweeted that she was going to Delhi to support my father and telling them they should do the same.’

‘What is your name?’

Ted held the microphone out to Anila and smiled over the top of it. Erin smiled behind him and waved her arms in encouragement.

‘My name is Anila Jhabvala.’

‘Why did you organise this Anila?’

Meera translated to make sure she’d understood it.
             

Anila looked panic-stricken for a moment, but then she
responded steadily and clearly.

‘I did not
organise this. I sent a tweet on the Internet,’ she said with a mix of embarrassment and pride. ‘I told everyone I was going to Delhi to show my support. I did it for this good man.’

‘Why is he a good man?’

‘He saved me. He saved all of us.’

The camera swung round to follow her hand and take in the crowd. Then it panned back for a clos
e-up on Anila and her daughter.

‘No-one else would help us. He gave us…’ she turned to Meera and asked for the English word. ‘He gave us dignity…’ She smiled down on her daughter and stroked her upturned face. ‘…and hope.’

Her face shone with simple conviction. It was to be the definitive news shot of the day. It would end up on nearly every channel, web site, YouTube clip and newspaper across the globe. Ted knew a headline grabbing sound-bite when he heard it. He thanked her and turned the camera on himself.

‘Dignity is a word you don’t hear much around big corporations these days. And certainly those of you who’ve read or listened to the material on the world’s most famous web site – since yesterday - won’t associate dignity with what’s been happening lately at Global Ameri
can and the World Bank itself.’

He paused, looking for the words. ‘I started as a sceptic about this People’s Bank. A few weeks ago I was writing about them as if they were robbing the poorest of the poor. Nothing gives me greater ple
asure than to say I was wrong.’

The camera lens mov
ed closer for a full face shot.

‘I’ve been out to a village. A dirt-poor village in the middle of a man-made desert. I met some of the people there. In particular I met one young woman –you just heard
her.’ He smiled to Anila off camera. ‘Anila and her friends showed me a level of courage and determination that shamed me for making so little of the talents and opportunities I’ve had in the west.’

‘I’ve also spent time with the managers and the staff of this bank. And I’m standing here today in front of a crowd of maybe a half a million customers of this bank. Do they look to you lik
e people that have been robbed?’

He let the camera pan the sea of smiling faces.

‘Me neither. Nor do I think that the prosecution team, in this building behind me, will find any evidence for any of their charges now.

‘What we have to ask ourselves is what
we can learn from this sorry story. Maybe Ramesh Banerjee, the man we just interviewed, had it about right: the curse of our age is losing our perspective. Being blinded by money or power - or the possessions they bring - so that we forget what’s really important. So that the soul dries up.’

The camera held
Ted’s burning gaze for a long, silent three seconds, then panned back to show him against the massed and festive crowd.

‘
It’s not too late. For any of us.’ He paused. ‘The Tribune will be keeping you up to date with events as they unfold here in New Delhi and in New York. This is Ted Saddler, New York Tribune, signing off.’

In his ears as the shot was cut,
came the voice of Stan Coleman.

‘Getting religion,
Ted?  Nice job. Stick with this and we’ve got another Pulitzer.’

Ted
replied into the throat mike. ‘You weren’t listening Stan. That’s where I went off the rails before.’

E
ight hours later, as dawn swept over Manhattan, Warwick Stanstead sat at his desk without a friend in the world. Technicians had worked through the night to get a rudimentary phone and computer system up and running using tablets and laptops linked by off-the-shelf WiFi packs. Warwick had been using the phone to call in favours and make appeals to a shocked board of directors and senior figures in the establishment. The President of the World Bank was not taking his calls; not taking any calls. As news of the revelations on the web site reverberated, the World Bank was effectively incommunicado.

Warwick got up and moved to the open balcony door, to watch the yellow light creep over the peaks and dip into the gulleys. The air conditioning was still out and the cool air was welcome. But neither the steadily increasing noise of the traffic heading into the city, nor the warm strokes of the sun, were getting through to him. In his mind he was running again. But this time he could see what he was running from. Having seen some of the material beforehand, Warwick was less minded to plough through it again.

His body was on fire, aching and shivering. The pain was deep in the bones. Hot metal had replaced the marrow. There was no respite, no matter how much Tylenol he swallowed. He lost count of the unproductive retching in his washroom. Hardest to take were the bouts of sneezing. It was like the worst hay fever; thirty, forty, countless sneezes that wracked his whole body and left him trembling and exhausted on the floor of his office. He kept dragging himself onto his feet, and pouring water down his throat. But nothing quenched the agony or the all consuming need for just one big hit of smack. Just one would do it. Then he could cope. He could get through this and then take the cure.

But something in him knew he had to take the punishment.
If he could get through withdrawal he could get through the financial disaster. It’s how he succeeded. It’s who he was. Suck it up!

Between bouts of pain he
rounded up and deployed his legal forces. They were rousing senior figures in the justice system to get court orders to ban the web site and sue the backside off the Tribune. That goddamn broadcast from Delhi seemed to be in a loop on all channels. He wanted to wipe the smug look off that reporter’s face; him and Miss Erin fucking Wishart!

H
e had his PR team putting out the line that the web site lies were part of the vicious hacking attack that had brought down the bank. The web site was muck and deception, and a deliberate and vile attempt to shatter both Warwick’s image and that of the bank. But the feedback was that the news services weren’t buying the bank’s version. Even if they did, it was still such a horrible story that the mud would never lift.