The Hope Factory (11 page)

Thangam and Kamala maintained a prudent silence.

THE HARSH BLUE MORNING SKY
was curtained by evening with cooling gray clouds, ponderous and heavy, timing their guttered waterfall for the precise moment when Kamala was to walk home. She dithered reluctantly for a few minutes before venturing forth, a large plastic shopping bag cut open on one side and placed over her head. She would be soaked through, but after such a day she was desperate to return to her own home.

The rain embraced her as she stepped out, fat drops slapping against the plastic on her head and clinging to her saree at her hips. Kamala concentrated on where she placed her feet; the clouds had eliminated twilight, plunging the world straight into the dark of night, barely illumined by the weak light of the distant streetlamp, and she did not want to slip on the broken pavements, their jagged edges angled, waiting, treacherous.

A shadow moved next to her. There stood Narayan, holding
an umbrella proudly. “I thought you might be returning home now.” He placed a protective arm about his mother’s shoulders, holding the umbrella over her head.

“Where did you get this, child?” she asked, amazed. “To waste money on such a thing!”

“It was available cheap, Mother. At that corner shop,” he said. “It folds up and you may carry it every day in your bag…. Have you heard the latest news? You will never guess!”

She would have kissed him if he was but a little younger; she contented herself with listening to his chatter, relishing the warmth of the arm that held her close.

“What news? Tell me. I cannot guess. Very well then … Did that Ganesha trip over a stone and break his leg? … No? Perhaps the landlord’s wife has delivered twins…. No? Well then?”

“That Chikkagangamma who lives opposite has been captured by a ghost!” Narayan nodded at his mother. “Do not look so disbelieving—she was seized by the ghost in the middle of the night—her own children told me so!”

“What, those two little fools? They are seven and eight years old, what do they know of ghosts?” Chikkagangamma was a shiftless woman who combined an inability to hold jobs with certain morally dubious proclivities that Kamala would not consider discussing with her son.

“In the middle of the night, the ghost entered her body; she began to scream and vomit and act very strange…. Their uncle came in the morning and whisked her away, while you were at work. He told them that he would be taking her to a temple so that the priest could say the right prayers to drive the ghost away!”

This astonishing story was later confirmed around the neighborhood—and just when Kamala began to ponder
the possibilities of the vengeful ghost, freed by prayer from Chikkagangamma’s brain, searching for a new soul to possess and lighting on Kamala or her son—the landlord’s mother disabused her of her notions.

“Ghost!” the old lady said. “Nonsense! Is that the story they are spreading? That foolish woman—you know her bad habits—could not squeeze the money she wanted out of the latest fellow she is consorting with, so she attempted to drown her sorrows in an unseemly amount of alcohol. She merely had a drunken fit in the middle of the night. That is all.”

“The priest?”

“There is no priest. Her brother has taken her away to prevent her from drinking more. He has left those children in the care of the corner tiffin canteen—they are to sleep there and earn their keep by doing the washing.”

It was a sad story of neglectful motherhood, but Kamala’s primary emotion was one of relief that there was no ghost wandering about, looking for an unwary home. Just to be on the safe side, she added an extra fervor to her usual evening pooja, praying for the well-being of her son and for her job and the security it provided.

IF, IN THE INTERSTICES
of a disturbed night, Kamala had harbored any notions that the relationship between her and Shanta might forever change, that Shanta might repay her concern with kindness of her own, if she had envisioned the two of them holding hands and skipping along like beloved friends in a movie, Vidya-ma’s kitchen transformed in a magical instant into a field of frothy, frolicsome flowers, such notions were short-lived. When Kamala reported for work the following morning, she was startled to see the cook not resting in
recovery but hard at work in the kitchen, slicing vegetables, a slight stiffness in her movements, a swollen eye the only visible manifestations of her troubles of the previous day. Rama-rama, sister, Kamala almost exclaimed. Should you not be resting? Is this wise?

Shanta looked up and frowned. “You’re late,” she said, her manner not a whit less brusque that usual. “Vidya-ma was asking for you.”

Kamala said nothing, collecting her buckets and brooms and stalking upstairs.

