Episode Details

Evidence They Can’t Defend — Essay 8 of 13

I have stood at the top of a subcontracting chain. Here is what you can see from there, and what you cannot.

Around 2011 I went looking for land to build a new Royal Enfield plant outside Chennai. The Chennai line had been building motorcycles since 1955 and had run out of room. Finding fifty acres in Tamil Nadu is not a transaction; it is a campaign. I sat in the Chief Minister’s office. Then the Industry Minister’s office. Then SIPCOT, the state corporation that actually holds the land. Then the home offices out in the suburbs, where ministers see people on the days they are not seeing people. It took months.

We got the allotment: fifty acres at the SIPCOT Industrial Growth Centre in Oragadam. Royal Enfield’s announcement recorded it in one clause — the Tamil Nadu Government has allotted us land. Everything above compresses, in the public record, into eight words.

Then the bhoomi pooja, the ceremony that blesses the ground before anything is built on it. It was a small affair — a handful of us from the company, the priests, and nobody else. Fifty empty acres, and perhaps a dozen people standing on them, asking the ground for permission.

We also meant to make the work visible. I flew to London and spent time with a design firm there scoping a living museum to be built into the plant — a walk through Royal Enfield’s history that ended with visitors standing above the line, watching motorcycles being made in front of them. We paid for the design. It was never built.

Construction started in February 2012. The company’s own account of what followed is worth reading closely: civil work continued around the clock, and the plant was finished in a record eleven months.

Around the clock. Fifty acres. Eleven months.

I drove onto that site through most of it. The contractors lived on the land they were building — families on the front fifty acres where the work was, while the back fifty, which we had not yet decided what to do with, stood overrun with brush. Cooking fires in the morning. Children. The ordinary domestic life of people housed by the job because the job is nowhere near anywhere else.

The plant opened in 2013 with about two hundred people, a fifth of them women. That number is in every article written about the place.

Now count what the record holds. It holds the acreage, the allotment, the eleven months, the capacity, the two hundred jobs, and the name of the man who rolled the first motorcycle off the line. I can give you the Chief Minister’s office, the Industry Minister’s office, SIPCOT, my own name on the capital approval, and the colleagues who stood beside me at the ceremony.

And I cannot give you one name from the round-the-clock. Not one. I chose the civil engineering firm — they were near Luz, in Mylapore — and I have gone looking for them and cannot find the name in any record I can reach. Below them were subcontractors I never met. Below those, labour contractors. And at the bottom, the people whose cooking fires I drove past at seven in the morning on the way to my own site office.

That is the argument. Not that anyone on that project was a villain — I was on it, and I was not. It is that the chain is built to end that way: a full record at the top, an empty one at the bottom, and the man who signed the first contract genuinely unable to name the last rung.

Wage theft costs American workers an estimated $50 billion a year, and construction is ground zero. The numbers below are American. The structure is not — I watched it in Tamil Nadu, and it had the identical shape.

The chain

A modern commercial project works like this. An owner hires a general contractor. The GC hires subs. The subs hire sub-subs. The sub-subs hire labour brokers. The brokers hire workers — often classified as independent contractors regardle