The Hope Factory (30 page)

“Everyone has arrived?” asked Anand.

The Landbroker looked at the group under the trees. “Almost,
sir. Almost. Eighty percent. Not to worry,” he added, “everyone will come.” He left the car, first providing Anand with strict instructions. Anand was to stay in his car, keeping a low profile; it might take a while to put through the initial paperwork, and the Landbroker did not want any seller chatting with Anand and impulsively deciding to increase the asking price. That could jeopardize the entire deal…. Did Anand understand this? He would wait in the car and not take it amiss?

“No problem,” said Anand, tapping his laptop bag. “I have brought work.”

“And the money?” said the Landbroker.

“Here,” said Anand, this time tapping the briefcase. The money payable was divided into three categories: the demand drafts, the unaccounted cash in neat packets, and a third bundle destined for the registrar to ensure the smooth registration of the property.

The Landbroker took the bribe money and vanished. They had argued about this earlier: that essential services had to be double-paid for, once with taxes, again with the bribe. The Landbroker had looked at Anand as an elder might at a particularly foolish child. “Saar, how can you complain that this is unfair? These people who work here have in turn paid bribes to acquire such high-bribe government positions, isn’t it? How can they repay everyone they have borrowed from and support their own families if they don’t take bribes? Have they not worked very hard to get to this position?” This baffling argument left Anand bereft of speech and argument. Greedy fuckers, he now said to himself, resigned to the headache that inevitably set in when dealing with any government service. Whoring bastards.

THE SOUND OF TROUBLE
did not at first attract his attention; he was immersed in his work, his music, and the air-conditioned cool of his car.

When he finally looked up, suddenly alert, he couldn’t make sense of what was happening. The crowds had increased and seemed uneasy, but there didn’t appear to be evidence of any altercation. And was that a procession in the center? And who was that with the film cameras? He quickly put away his files, got out of the car, and locked it.

“What is going on?” he inquired of someone standing by. He received a muttered laugh in response. “It is the Lok Ayukta.” The anti-corruption cell had received information on bribes being paid and was raiding the land registrar’s office. To ensure their vigilance received due credit, they were being trailed by some media people.

The procession entered the building, and Anand returned to his car, frantically wondering what to do. He had spent his adult life grumbling about government corruption—but today was not the day he wanted the Lok Ayukta involved. Where was the Landbroker? Should he call him? What had happened to the bribe money? Was he to be implicated in any manner? All the documents had Cauvery Auto’s name on them. What the fuck should he do?

As though in answer to his panicked questions, the passenger door opened and the Landbroker jumped in. “Here,” he said, handing the bribe money back to Anand. “You hide this.” He was exuding the thick sweat of fear and, without permission, reached for Anand’s bottle of water and drank it down.

“You got caught?” asked Anand foolishly, for the answer was evident. If the Landbroker had been caught handing over a bribe, he would currently be parading in front of the television
cameras, his career as a deal broker effectively over. “What happened?”

Somebody, it seemed, had phoned in a tip to the Lok Ayukta. But thankfully, said the Landbroker, the ill luck had befallen the briber just ahead of him in the queue. He, and the official he had paid the bribe to, were both under arrest. The Landbroker pulled out the image of Goddess Lakshmi, who swung on a pendant at the end of the thick gold chain around his neck, and pressed it to his forehead, offering prayers and thanks for his safe deliverance. A few moments later, and it would have been him in the dock: the Landbroker, the official—and Anand as well.

“Not to worry. It’s okay, saar,” the Landbroker said after a while, his brow cooling. “It happens sometimes. But now, see, they are leaving, and we can continue our work.” And sure enough, the Lok Ayukta people, the arrested villains, and the media cameras trickled away and life in the subregistrar’s office, the exchange of property and bribery, could resume as normal. “Okay, saar,” the Landbroker said, energetic once more, vanishing back into the fray. “Very soon now.”

