A Dream Versus a Dozen
Negotiating for land in an Indian village is like playing chess with a dozen people watching over your shoulder, each whispering their own version of the next move. Except it’s not just chess—it’s your life savings on the board.
The brokers, ever opportunistic, had already inflated the price once they saw us arrive in a car. When they noticed the car’s Bangalore registration—a city synonymous with high incomes—they hiked it further. This was the inflated base we were expected to negotiate down from.
When we learned that the landowner also lived in Bangalore and had handed over his General Power of Attorney (GPA) to a local representative, we knew things were going to get… complicated. GPAs are notorious breeding grounds for disputes and fraud. My years in the Financial Services Industry had taught me one thing: mitigate risks at every step. So, I insisted we bypass the local representative and any other middlemen and deal directly with the owner. It was a critical decision—one that set the tone for everything that followed.
An example a legal battle following a GPA abuse in Goa, India. Image Credit: Times of India.
The owner eventually agreed to meet us in late January 2022, but he didn’t come alone. A dozen villagers, including some elders, accompanied him, forming an uninvited jury. In villages, elders aren’t just witnesses; they’re moral arbiters, unofficial guarantors of every handshake and head nod. Their presence doesn’t mean you’ll get a better deal; it just means you’ll be outnumbered if you try to argue.
The initial asking price, after all that inflating by the broker, was high—far too high. I had a number in mind: 80% of the asking price. Enough to leave some money for fencing, boundary markers, and perhaps a little for initial land development. But as negotiations began, it became clear this wouldn’t be the straightforward transaction we’d hoped for.
Negotiations in this context aren’t just about numbers. They’re about reading the room, understanding unspoken dynamics, and navigating the influence of the silent spectators—the elders—whose approval can subtly shift the owner’s stance.
Although I wasn’t there in person, one of my relatives kept me updated with regular calls. Every time, my response was the same: “Stick to our budget. Walk away if necessary, but don’t let anyone pressure us into going over.”
In my mind, I could see it all unfolding. My father, with his stern face, holding not just our shared dream but the weight of every rupee my wife and I had saved. The owner, gauging the room, casting sidelong glances at the elders for their silent approval. Every counteroffer was a test; every pause, a silent battle.
An example of a typical negotiating scene in an Indian village.
In the end, my father called to convince me to stretch slightly beyond the limit. We settled at 92% of the asking price—3.5% over budget. Not a devastating blow, but enough to remind us that dreams don’t come cheap.
When he called again to say the deal was done, his voice carried exhaustion and triumph in equal measure. “The land is ours,” he said. Those four words held the weight of everything we’d worked for—and everything we’d now have to work harder for.
There was no money left for fences or boundary markers. Those would have to wait. The road ahead was steeper than we’d planned, but we had taken that crucial first step of buying the land - a single parcel of 7.5 acres with a gentle hill that boased spectacular views.
If you’ve ever bought something big—a house, a car, maybe even a plot of land—you’ll know the bittersweet relief that comes when the deal is done. The satisfaction of having it is tempered by the realization that the hard part is just beginning.
Looking back, this negotiation taught us more than just the value of money. From verifying ownership documents to navigating the presence of a dozen silent but influential witnesses, every step underscored the complexities of land deals in rural India. Preparation, patience, and sticking to our principles proved invaluable.
Three generations, three years after the purchase, atop the gentle hill on which our farm house now sits.
Alone with my thoughts thousands of miles away in the UK, I realized something far more important. It wasn’t about the price or the land. It was about the fight. The fight my father had taken on in my absence. The belief he carried, even when everything seemed stacked against us.
That belief was worth more than any piece of land.
Because, at the end of the day, it isn’t the land that makes the farm. It’s the love and persistence poured into it. My father had given me both in spades, carrying my dream when I couldn’t. In doing so, he made it as much his dream as it was mine.
The real victory wasn’t in the price we paid or the land we secured. It was in the shared belief that, no matter the obstacles, we would keep moving forward. Together.
Because that’s the thing about dreams. They don’t just belong to the person who dreams them. They belong to everyone who helps carry them when they become too heavy to bear alone.