“
ISN’T THIS NICE? SO FRESH
.… Come on, yaar. Stop yawning and stretch …”

At six-thirty, Cubbon Park was suffused with the fresh pink of early morning, the red buildings and green trees glowing; the smattering of early morning exercisers looking determined. Like Anand, Valmika was in sweatpants and T-shirt. Father and daughter set off together on a slow trot into the depths of the park, past the walkers and clumps of yoga-contortionists on the grass, occasionally being overtaken by more serious runners.

It was years since Anand had been running; his wife didn’t question his sudden commitment to fitness; Valmika (with a stern eye on her slim waistline) agreed to join him, and Pingu’s pre-bedtime enthusiasm did not survive the night. “Lazy bum,” Valmika now huffed with the austere censoriousness of an older sibling. “We should have forced him to come, Appa. He’s getting unfit.”

“Next time,” said Anand. His muscles, long unused, were already aching; he was surprised at the strain; his naturally slender physique concealed the sly weakening of the years, the slithering depredations of approaching middle age. He saw the ease with which his daughter kept up with him and suddenly determined to do this more often, to build up his stamina, to run ten miles with ease, to compete in marathons, to discover, in short, the elixir of immortal youth and enchantment, right here, in Cubbon Park. Moisture coated his face, dripped down his neck into his T-shirt, a relic of a recent family holiday, soaking the image of palm trees and waves forming the word
PHUKET
.

“So how come Cubbon Park?” his daughter asked, when they slowed to a walk. “We could have gone running around Sankey Tank; that’s closer to home.”

“This is green and nice, no?” said Anand.

Valmika glanced slyly at him. “You know who we might meet here? Someone who lives rather close by…. Guess who.”

Anand focused on his breathing and wiped his forehead with the edge of his T-shirt.

“Thatha! He comes here … on his ‘morning constitutional.’ ” Valmika did a surprisingly good imitation of Harry Chinappa’s intonation, and Anand tried not to laugh. “Hey now, don’t,” he said. “Be respectful…. He’s gone to Coorg, actually,” he said, in spite of himself.

“He’s going to take us there soon,” said Valmika. “He promised. He is planning to breed one of his dogs—and he’s convinced Mama to let us have a puppy. Pingu and I get first choice. Won’t that be great?”

“Yeah, great. What kind of dog?”

“Yellow Labrador. Fanta…. Do you remember her? She must have been a puppy herself the last time you came …”

Anand didn’t remember. Though the children loved traveling
there with their maternal grandparents, his own visits to his in-laws’ property in Coorg were few and far between.

“A dog should be good fun,” he said, “we can—” Valmika interrupted him with “Oh, look! There’s Kavika-aunty.”

She waved and ran over. Kavika was walking across the grass toward them, holding on to the leash of an aging cocker spaniel. Like them, she was in T-shirt and sweatpants. She was not alone with her dog; she was accompanied by her little four-year-old daughter. Anand watched her laughing and talking with Valmika, who was kneeling and fussing over the dog. The child hung back a little, perhaps rendered shy by this beaming teenage energy.

He walked over slowly. His heart rate had still not recovered from his running; he could do little more than nod and smile when she looked in his direction. The child peeped at him from behind her mother’s leg, and he found himself instantly relaxing. The responsive twinkle in his eye drew her out; soon she was exchanging confidences, showing him the bruise she had acquired the day before in her grandmother’s garden. Her skin was two shades lighter than her mother’s, just like her hair and eyes; these were the only hints of her putative foreign paternity; in the rest of her, her direct glance, the spark of her intelligence, her laughter, it seemed he could detect the graces of her mother.

“Come, Valmika,” he said eventually. “We should complete our run.” His daughter pulled away reluctantly; he turned away more slowly still, watching them walk away at the dawdling pace of young child and aging dog.

He and Valmika completed their circle around the park, jogging back to their car past the red High Court buildings, the stretched residence of a short British past and vainglorious Vidhana Soudha, full of aggrandized aspirations.

“We should do this every week, Appa,” his daughter said, her face aglow with heat and endorphins. “Isn’t Kavika-aunty cool?” she said. He smiled but did not answer.

