<div>Raghav Jaikar burst into his tiny two-room home and did a small jig for his children who were eating lunch. They burst into peals of laughter, as he said, miming Rajesh Khanna and waving a packet at wife Raksha, “<em>Hum gaadi wale ho gaye, Pushpa, hum gaadiwale ho gaye</em>!’” Raksha, joining in the laughter, inquired, “Everything is fine <em>na</em>? <em>Kuchh problem to nahi hoga</em>?”<br><br>In a country of such abundance, where financial scams ran in lakhs of crores, a small tailor had taken a small loan for a small car costing a small sum of Rs 3 lakh.<br><br>“<em>Arre</em>!,” said Raghav, “<em>kya</em> problem hoga? We are earning well; by bappa’s grace, we will pay Rs 10,260 every month as EMI.” He gave her Rs 1,001, and said, “Go, give this to your <em>Bappa</em>. Today, I will also go with you to Siddhivinayak temple.” And he looked at her with eyes that had aged with toil, eyes that dealt with time on a moment-to -moment basis, uncomplainingly. Raghav was a man who spoke little. His audience was made up of coloured fabric, threads, buttons, laces, trimmings, pipings, patchworks and his Lucky sewing machine. They had both actually been working so hard that they did not notice time’s signature on their skins. Raksha, too, had begun to sprout tiny grey hair around her temples... <em>Okay, okay</em>, he thought, warding off the emotions, <em>they would go today to Siddhivinayak</em>.<br><br>The Jaikars were tailors who began nine years ago, making blouses and petticoats, and chemises for little girls. With leftover fabric they made innerwear for children, which always got sold, helping create a small elbow space in their household budget.<br><br>And so they plodded over the years, surrendering to their tailoring acumen and allowing it to tailor what it wished through them. Soon, Raksha and Raghav began collecting more customers. Some came to get saris hemmed with the fall, or some fancy blouse worn by Madhuri Dixit copied from covers of torn magazines that found their way to the little town of Kalpasha, on Mumbai’s outskirts.<br><br>Soon, traders and shopowners noticed their skills. The clothes the businessmen bought from the city were terrible. To get the better ones, they would have to go deep into the city, which was fraught with higher costs, which would have to be passed on to the consumer, making clothes expensive. So they touched only the outskirts and bought the glitzy stuff, which did not last; the colours ran, buttons broke, tinsels crushed...<br><br>Raghav and Raksha began to make clothes, taking styles from the photographs of star children, models, and so forth... and these clothes were much liked by the people. Before long, they were tailoring clothes that the shops bought and sold as readymade garments. The shops began to provide them with fabric and related material, along with the orders. Once the Jaikars relocated to distant suburban Mumbai, the number of customers increased, and Raghav began to find it tedious to transport the fabric or the readymades back to the shops. Usually, the traders themselves bought cut pieces from fairs and sales in a cost-efficiency bid; these never came in any packing, but as loose bits. The traders did not number them but invoiced him for, say, ‘215 pieces of cloth’, stating a value against them, but that was neither here nor there. And Raksha feared they would lose pieces in transit.<br><br>Raghav contemplated buying a car. After all, business was growing. He and Raksha met Vinayak, who was a caterer for weddings. He had bought a car last year. Was he able to manage the EMIs? Was the system easy?<br><br>Vinayak Talpade had bought a car from Peacock Ltd, a car dealer in Mumbai. “There is too much running around in this if you go to a car dealer who is not attached to a finance company. Oh yes, financing works best for people like us. How else do we take our businesses forward?” he said.<br><br>Vinayak told the Jaikars this was the simplest way to do it; since Peacock had a tie-up with Ambara Ltd, the financing would be simple. “They are decent people; no nonsense, no bribes, no <em>jhanjha</em>t,” he said. That the entire transaction would be carried out “under the same roof” without having to run around, made both Raghav and Raksha feel special. How much the country had changed, they exclaimed. And no <em>chai-paani </em>(bribes) on top of that!</div><div> </div><div>break-page-break</div><div> </div><div>Raghav was probably the first in his family to take a loan. He was excited about buying a car, and he believed the system would be as excited about guiding him as it had been goading him to take a loan. He felt he was moving up professionally; now he too could seriously be called a ‘businessman’, because in his mind, a businessman was one who had a car, a set of keys hanging by the loop on his thumb, and a mobile phone tucked in between. Raghav was the new Indian in new India where, they say, the sky is the limit for success. And Raghav and Raksha worked so hard; everyone in the neighbourhood knew that.