An hour later Anand was accepting the transfer of the first piece of farmland into his company’s name. The people selling to him, getting their photographs taken, affixing their signatures to various documents, were a family of four: a mother and three sons, all grown. The widowed mother bore the evidence of a hardworking rural life: red betel-leaf-stained lips and gums over strong white teeth, skin darkened and wrinkled by sun and wind, wispy hair, and an eager, interested vigor in her eyes. She would not meet his gaze directly, but when he looked away he could sense her quick inspection. The sons looked like minor city clerks; they were no longer working the
land; their hands were soft. When the time came for Anand to hand over the check, he smiled at them respectfully and was pleased at their cordial response. Three more plots of land were registered. Cauvery Auto was the proud owner of five acres of land. Four hours had passed. Another five registrations to go.

“So how much longer?” Anand asked.

“Not long,” said the Landbroker, leading Anand back to his car. “Sir, you please wait here. I will send the boy to bring you some coffee and tiffin.”

“Why? Where are you going?” said Anand.

“I am taking the sellers out for lunch, sir. It will keep them in a good mood,” said the Landbroker. It seemed another unorthodox procedure in an unorthodox day, but Anand did not doubt anymore that the Landbroker knew his business well, that his particular mixture of treats and cajolery and curses was what had brought all these people to the dealing table. He spotted the family he had bought the first small half acre of farmland from in the distance; they bore large smiles and no signs of ill usage.

An hour passed. Anand drank some coffee brought to him by a little urchin and began to fret. He finished his emails. He read all he could of the documents in his briefcase. He finished several phone calls. Twice, he walked about the grounds. He even relieved himself against the far wall, along with a row of men similarly engaged.

AND THEN THE SHADOW
of the Landbroker appeared at the car window and Anand knew, immediately, that something had gone wrong.

“There is a problem,” the Landbroker said. “One of them is suddenly refusing to sign.”

“Why?”

Little, hot gusts of wind tugged at the Landbroker’s red shirt, which puffed ineffectively in the breeze before sinking back, dispiritedly, plastered against the skin. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Is it a question of more money?”

“I asked, sir. He is not saying yes or no. He is just suddenly saying he will not sign. Perhaps it is more money. I have to find out.”

“Which one is it? Which plot of land?” asked Anand. If it was a side plot, perhaps they could go ahead and complete the purchase without it; it would mean a couple of acres less, but they could manage. The Landbroker shook his head as if he had anticipated Anand’s question.

“It is that one right in the center, saar,” he said, “that eucalyptus grove. Right in the center. We cannot proceed without it. You would get a piece of land like a vada—with a round hole in the center. It belongs to an old man. He is willing to sign, but his son is suddenly saying no …”

“Why?” Anand asked again.

“I don’t know, saar. But, not to worry. Let me talk to them and I will solve it. He is being very stupid.” The Landbroker leaned a hand against the hood of Anand’s car. He seemed to have great difficulty with his next words. “Saar, this will take a day or two for me to sort out. I am so sorry, saar.”

There was nothing to say. Anand could feel the Landbroker’s tension, a physical, palpable thing that coursed through Anand as well. They were finished here for the day. There was no point in completing the purchase of the other pieces of land without the central eucalyptus grove.

The remaining farmers waited—watchful, turned wary by the flood of speculative rumor; the Landbroker walked back to them with a desperately manufactured confidence that insisted
nothing was wrong, nothing that could not be easily handled, a small matter, easily resolved, and surely the balance of the registration would proceed apace at the very earliest.

ANAND DROVE STRAIGHT TO
the factory in the late afternoon. He had told no one he was coming, but nevertheless it seemed that he was expected.

“I knew,” said Mrs. Padmavati when he walked in. “I knew you would come here first and tell us the good news. I was saying so to Mr. Ananthamurthy, and he also agreed. Is it not so, sir? Just to be prepared, we have kept ready a box of sweets to celebrate. Where is that box, Mr. Kamath? Oh, sir, what?” she said. “What has happened?”

Anand attempted to make sense of things even as he described the events of the day: the registrations that first went smoothly—and then the sudden appearance of the Lok Ayukta, followed by the previously eager farmer who mysteriously refused to sell.

“But why should he rethink? Can it be for more money?”

“I don’t know,” said Anand.

