Death of a Moneylender

Kota Neelima

Description

Falak, a young journalist from Delhi, is assigned to a remote village in south-central India where a moneylender is found dead, hung from a lamp post in front of his house by an entire village united against injustice. Falak coldly hunts the story for a page-one byline. He does not allow a corrective conscience, and attitude that had in the past cost him his relationship with Vani, a journalist from a rival newspaper. Within hours of reaching the village, his story is ready - a villainous moneylender killed by long-suffering villagers. But Falak has also unearthed a disconcerting fact: the moneylender was a kind-hearted, generous man whose death was being used to intimidate other moneylenders. Outstanding loans are written off to buy peace with villagers, but the politically well-connected and dangerous moneylenders plan a brutal retribution. Shambu, a farmer, seems to have masterminded the death with Bhanu, the moneylender's son. Falak hates the half-truth he reports, but covets the byline it gets him. Truth rescues him from this twilight of dilemma. It devastates him, transforms him. And ironically, also makes him lie.

Sujets

• Thrillers
• Rural
• Neelima Azeem
• Rural area
• Kota
• India
• Campagne
• Suspense
• Saga
• Suicide
• Death
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Roli Books
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789351940074
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

About the Book
Falak, a young journalist from Delhi, is assigned to a remote village in south-central India where a moneylender is found dead, hung from a lamp post in front of his house by an entire village united against injustice. Falak coldly hunts the story for a page-one byline. He does not allow a corrective conscience, and attitude that had in the past cost him his relationship with Vani, a journalist from a rival newspaper. Within hours of reaching the village, his story is ready - a villainous moneylender killed by long-suffering villagers. But Falak has also unearthed a disconcerting fact: the moneylender was a kind-hearted, generous man whose death was being used to intimidate other moneylenders. Outstanding loans are written off to buy peace with villagers, but the politically well-connected and dangerous moneylenders plan a brutal retribution. Shambu, a farmer, seems to have masterminded the death with Bhanu, the moneylender's son. Falak hates the half-truth he reports, but covets the byline it gets him. Truth rescues him from this twilight of dilemma. It devastates him, transforms him. And ironically, also makes him lie.
DEATH OF A MONEYLENDER
Kota Neelima has been a journalist for fifteen years, starting her tenure in the profession while studying at the Jawaharlal Nehru University, Delhi. She writes on politics, rural economy and agriculture.
Her first novel Riverstones (2007) was about the extent and causes of rural despair leading to farmer suicides and a comment on the response of journalists and media houses to such issues. The author is also an impressionist-abstract painter and lives in Delhi with her husband.