<br><br>Raghav also felt at peace that now he would not have to run around in autos and taxis carrying <em>chindis </em>(fabric bits) with him. And how many trips they made, oh God! His back hurt a lot with all those bumpy rides.<br><br>Now, Raksha was asking, “Did the finance officer ask you about how much money you would put on the table? Or if you can make ends meet after paying the EMI? The other day, I felt he was unsure... He must have been so happy for you!”<br><br><strong>Raghav:</strong> <em>Arre nahin re</em>! It was a plain business discussion without any emotion or dramatics.<br><br><strong>Raksha:</strong> Next year-end our fists will be tight as Mauli (Raghav’ sister) is getting married. If our EMIs get delayed, what happens?<br><br><strong>Raghav:</strong> I asked him. And he said, Don’t worry, but EMIs will have to be paid with the penalty...<br><br>[Raghav belonged to a new India which, like America before its recession, had begun to live out of its current income and working capital, and depended more on plastic money and future earning ability. He was a target for the new-world moneylenders, in an economy where money could be bought just like you could Bedekar’s <em>lonche</em>.<br><br>Raghav came from a family that was conservative and careful with money. Luxuries were unheard of. So, he was pleased that he would be able to take his parents out in a <em>gaad</em>i. He recalled the Maruti ads; yes, he would ask his mother to break a coconut in front of the car and thank the goddess of wealth and the god of machines.<br><br>At his meeting with the finance company man, there was not a hitch. Raghav was happy that he could simply sign and return to work. The car would be a capital asset for their livelihoods. They had a motorcycle, but that didn’t help in their business. So, they had taken the decision to purchase a new car with financial aid.<br><br>When Raghav went to the home of Ramakant Joshi — in the neighbourhood high-rise where Raksha had a number of women clients, including Joshi’s daughters-in law — with <em>pedhas</em> from the Siddhivinayak temple, the good gent had asked if he had done financial planning. “<em>Mhanje</em>?” Raghav had asked. Joshi had laughed through his phlegm, “<em>Aaata kaay boloo mee</em>? There is no Marathi translation for that.”<br><br>But later Joshi told his anxious wife that the Jaikars probably thought that their income would suffice. “They do not realise how finance companies load the interest and penalties for delays in payment.” Mrs Joshi pursed her lips and kept Rs 11 in a betel leaf at the feet of her Vithoba with a warning not to trouble poor Raghav. As for Raghav, yes, he and Raksha had done a back-of-the-envelope calculation, which is even today on their window pane, stuck with a bit of cooked rice.<br><br>Joshi’s audience that evening at the Walker’s Park were intent as they heard the degeneration of India from him: “This is the crux of the pain, of their (Jaikars’) situation. This is the curse of being illiterate in India, because it hinges on ignorance and being made a scapegoat. Loans are sold with glee, but thereafter the environment will not provide honest information and systems that are engineered to protect. The Jaikars see the acquisition or the plan to acquire a car as a solution and an ability to improve their business logistics. Because they do not know that solution engineers come mired in greed and an agenda to destroy!”<br> </div><div>break-page-break</div><div><br>This morning’s jig for the kids was after three hours at Peacock Dealers. Three days ago, when he and Raksha had visited Peacock, within 15 minutes of their dialogue with the dealer, Aseem Tolani, another man had joined in. It transpired that the man, Hiren Dholakia, was a representative of the finance company Ambara Ltd, and operated from the showroom’s premises.<br><br>Tolani, the dealer, had realised that the Jaikars were going to make their decision right there, and that they had no plans of seeing another dealer or other brands of cars. Sure enough, within minutes, they had selected the car and the colour. Now, Dholakia spread out a whole bunch of documents on his table, all in English, naturally, and flashing his business smile asked them to sit down. Spealing in simple Hindi woven in sing-a-song Indianese, he explained how the vehicle would be financed and the amount and tenure of the EMIs — which would be slightly over Rs 10,000 per month.