[02] Progress Meets the Sickle.

“It’s been more than one month, Girish.”, uttered the man in the chair. “You promised me I’d have the permit, but so far there isn’t a single paper on my table!”. These last few words cut the air sharply, creating a vacuum in a room that already bore a deafening silence. But it was short lived, as, on the other end of the line, the now frantic recipient sought to clarify his supposed mistake. “What you’re asking for isn’t small. I cannot simply give you what you want. There are… procedures in a government”.

Seated feet-up at his rugged office desk, in a dimly lit room, the man in the chair - A buff, dark skinned, pristinely groomed figure in a grey silk suit - simply grinned, refixing his gaze towards his recipient - a blurry caricature, seated, emanating from a holoprojector in the centre of the room. “The details are for you to manage, Girish.”, he retorted, “That is why I contacted you. I hope you remember our deal…”. Twirling a lit cigar in his hand, the man in the chair sharpened his posture, furrowing his brow as he spoke to make sure the seriousness of the matter was understood.

“With the new contracts we have received, we will make Bengaluru the strongest trade centre in the country. Just think of the economic benefit. Think of the recognition you will gain from helping us”. The man’s tone now changed, adopting a friendlier demeanor. Though frustrated, he knew that Government officers rarely caved to threats, and so chose to exercise restraint, for now at least. The attempt, however, was received with skepticism, as Girish raised his left brow, letting out a muffled sigh before asking - “And what exactly do you plan to trade? How do I know I should trus…”.

This question amused the man in the chair; “For what I have promised to pay you, you don’t need to know”, he responded, cutting off Girish before he could finish his sentence. “Just get me the permit. If you want, I can give you a third of the promised amount now, to honour our partnership”. Girish’s brow lowered slightly, soon replaced by a faint smirk across his lips. “Tempting”, he replied, pausing momentarily before adding, “but even if I gave you the permit today, you still wouldn’t be able to build anything. The farmer’s union won’t allow it. It’s unfortunate, but my hands are simply tied. I’ll need more time”.

Some say the price of progress is change. Some fear it, others revere it, and the result is an approximation that ultimately satisfies no one. For the city’s technocrats, progress is binary - you either improve or you don’t. The reality, however, for most of Bengaluru’s law abiding citizens at least, was blurrier. For them, the price of progress meant a risked loss of livelihood, and a subsequent fall into obscurity. This, of course, did not usually concern the elite, nor the man in the chair, but made it occasionally challenging to reap the benefits of the desired progress.

“We’ve already allocated nearly half of Magadi’s available land to industrial projects.”, said Girish, noting that the union - furious over the acquisition of their land - had begun blocking off road access to the township to halt construction. “We’ve been trying to negotiate relocation & re-employment for the union’s workers to Nelamangala, but they’ve refused to talk until the existing construction permits have been stayed”. “Legally, there is not much we can do except challenge them in court”. Girish sighed again, hoping the explanation would pacify the growing vexation on the face of the man in the chair.

“The law is useless!”, the man exclaimed impatiently. Dousing his cigar, he added - “I will make sure they talk. Keep the permit ready; I will make sure these farmers understand their place”. These words made Girish tense, for up until now, despite his discomfort, he truly believed the man in the chair was reasonable - his impatience as tame as his composure. But the threat of action threw fear into the flood of his thoughts, causing him to simply utter - “W-what do you mean make them talk? If your plan is to damage them I will not involve myself”.

Girish’s fear surprised the man, now fiddling with a pocket knife he drew from the inside of his silk suit. “(laughing) Don’t worry Girish. I will only make it easier for these people to talk to you. I promise nothing… illegal will be done. You won’t know the details”. The reassurance was short, but it seemed to pacify Girish’s skepticism enough for him to regain his composure and nod in agreement. “Fine, I'll have the documents ready within the week.”, he stated, “Contact me once your plan is over. And like I said, if KLAB finds out that you’ve taken matters into your own hands, you are on your own, and there will be nothing I can do for you.”

For the first time in the conversation, Girish’s words seemed to pierce through the man in the chair’s tough complexion. As confident as he was in his own ability - he knew more than anyone what was at stake. His empire - his livelihood - his legacy - all lay at the precipice of a new beginning, one that, as a businessman, he knew would either bring him to new heights, or bury him entirely. Failure wasn’t an option, and as the weight of this choice filled his mind, the smirk on his lips promptly faded, replaced by a still frown that reflected his renewed conviction for cementing his success.

“You have a deal. The first payment will reach you shortly. May god give you strength… Girish”, the man concluded, and with the flick of a button on his table, he cut the call - the neon blue haze of the holoprojector vanishing almost instantly. Silence, once again, returned to the room, but this time the man simply stared ahead, peering through his window at the many commercial skyscrapers that lined the outer ring road. Taking a moment to himself, he placed a finger to his wrist band, activating a call that was promptly answered.

“How can I help you sir?”, the voice answered. The man responded with equal promptness; “Bring my car. I want to go to the warehouse”; before cutting the call, raising himself from his chair, and hastily leaving the room…

---