For many Indians, owning a home is their biggest dream. Not the house that has been passed down to them from their parents, but the one that they have bought with their own money. This is an expensive dream, and not meant to be realised early in life. Owning a house is like doing penance – there must be sweat and blood and decades of hardship, and the fruit it will bear will have been sweetened with perseverance and sacrifice.

Every hardworking, decent Indian knows this. And so do the corrupt, scheming builders who squeeze dry the good people of their very last penny. In the end, the dream doesn’t come true, but life becomes a living nightmare.

Retired government employee Mr Shivaswamy is going through a similar hell in MR Dattathri’s novel, What’s Your Price, Mr Shivaswamy?. Translated from the Kannada by the author, it tells the story of an elderly man’s desperate attempts to arrange an additional eight lakh rupees that the builders of his new flat have demanded from him if he wants to move in without further delay. Unwilling to ask his children for help and too proud to borrow, Shivaswamy decides to join the workforce. After decades of service in the...

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