Fourteen men were waiting outside our home when Akshaya, my husband, and I returned home for lunch. We had barely begun to step out of our newly-purchased Maruti van when two of them strode towards us and demanded the tender papers we had bought a few days earlier. While Akshaya was still parking the car, I stepped out.
“Three other contractors will get the work. It has already been decided,” they told us.
“We cannot give you the papers. We intend to participate,” I replied firmly.
This was in late 1997. We lived with our family in IRC Village, Bhubaneswar. Our son was five years old, and daughter was just seven months old. Both Akshaya and I had been in the construction business for quite some time, but despite our best efforts, we did not have enough work. Our modest earnings were insufficient to meet even the basic needs of our family of thirteen, which included my in-laws.
We had purchased tender papers for three water tank projects at different sites in Bhubaneswar. In those days, there was usually a gap of a week to a month between the purchase of tender papers and submission of bids.
Some contractors would decide among themselves who would participate in the tendering process and who would get a particular project. Other bidders were offered money to stay out. The two men who demanded that we surrender our tender papers were intermediaries. The contractors offered to pay us if we withdrew, but we refused. We badly needed the work.
What began as a request became more insistent with each passing day. We received calls in the morning, in the evening and even late at night. Then came calls from unknown people threatening our lives if we did not hand over the papers. The more they pressured us, the firmer our resolve became.
We spent sleepless nights wondering what might happen. I would look at my children and ask myself: If something happens to Akshaya or me, who will take care of them? Our family depended on us. Honestly, I was frightened, but I also knew what surrendering would mean. If a threat could keep us out of this tender, how would we compete for the next one?
That day, when the men gathered outside our house, they soon surrounded us and began shouting. My father-in-law and our neighbours came out when they heard the commotion. Worried about our safety, my father-in-law told me firmly not to confront them. Other bidders urged us to give up the papers so that peace could prevail.
I understood why everyone was afraid. I was afraid too. But Akshaya and I intended to remain in this business. One thing was clear to us: we could not earn a living or build our lives if others decided whether and when we could compete. This was intimidation, and giving in would leave us open to it again.
I explained the situation and our stand to my father-in-law. This was not merely about the projects we urgently needed; it was also about our right to stand on our own feet. Despite the immense pressure, we held on to the papers.
The men eventually left, warning us that we would face the consequences of our decision. Soon afterwards, I filed a police complaint against all fourteen men, and the police acted promptly.
Akshaya and I submitted our bids. Sadly, we did not get the projects.
The results hurt, even though we knew that winning was never guaranteed. We urgently needed the work. Still, we were satisfied that we had been able to compete fairly. That was the right we had stood up for.
In the months that followed, the men’s parents, wives and other relatives came to us to apologise. Influential people called and asked me to withdraw the case. But threatening a family to keep them out of a tender was a serious matter, and I wanted the men to understand that. I refused.
The police case continued for ten long years. Over time, I saw some of those men become responsible businesspeople. Their families continued to seek a settlement. When I believed that the men had realised their mistakes, I agreed to file a compromise petition, subject to certain conditions. They submitted undertakings that they would never again threaten or harm me, my family or anyone else in this manner. The court disposed of the case with a strong warning.
Years have passed, and life has rewarded our hard work. Yet I still vividly remember the phone calls, the sleepless nights and those fourteen men standing outside our home, shouting and demanding the papers. They seemed so sure that we would withdraw. We were equally determined to compete. I also remember the day we went ahead and submitted our bids.
We may have lost those projects, but we preserved something we needed for every project that followed: the courage to stand up for our rights, even when the outcome was uncertain.
Years later, the same experience taught me another lesson: standing firm can also leave room for forgiveness when people take responsibility for their actions.