ROLI BOOKS
This digital edition published in 2014
First published in 2006 by IndiaInk An Imprint of Roli Books Pvt. Ltd M-75, Greater Kailash- II Market New Delhi 110 048 Phone: ++91 (011) 40682000 Email: [e-mail] Website: www.rolibooks.com
Copyright © Kota Neelima 2006
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, print reproduction, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Roli Books. Any unauthorized distribution of this e-book may be considered a direct infringement of copyright and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Cover design: Nitisha Mehta Sharma
All statistics quoted in the book are updated till September 2009.
eISBN: 978-93-5194-007-4
All rights reserved. This e-book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published.
Acknowledgements
As in the case of most literary works, everyone I met and knew about, everything I found out and felt, has had something to do with this book. It must be my human failing that I find it impossible to thank each and can only inadequately refer to some.
I am grateful for the experience of working for over a decade at The Indian Express , an exceptional newspaper; people I wrote about, strangers, friends, indelible memories; people I wrote for, strangers, readers, invisible heartstrings. And my sources, on- and off-the-record, secret windows of light for all journalists.
My tribute to the farmers of India, their courage and dignity, living on the fringe of hope, braving nature and governments, forgiving both.
My gratitude to government officials, NGOs and activists for giving both sides of the story…each one as important as the other.
This book would not have been possible without the unwavering faith that Mr Pramod Kapoor of Roli Books placed in the concept. My thanks to Ms Nandita Bhardwaj for making difficult things seem easy.
To my friend Ms Ratna Sahai, my special thanks for bringing to the book her invaluable experience and skill. To Antony Joseph, Shikha Sharma, Sachin and Jyotsna Sachdeva, thanks for sharing critical thoughts about the book. And to my assistant, Shravan Prajapat, for all the help.
I thank my family, especially my mother, Mrs K. Uma Sarma, for keeping faith in me to be like my father. And my husband, Pawan Khera, for guiding me with research and understanding.
To my father Dr K.V.S. Rama Sarma
1
It felt like a blind chase through the dark, a chase in which the good was losing to the evil and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Not even god.
Not that the man sitting next to the window in that night train was seeking god to save him from the raging storm outside. But he vaguely recalled that divine intervention was expected in hopeless cases to help the good triumph.
He was an honest man, at least when confessing to himself, and he had to admit he could never qualify for god’s protection on those grounds.
Despite the insulation of the compartment, he could hear the wind howling outside and the brutal force of the rain. The train was losing speed, battling the elements.
Lightning slashed purple across the skies, revealing for a moment the desolate countryside the south-central zone train was traversing. It made him look out of the window. But the darkness that followed the light was deeper and darker than before, and Falak stared at the black granite world outside.
The glass reflected the brightly lit cabin behind him and his face with the look of helplessness on it. It was uncharacteristic, he knew, and also uncomplimentary. He needed to calm his nerves, he realized.
After a brief effort, he checked again. He found resignation instead and gave up, smiling to himself. The large brown eyes sparkled back at him, sharing the irony of the moment. He did not care, never had. And now, god did not seem to care either.
At the newspaper where he worked, Falak had a reputation for being always composed even in the most trying circumstances. His unfailing ability to retain the sense of news in all situations was proved repeatedly on tough assignments.
When he joined the profession, and the present job, four years back, this nonchalance gave rise to disbelief among his seniors. They could not conceive how a 25-year-old, fresh out of university, could return untouched from upsetting scenes of accidents, riots and murders, with coldly balanced stories. If there were things that penetrated Falak s armour of indifference, they were not known to others, like the little fact he could not stand the sight of his own blood.
Soon, he became an indispensable member of the reporting team in Delhi, the man sent to the worst and best news spots of the country.
If time was generous with opportunity, he wasted none of it in proving his other qualities. Of them was an extreme tenacity for pursuing story leads and an intuition for sniffing out news from information haystacks.
Few knew, though some suspected, that this unrelenting deliberation of purpose was based on a well-calculated timetable for success and progress in the profession.
He left nothing that happened to his life and career to chance. After a degree in mass communication, Falak chose this newspaper for his first job following a careful comparison of career prospects in four different organizations where he had found placements.
From the moment he was recruited as a trainee, his obsession was to reach the next level. He learnt fast, and learnt the right things.
Keen observation taught him what the university could not. He discovered while it was motivation that got journalists out of bed early and running against time, gathering news every day, it was motivation itself that was in short supply always. So, he never turned down an assignment, pushing to score every time in a contest, even at the cost of personal comfort. This brought him quickly to the notice of the bosses.
The regularity of the out-ofturn promotions he received made him speed past his colleagues in the race to the head of the team. The last promotion, which made him deputy chief reporter, was very special to him because it finally reconciled his parents to his choice of profession. Both lawyers, they had wanted Falak to follow in their footsteps, marry and settle down to a predictable life. Their doubts about his decision had left him alone on the new course, with no one to turn to in crises. At first he panicked and, to survive, withdrew himself from exposure to emotion and pain. Later, it became a habit. Now, he laughed to himself when sometimes people attributed his success to his enigmatic indifference.
Falak frowned thoughtfully at his reflection in the train window. He wondered if the thick glass pane was making up the dark circles under his eyes. But he knew nothing could exaggerate those thin cheeks and gaunt look, or the way the shirt hung loosely from his shoulders. He was too overworked, taking up one assignment after another in the last few weeks, disregarding the need for rest, which he was feeling increasingly.
But the dark circles seemed to have a silver lining.
Past experience proved the haggard look was an asset. It made him look older. That was important to him, because he was a man who had no patience with ageing.
People seemed to confide more easily in a man who appeared older and worn by vagaries of life. His typical silence appeared like the patience of someone who knew failure. His conceit appeared like the cynicism of the common man.
People expected nothing extraordinary from him; they retold their stories for sympathy and got it. They never even noticed that he took away parts of their lives that were never meant for sharing.
As another flash of lightning streaked the skies, highlighting the rain that fell in sheets, Falak closed his tired eyes and str