HIS CALF MUSCLES WERE
already tightening and painful by the time he reached his office, but he forgot them when he looked at his emails. There, number five from the top on a long list of incoming messages, was the mail they had been waiting for. He read and read again: Cauvery Auto had made the short list; the Japanese parent car company would very much like to take things further in a series of future meetings.

He immediately forwarded the email to Ananthamurthy and Mrs. Padmavati; they arrived in his office minutes later, their happiness written across their faces.

“It is because of our prayers,” Ananthamurthy said, “and also the level of preparation we put into the meeting.”

“Can it be that they are looking nowhere else?” Mrs. Padmavati asked. “That they have already decided upon us?”

“No, no,” said Anand, decidedly. “There is a short list. We cannot count our blessings, yet.”

“They are like chickens, is it not?” said Ananthamurthy, and after a short, baffled pause, Anand agreed with him. Blessings were indeed like chickens.

“Did you read the second half of the email?” he asked them, for this is what had caught his attention. They were asked to provide clarifications of a detailed nature: in case they were selected, would Cauvery Auto be ready with the resources necessary to handle the expansion?

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Padmavati. “We need to make a list…. From a financial point of view, we need to speak to the bankers to extend the loan facility.”

“We need more land, sir. From a production standpoint,” said Ananthamurthy. “We cannot proceed otherwise. Even if bank funding comes through.”

“Right,” said Anand.

IN THE EARLY YEARS
of his working life, meetings with bankers were frequently combustible affairs, where need and dignity were in opposition; Anand had to convince skeptical bankers of both his desperation and his worthiness at one go, a humiliating process with variable outcomes. But he had been meticulous about his loan repayments, and he hoped that such scruples had earned him a measure of goodwill.

He decided to take Mrs. Padmavati with him to the meetings, to reinforce his organizational capability in front of the bankers; it would also be a good proving ground for her. Both of them spent the rest of the day preparing for the meeting, calculating their future requirements: for purchase of the land, for equipment, for new buildings, for new employees. Mrs. Padmavati was conscientious and conservative in her estimates, which pleased Anand, for despite their steady growth, Cauvery Auto was not flush; every expense still needed to be carefully planned for. Hopefully this Japanese deal would give them a much-needed financial fillip; filling the company coffers and allowing employees to take home nice fat bonuses.

At the bankers’ offices the following afternoon, Anand once again wore his jacket but with no tie. Mrs. Padmavati sat next to him, besilked and earnest. He spoke of their work with conviction, needing no reference to the papers in front of him to recall figures and details. Occasionally Mrs. Padmavati provided concise answers to certain questions. Their nervousness seemed unfounded. They were received with a smile; the
bankers were receptive and, gratifyingly, seemed to see Anand as a man of promise and reliability; they finally said, with an ease that left Anand feeling light-headed, that they would back Cauvery Auto to the extent required, no problem at all; they were very pleased with the company’s performance—words he wished to record just for the pleasure of replaying them later to himself and to everyone at work.

But the bankers were regrettably firm on one point: any loan they provided would have to be backed by Anand’s personal guarantee. If his company defaulted, the bank would seize his personal assets. Anand agreed, his mind going to his house, already mortgaged, and the other asset he owned: a small flat in Mysore that his parents lived in. If Cauvery Auto ever defaulted on its loan repayments, he stood to lose everything. He could see that the seriousness of such a guarantee was not lost on Mrs. Padmavati.

“We will succeed, sir,” she told him as they stepped outside the bank doors, with a queer gravitas that touched him deeply. “We will not fail.”

ORCHESTRATING THE OTHER REQUIREMENT
was less straightforward.

Land.

He called the Landbroker, who picked up the phone after five interminable rings.

“Yenu ri,” Anand said, forcing himself to sound casual. “What, any progress?”

“What, saar?” said the Landbroker, sounding vague and distracted. “Aanh, yes. Yes, saar?”

“Are you ready to show me something?”

“Ila, saar, not yet. You be patient …”

Anand thought about the long red fingernail of the Landbroker and frowned. His promises seemed like passing shadows in a dream, things of no substance whatsoever. As was his wont at moments of strain, Anand cursed multilingually: fuck, thikka munchko, behenchuth. “Not to worry, saar,” said the Landbroker, with illegitimate confidence, the fucker. “One day, two days, not more.”