<br><br>The only question the Jaikars asked was what would happen in case of a delay. Dholakia replied, “Then the EMI would have to be paid along with a fine (possibly, he meant penal interest and delayed payment charges.) ”<br><br>Dholakia was a sweet talker and the Jaikars felt overwhelmed at first. Tea was served to them in upper-class bone china. Sitting in Tolani’s airy, glitzy showroom with numerous shiny cars, and seeing Dholakia and Tolani ‘suited-booted’, the Jaikars felt underdressed and inhibited. Presently, they did not consider it necessary to ask any more questions.<br><br>As for Dholakia, he didn’t need to do any hardsell — if Raghav was buying from Peacock, he had no choice but to take his loan from Ambara as it had a “monopolistic” tie-up with Peacock. So Dholakia was in no hurry either. While anybody else in a competitive situation would have hastened to sign up the Jaikars, Dholakia was laid back.<br><br><img align="middle" alt="" height="330" hspace="6" src="/image/image_gallery?uuid=1529e833-f216-40cf-8708-cfb35adefc06&groupId=222852&t=1363966757640" vspace="6" width="600"><br><br>This morning, Raghav had gone and presented his bank statement, etc., to Dholakia and returned home with a ‘Yes’ from Ambara. Dholakia had said he would visit their home after a week to verify the residential address, and then they would complete the finance formalities. Raghav felt at peace. And peace had caused him to do that jig this morning for his kids.<br><br>Happiness spread around the small Jaikar home.<br><br>Four days later, as they sat down for lunch with the kids who had just returned from school, Dholakia materialised at their iron grill door, wearing a blue shirt. He rang the doorbell even after seeing that they were eating. Nandita, Raghav’s 10-year-old daughter, ran and opened the door to let him in. Dholakia did not apologise for showing up without informing. He had brought the loan agreement papers to get their signatures.<br> <br>Raghav rushed about to find place for Dholakia to sit, and said, “Please leave the agreement with me. I will have my nephew explain it to me. He speaks English, he studies at SIES College in Nerul... <em>hum ko to angrezi ka</em> ABCD <em>bhi nahi maloom</em>.” <br><br>Dholakia’s tone changed: “<em>Nahin nahin</em>, I cannot leave the agreement. <em>Abhi itna</em> time <em>kiske paas hai</em>!” He insisted that the agreement be signed immediately if they wanted the loan. An air of unhappiness spread around the Jaikar home. All eyes went to Raghav. They saw his pallor change. Nandita disliked this man who could speak down to her father. On cue, she went and stood close to Raghav and hugged his arm. And the temerity of the man to walk into their home with his shoes on! Nandita was sure she did not like him.<br><br>The Jaikars signed the agreement under pressure. They had to quickly get their cheque book out of the trunk upon which sat a large papier-mache Saraswati idol. Nandita had won it at a <em>Geeta</em> chanting competition. So many things had to be moved, and it took a long time to write out 36 cheques and sign them. Dholakia sat there talking loudly on his phone.<br><br>As Raghav was signing the agreement, the children watched, a trifle unhappy, sensing that this man had put their father to grief. He and Raksha were already surprised at Dholakia suddenly turning up without intimation. Then, his refusal to wait till they had someone translate the English into Marathi; now they were reluctantly signing the agreement without reading it. And on top of that, they had to relocate Saraswati<em> ji</em> hastily. Raghav would have usually rolled out a <em>dhurrie</em> and then placed the idol on it. Dholakia’s “take it, or leave it” attitude had caused their hearts to lurch in anxiety and despair. Their joy had been coloured.<br><br>Before long, Dholakia took the papers and left. He did not give them a copy of the agreement. At the door he stopped and peering through the bars told the Jaikars, in a happy tone, “I will now go to the registrar and complete the formalities. The cheque for the loan amount will be given to the dealer within a couple of days after the agreement has been executed.”<br><br>But the simple folk that they were, as soon as the blue-shirted man had gone into the street, Raghav did a small jig for his children, copying Shahrukh Khan, not wanting them to be sad. To Raksha, he said, “P<em>unha jaaoya amhi Bappa kade, kaay bolteys</em>?” (Let us go to Ganpati Bappa again, what do you say?), allowing himself to be overcome with happiness that at least the car would now come shortly as soon as finance was released. So what if some people treated them badly!<br><br>But Raksha felt bad. Her husband was a good man. They had been badly treated, she felt. <br><br><strong>To be continued</strong><br><br>casestudymeera (at) gmail (dot) com<br>Read Businessworld case studies on Facebook<br><br>(This story was published in BW | Businessworld Issue Dated 08-04-2013)</div>
