The Hope Factory

ANAND K
.
MURTHY HAD TWO WINDOWS
in his office. The first, narrow and with a stiff latch that he struggled to open, provided a glimpse of the factory campus. The second, his favorite, was a soundproofed scenic window that overlooked a production bay. Anand was long past the stage where he needed to supervise the workings of the factory floor in minute daily detail, but it was a sight that gave him an unfailing sense of satisfaction.

He stood there now, the weight of the approaching day settling about him. He was not prone to nervousness, no, certainly not, but today he was unquestionably experiencing a phantom version of it: dry mouth, quickened breathing, a pulse that danced uncontrollably up and down his spine. He reached for a glass of water set on a plastic coaster that had the words
CAUVERY AUTO
embossed in orange letters upon an indigo blue background.

A knock on the open door; he put down the water glass and smiled in welcome.

“Come in, come in, good morning.” The sight of Mr. Ananthamurthy did something to soothe him.

The operations manager had worked with Anand since the early years of the company. Fifteen years previously, Ananthamurthy had been an older man whose quiet manner belied years of operational experience; now Anand realized, with a sudden shock, that he was looking at someone approaching retirement. Physically, the years had not changed Ananthamurthy beyond turning the few long hairs combed over the bald surface of his head a little grayer and lining the outsides of his eyes. Otherwise, he was still the same: lean, upright, with that quality of absolute reliability, like an old Swiss watch, forever accurate and unfailing.

“Good morning, sir. You have eaten?” For fifteen years, Ananthamurthy had started their workday with this ritual query.

“Yes, yes,” said Anand, though that was rarely true. He was never hungry in the mornings. Later, he might have a glucose biscuit with his coffee. “And you?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” Ananthamurthy did not, as was his wont, turn briskly to the work ahead. Instead, with a shy diffidence that overlay his usual gravity, he ceremoniously placed a plastic box on Anand’s table.

“My wife and daughters insisted, sir,” he said. “Such an important day for the factory, we visited the temple in the morning and they have sent this prasadam for you. Please take, sir.”

Anand obediently placed a tiny morsel of the sanctified sweet halwa in his mouth, feeling the sugar and wheat dissolve across his tongue. “Please thank your wife for me.”

“I will, sir. She has plans to continue prayers through the day.”

Ananthamurthy would not say so, but Anand saw in his eyes a reflection of the same eager hope that burnt within him.

ANAND PRESSED A BUTTON
on his phone to speak to his secretary. In a fantasy world, this would be a young woman, perhaps from Goa, who answered to a name like Miss Rita and sported daring short skirts and blouses that clung to her bosom. Reality, however, was Mr. Kamath, bald and so frighteningly efficient, he was one of the bulwarks of Anand’s professional life, never to be voluntarily sacrificed. “Kamath? Where is everybody? And later, I want to see that computer fellow.”

His words served as an automatic trigger to Ananthamurthy.

“That fellow,” he said, referring to the newly hired computer service engineer, “is not able to take direction.” Anand listened patiently, knowing that Ananthamurthy’s complaints were not really against the person but about the process. The increased automation in the factory premises was spreading with virus-like pervasiveness, to the great perturbation of Ananthamurthy, who, with aging consternation, was still unsuccessfully grappling with the notion of email, tapping out his correspondence letter by letter, glancing feverishly between screen and fingers with every stroke. Anand often thought it was time to organize a mandatory course on word processing for all his employees.

Two more people entered his office, and Anand assessed them with new eyes, as though seeing them for the first time.

Mrs. Padmavati of the accounts department was the first to arrive. She walked in as she usually did, with a brisk air and a quick step. Her efficiency was legendary—as was her quick temper at the careless mistakes of others. Her appearance, like
her work style, was excessively tidy: her cotton saree neatly folded and pinned at the shoulder, her long hair severely quieted with coconut oil and tied into a braid that lay in a thick line from her neck to the base of her spine. Her decorative accessories were few and not beyond the obligatory: small gold earrings at her lobes, a thin gold chain with her marriage mangalsutra at the end. No rings, no bangles, all her accessorial energies seemed to revolve around the enormous handbag that accompanied her to every meeting, a bag so capacious that awed male colleagues had witnessed the emergence of infinite objects from within, from wallets to a laptop, magazines, a present for a colleague, and, improbably, a tiny videogame console that Mrs. Padmavati claimed belonged to her nine-year-old son but in fact was spotted feverishly attacking on the commute home on the factory bus. She had worked with the company for five years, gaining seniority, and this was the first time Anand had invited her to a senior-level management meeting.

If he was honest, it hadn’t been very often that he had had a management meeting. Until recently, “senior management” had consisted of just himself and Ananthamurthy, each of them undertaking a variety of tasks.

But it was time to change all that. He had broached the idea with Ananthamurthy a few weeks previously, and Ananthamurthy, who had recently been gifted a management book by his son-in-law and was reading it in his spare time, had agreed with him: “We must professionalize, sir. That is the key.”

Accordingly, Anand, who had kept the company finances under his strict control, was now toying with the idea of making Mrs. Padmavati his CFO. She was pleased to be included in the meeting and, Anand could tell, was both nervous and eager to prove herself. She placed her handbag on the floor and sat
erect, holding a notepad, a pen, and a calculator at the ready. In addition, they had hired a new HR person, who trailed into the meeting after her.

“Okay then,” said Anand, after they had liberally partaken of Ananthamurthy’s box of sweet prasadam. “Let’s review our preparations, so we know exactly where we stand.” He hesitated, pushed his glasses up his nose, and then stated what everybody in the room already knew. “Tomorrow can be the most important day for our company, I think.”

The sheet moldings and pressings made by Cauvery Auto were sold to automotive companies that assembled passenger cars and other vehicles out of them for the Indian market. They had built the business painstakingly over the years, chasing after orders, waiting for hours, sometimes days, for meetings with purchasing managers, godlike beings in sanctified inner offices who were seemingly unaware of Anand in the waiting room, his 9:00
A.M
. appointment ticking past lunch and through the afternoon until he was asked, sweaty, hungry, angry, but still patient, to come back the next day. Yes, so sorry, sir is very busy, hopefully he will be able to see you tomorrow.

But now, finally, they were on the cusp of a different phase. The following morning, their largest customers would arrive, bringing with them representatives of the Japanese parent company. They would tour the facilities, scrutinize, inspect, and have endless discussions on production capabilities and future scope. If the day went well, Cauvery Auto could end up supplying the international market as well. The thought of that was unbelievably heady. Anand could not fool himself; this was a rare prize; there would be plenty of other companies competing for it, many of them (he feared) better positioned than Cauvery Auto.

If they won the order, it would transform all their lives. It would spell stability, growth, profits, not just for the company but for all of them—him, Ananthamurthy, Mrs. Padmavati, everyone—easing the financial struggles of their lives and allowing very different futures to bloom for their families.

IN THE LATE MORNING
, Anand went on a tour of inspection. The production floor was always kept in good working condition, but some of the workers’ uniforms had been replaced, and the accounts department had used the occasion to purchase new ergonomic chairs in a bright orange for their workstations. Anand did not mind; these things contributed to workplace efficiency, ease, and bonhomie, and he had overridden Ananthamurthy’s muttered objections to the expense. “After all,” the operations manager had said, “we are not one of those American-style call centers, is it not?” His own daughter worked in one such call center in the city, and Mr. Ananthamurthy had visited her workplace one day and come away slightly scandalized. “Too much waste,” he said. “And all for what? For answering a few phone calls. Where is the skill in that?”