over the last couple of days. Where the hell
is
Chandresh ?
Chandresh had been the first person Bob had called after the editor gave his nod for the story. A former special correspondent with one of India’s leading national dailies, Chandresh specialized in offbeat development stories. Bob had first made his acquaintance while working on a report on the phenomenon of farmer suicides in India. One of his classmates from Columbia, a scion of one of India’s leading publishing families, had introduced him to Chandresh. The two had kept in touch ever since, sharing stories and gossip that came to their notice and which they thought might be relevant to the other.
Just then, Bob’s phone rings and he picks it up eagerly, hoping it is Chandresh.
The call is from Mayank Sharma. Bob’s irritation fades when he hears his voice.
“Hey Mayank, what’s up man?”
“Hi Bob, all set to fly out to India?”
“Yeah, working on last minute details. Was just trying to reach a local contact.”
“Hope the paper I forwarded to you was useful!”
“It really was, Mayank. Helped me put together a basic framework for the article.”
“Glad I could help. I have some more good news for you. Prasad Kamineni is addressing a gathering at the Cramer Institute for Research on Inclusive Growth (CIRIG) in Boston on Friday. I have an invite for you, in case you’d like to go.”
“Mayank, I owe you big on this one! I’ll see you there on Friday.”
“Will make sure to collect when James Jordin needs a puff piece!”
Mayank laughs before hanging up.
The apartment door opens and Priya enters. Her sharp eye spots the look of contained excitement on Bob’s face.
“Got through to Chandresh?”
“Not yet. But I am going to meeting your
manavalu
on Friday!”
The cabbie who drives Bob from the Boston airport to the CIRIG office in the central business district turns out to be Indian. A turbaned gentleman, he introduces himself
as Sardar Kanwal Singh. The man is quite garrulous for so early in the day.
“I am from Punjab,” he announces rather proudly, before quickly clarifying that it is the one in India. “Did you know there is a Punjab in Pakistan too?”
Bob nods and tells him he has read a lot on Indian history.
“Then you must know about the Partition?”
“Yes, I do.”
“My father lost his parents and brothers on a train, while they were trying to flee Pakistan.”
“I am really sorry to hear that.”
“My father’s brother was a baby. Three months old! Heartless bastards.”
Bob sighs and nods in commiseration.
“Terrible what happened to the twin towers.”
Bob senses the direction in which the conversation is going.
“How much longer before we get there?”
“Sir, please take a look at the GPS. I am following the correct route with the least traffic. It won’t take much longer. I am a very honest man. I would not bring disrepute to my country in a foreign land.”
Bob assures the man that he does not doubt his integrity.
“So, what do you do?”
“What do you think?”
“A banker?”
The man’s tone reveals that he does not look at bankers favourably. Pretty much in sync with the national sentiment, Bob thinks to himself as he chuckles.
“No, I am a journalist.”
Sardar Kanwal Singh is intrigued.
“Digging for a scam?”
“For a change, I am going to report on the rich who are investing to improve the lives of the poor!”
The man has no comeback for that.
With hardly a week left before his departure to India, the trip to Boston had been a bit of a squeeze, but Bob was not going to pass on an opportunity to hobnob with some of the biggest names in inclusive finance, all gathered under one roof.
On entering the hall, the guests are handed out booklets on SAMMAAN Microfinance Limited, which include a brief write-up on the founder, Prasad Kamineni. Bob idly leafs through one as he waits for the event to begin.
SAMMAAN Microfinance empowers the poor to
is
Chandresh ?
Chandresh had been the first person Bob had called after the editor gave his nod for the story. A former special correspondent with one of India’s leading national dailies, Chandresh specialized in offbeat development stories. Bob had first made his acquaintance while working on a report on the phenomenon of farmer suicides in India. One of his classmates from Columbia, a scion of one of India’s leading publishing families, had introduced him to Chandresh. The two had kept in touch ever since, sharing stories and gossip that came to their notice and which they thought might be relevant to the other.
Just then, Bob’s phone rings and he picks it up eagerly, hoping it is Chandresh.
The call is from Mayank Sharma. Bob’s irritation fades when he hears his voice.
“Hey Mayank, what’s up man?”
“Hi Bob, all set to fly out to India?”
“Yeah, working on last minute details. Was just trying to reach a local contact.”
“Hope the paper I forwarded to you was useful!”
“It really was, Mayank. Helped me put together a basic framework for the article.”
“Glad I could help. I have some more good news for you. Prasad Kamineni is addressing a gathering at the Cramer Institute for Research on Inclusive Growth (CIRIG) in Boston on Friday. I have an invite for you, in case you’d like to go.”
“Mayank, I owe you big on this one! I’ll see you there on Friday.”
“Will make sure to collect when James Jordin needs a puff piece!”
Mayank laughs before hanging up.
The apartment door opens and Priya enters. Her sharp eye spots the look of contained excitement on Bob’s face.
“Got through to Chandresh?”
“Not yet. But I am going to meeting your
manavalu
on Friday!”
The cabbie who drives Bob from the Boston airport to the CIRIG office in the central business district turns out to be Indian. A turbaned gentleman, he introduces himself
as Sardar Kanwal Singh. The man is quite garrulous for so early in the day.
“I am from Punjab,” he announces rather proudly, before quickly clarifying that it is the one in India. “Did you know there is a Punjab in Pakistan too?”
Bob nods and tells him he has read a lot on Indian history.
“Then you must know about the Partition?”
“Yes, I do.”
“My father lost his parents and brothers on a train, while they were trying to flee Pakistan.”
“I am really sorry to hear that.”
“My father’s brother was a baby. Three months old! Heartless bastards.”
Bob sighs and nods in commiseration.
“Terrible what happened to the twin towers.”
Bob senses the direction in which the conversation is going.
“How much longer before we get there?”
“Sir, please take a look at the GPS. I am following the correct route with the least traffic. It won’t take much longer. I am a very honest man. I would not bring disrepute to my country in a foreign land.”
Bob assures the man that he does not doubt his integrity.
“So, what do you do?”
“What do you think?”
“A banker?”
The man’s tone reveals that he does not look at bankers favourably. Pretty much in sync with the national sentiment, Bob thinks to himself as he chuckles.
“No, I am a journalist.”
Sardar Kanwal Singh is intrigued.
“Digging for a scam?”
“For a change, I am going to report on the rich who are investing to improve the lives of the poor!”
The man has no comeback for that.
With hardly a week left before his departure to India, the trip to Boston had been a bit of a squeeze, but Bob was not going to pass on an opportunity to hobnob with some of the biggest names in inclusive finance, all gathered under one roof.
On entering the hall, the guests are handed out booklets on SAMMAAN Microfinance Limited, which include a brief write-up on the founder, Prasad Kamineni. Bob idly leafs through one as he waits for the event to begin.
SAMMAAN Microfinance empowers the poor to
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