The Lok Ayukta appearance could have been just a coincidence—an unfortunate matter of timing. But the farmer? Was this just a last-minute ploy orchestrated by the Landbroker to get more money? Anand had felt sure that he was trustworthy; had he been mistaken? He recalled the Landbroker’s shame at the end … was he just incompetent?

Cauvery Auto was now the proud possessor of an additional five acres, expensive and utterly insufficient for their needs. Anand handed over the property documents to Mrs. Padmavati to lock away and went to his car. There was work waiting for him at his desk, but he had not the heart for it after the disappointments
of the day. He could hear Harry Chinappa’s laughter. I told you so, his father-in-law said. What else did you expect to happen?

AT HOME, HE SEARCHED
blindly for his children and found them with his father. “Appa! You’re home early,” said Valmika.

His father chose this day of all days to inquire about his son’s work. “Your land registration went well?”

Anand hesitated, taken aback. “There was some complication.”

His father nodded with a certain sorrowful satisfaction. “Matters of real estate should be left to those who understand such businesses, is it not? They are not for us.”

Anand swallowed the words in his throat and turned to his children. “Do either of you want to come swimming with me?” He wanted to immerse himself in water, wash away the stink of disappointment and something that felt like pollution.

“Right now? Yes!” said Pingu.

“Okay,” said his daughter.

“I will come too,” said his father, to everyone’s surprise. “A dip in cold water in such weather is extremely beneficial.”

“Yay!” said Pingu, who, with the innocence of extreme youth, retained a staunch belief that any expansion to the party only added to the fun. “I know how to do handstands in the water, Thatha. I’ll teach you.”

Surprise touched by horror held Anand mute. His father was not used to the conventions of a swimming pool. Distantly, Anand remembered him bathing in the ocean decades ago; he had visions of his father appearing at the pool dressed as he had been then: in the loose cotton undershorts he wore beneath his pants, ungainly, mended in two or three places, the
string hanging brown and dirty. He could not let that happen, but did not know how to prevent it without causing great offense.

“Oh, great, Thatha,” Valmika said, adding, “I have a present for you that you must promise to use, or I won’t give it to you.” Her tone was playful; it won a smile from her stern grandfather.

“What is it, child?” he asked. “The child has a present for me,” he said.

Valmika slipped away and returned with a package that Anand instantly recognized: it had lain unopened in the back of his drawer, a spare swimsuit that bore the logo of a well-known sports brand. His father opened it and exclaimed over it with pleasure. Anand grinned at Valmika in secret relief; he could have hugged her. “Let’s go?” he said.

Valmika hesitated. “Shall I ask Mama if she would like to come?” She ran upstairs, only to return disappointed. “She’s heading out to meet Kavika-aunty.”

LATER THAT NIGHT
, in the study, he felt the disappointments of the day gather once more inside him. He could not attend to his email. Instead, he clicked on Google, typing Kavika’s name into the search engine and trawling through the listings to see if there was anything he’d missed. There were the glancing references to her work with the United Nations; she had presented a paper at some conference; there she was, on some panel discussion; there again, a photo in some humanitarian aid situation. There was no mention of a marriage, no glimpse of her personal life, but for that Anand switched to Facebook.

He would never confess to anyone, even to himself, how much time he’d spent on the social network, gazing at every
link, comment, and photo she posted. It was like waving a magic wand and opening a graphic window into her personal life, receiving answers to questions he could not ask her directly, answers that served only to raise more questions in their wake.

She had sent him a friendship request a couple of weeks after befriending his wife. Anand, not an active user himself, had discovered it to be otherwise with Kavika. Her friends were numerous, of widely varying nationalities, and frequently male. They left cheery messages on her page and seemingly endless photographs of her, alone and in company, appended with admiring comments. Anand knew all the photographs. He had studied each of them in depth, like a jungle anthropologist positing furiously and analytically on the nature of the relationships contained therein. This man, for instance, appeared with her in a formal, work-style setting, but reappeared in some other photograph holding a beer and laughing. Was he a friend? Or just a former colleague? Could he be the mysterious father of Kavika’s little daughter? If someone wrote “Love ya!” on her page, was it casual or was there some deeper significance?