Free MONEY TREE by Gordon Ferris

and a rustle of comment through the ranks. Anila went on, ‘So, you know my mother and I make stools. And every day we have to get a  loan from the money lender to buy the reeds and the straight wood. You know how the money lender works: we have to buy the wood from him and sell the stools to him. And he only gives us 50 rupees for each one. It is just enough to buy food and pay off his loan every day. So we can never stop. And we can never save anything.’
    She saw the head shaking all round. ‘If we just had a small loan at a good rate we could buy the reeds and the wood direct from the wood gatherer. Then we could sell the stools to the agent and not have to go through the money lender. That way we would keep all the profits and save some money and get a proper roof for our house.’
    The listeners were hushed by the audacity of these women. To think in such grand terms! To go all the way to Delhi and ask a bank for a loan. To have such notions! Some thought they were above their station and no good would come of it. Others put the ideas away in the back of their minds. If this bank really did send a person and if it was all as good as Anila said it would be, then maybe. . .     
    For over an hour the seated women held the three of them there until they had the main points of the story thoroughly understood. They milked every detail of the city crowds and the traffic. They drained from them all the smells and excitement and noise. They saw themselves sleeping on the station platform of Gwalior, huddled together, their saris swept over them like gay shrouds. They lived the journey vicariously, mile by mile, and marvelled at the brazenness and resourcefulness of the travellers.
    They would now digest what they’d heard and talk about it with their closest friends and relations and then they would ask for more details. And the cycle would continue until their curiosity was sated. Soon there would be more to chew over; the women had gone all the way to Delhi and had come back with piles of money, but they still had to make the money work. And everyone knew how difficult it would be with the men. They would not like it to happen. Making money was a man’s job.
    As Anila finished her tale she felt the terrors return. She didn’t feel brave. She knew she was standing up against tradition and power. She was now in more debt than she could ever have imagined. She owed the bank 1000 rupees, or as Mr Kapoor had described it, nearly 20 dollars in American money, which was how the bank operated internationally. She had to pay all this back within a year at 20% interest. The weekly collections of 23 Rupees including interest would begin in a few weeks and apart from the loan itself, neither she nor her mother between them had enough to buy food for more than a week. Because of the trip, she’d lost almost a full week’s earnings – tiny though the amount was - but at least it had been a certainty. Moreover, the money lender would be very displeased and would refuse to lend her any more or would lend her at a rate of 50% per week!
    She’d gambled everything – including her mother’s savings – on the plan. What if the wood gatherer refused to sell her the reeds? What if the agent refused to buy the stools she made? What if the village men ganged up and made the elders order her not to get above herself? Like the ban on phones for women.
    Anila ha d asked both the wood gatherer and the agent who came each week to pick up the chairs, if they were prepared to work directly with her. Both had joked about it and told her not to be so silly. Then when they saw she was serious, they laughingly agreed to deal with her direct. They were sceptical, but at the same time they were practical men, she hoped. Well, she would soon see. The agent was not due for his weekly trip for another five days. But the wood gatherer was due to arrive today and she would approach him with her offer. He came every day in a truck that blew filthy