The Hope Factory (32 page)

“It is now the fashion,” said his father. “Changing times! These brahmin boys are no longer interested in academics or medicine or law, they all want to make money. And they are succeeding! You know why? I will tell you. It is because of their heritage: strong academics, especially science and mathematics,
strong discipline, clean personal habits. It is the mantra of success in this new software world! … With our traditions, it is only natural that our children will succeed. It is a question,” he said, “of cultural habits. Like the Gujarati, the Marwadi, and the Jew, who all have the culture of understanding money, and so they rule the financial world, is it not?”

“Yes,” said his father’s friend. “Very true. Of course, my son is a lawyer and my daughter is a cardiologist, but I have heard. Your software company,” he suggested, “must be doing a lot of work with America to be so successful.”

Anand glanced at his glass of water. Empty. “I am not in the software industry,” he said. “Manufacturing,” he said. “Engineering.”

“Technology,” his father clarified. “It is all technology.”

“Of course,” said the friend. “So good that you are doing well.”

*

THE DOSA RESTAURANT WAS
next to the golf course and one street away from the state ministries of Vidhana Soudha. When he first moved to Bangalore, Anand had learned to love the dosas here along with his college friends, partly for the taste, and partly because they added a strong dose of garlic to the potato palya, a rabid unorthodoxy his parents naturally frowned upon. Shortly thereafter, his comfort levels with garlic had risen and he had upgraded the breaking of parental strictures to cigarettes, alcohol, and sex. Garlic, in effect, had been his gateway drug to defiance, the potato palya in this hotel an early pusher.

Anand was visiting the restaurant after a gap of several years, the slight apprehension within him echoing the excited defiance that had marked his early visits. The small hotel attached
to the restaurant was rumored to rely, for profit margins, on hidden operations as a whoretel, but the restaurant itself sported an air of vegetarian innocence, serving a standard South Indian breakfast in the mornings and switching to large thaali-meals and gobi-manchurian for lunch and dinner. But true renown was saved for the dosas, which, on a Sunday morning, attracted herds of families, clustered at long tables of eight or more: complaining grandfathers, mothers-in-law in best sarees flashing ruthless smiles, aging uncles with special dietary requirements, budding girls with beribboned braids sweetly looped upward and tied under their ears, teenage boys in desperately bright polyester shirts, mothers-outside-kitchens at their ease, and harassed fathers collating the menu selections for them all. And among them, scattered and clumped like so much driftwood in the tides, lured by golden dosas and proximity, gatherings of golfers, college students, and legislative assembly members.

This was not a Sunday, yet there was a fair crowd of people from the surrounding law courts and ministry offices. Anand pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced around the Formica-topped tables in the central hall. There was another dining hall upstairs, air-conditioned, quieter, more suitable for families, but not so good for a private conversation. Here, human chatter competed with the clatter of plates and the barely hidden noise of the kitchen; one could discuss anything and not be overheard. Somewhere in here was the Landbroker and the man he was bringing with him. A man who referred to himself as Mr. Gowda and by others as Gowdaru-saar.

Before coming to this meeting, Anand had made a few phone calls and had learned, from Vinayak, that, if he wanted to see either his money returned or the land deal completed, he would have to meet this man and pay, and, from Amir, that
Gowdaru-saar was a well-known political functionary, whose job it was to strong-arm financial support for his party from that particular taluk. Anand was not dealing with a two-bit criminal he could threaten in turn; he was dealing with someone far more consequential.

He quickly spotted Gowdaru-saar against a far wall. If the Landbroker was a cinematic hero, then Gowdaru-saar looked indistinguishable from a Kannada movie villain: large to the point of obese; his pockmarked face sporting a mustache of magnificent proportions; frizzy, unruly hair that haloed out around a receding hairline. But where was the Landbroker? Surely he had not left Anand to meet with this political thug on his own?

Anand’s gaze cleared. He had been staring at the wrong table. The Landbroker was with someone quite different at a window seat against the far wall. Anand made his way over, feeling like he was attracting stares, even if he knew he wasn’t.

“Namaskara,” he said. In contrast to the flamboyance of the Landbroker, his companion was quietitude itself, in a simple cream shirt with signs of great piety about him, the turmeric and vibhooti dotted post-prayer in the center of his forehead, a red thread tied around his right wrist to ward off evil. In other circumstances, Anand might have identified him as a small-time merchant in Chickpet, selling bangles or hosiery or vessels, or an accountant in someone else’s firm. He did not make the mistake of treating him as either.

Gowdaru-saar returned Anand’s greeting with calm, smiling eyes, urged him to sit down, and summoned the waiter to order breakfast, his air of placid goodwill in shocking opposition to both the Landbroker’s nervous energy and Anand’s overwired tension. He seemed in no hurry to broach the matter they were there to discuss, as though this were nothing
other than a cheerful, whimsical gathering of friends out to enjoy a lazy midweek breakfast.

“The traffic was very bad this morning,” he said, in typical Bangalore small talk; the traffic: auto-rickshaw drivers with their freewheeling style and panicked foreigners shrieking in the passenger seats; trucks and people-fattened buses that held their breaths and inched their way through improbable, ever-narrowing lanes; the fumes, mingling with the rising heat and rising fury, tamped eventually by rain and resignation; and the spasmodic beat of a passing Bollywood film song—ah baby, oh baby, sexy sexy baby baby.

A passing waiter quick-slammed three steel plates onto the table—fluffy rice idlis and a crisp brown vada, the sambar and chutney slopping over onto the plates from their steel cups. Gowdaru-saar’s food vanished quickly, mashed idlis moving along the conveyor belt of his tongue. Anand broke off a piece of vada and dipped it into the pale green, watery chutney before placing it in his mouth; it stuck in his throat and took forever going down. Cups of coffee arrived, and he sipped gratefully on the hot, sweet liquid.

The Landbroker was vibrating like a bee, unable to touch the food in front of him. Anand wanted to place a hand over his, to calm him, but with Gowdaru-saar’s sharp, observant eyes on him, he did not even venture a sympathetic smile at the Landbroker.

“Saar,” said Gowdaru-saar, “I am so happy to meet you. We have heard wonderful things about you and the work you are doing. So many jobs you are creating. It is very good, very good, saar.”

“Thank you,” said Anand. “You are too kind.”

“And it seems that you are expanding your factory. That means more jobs for our people. That is so good, saar.”

Anand tired of this. “Not so good,” he said. “There will be no new factory if I am prevented from buying the land that is required.”

“Ila, sir. No one is preventing you. Why do you say like this?” said Gowdaru-saar. “Yes, I heard. There was some confusion with the Lok Ayukta. Someone has mistakenly informed them. That is all. And it is really unfortunate that some fool is unwilling to deal with you. But we will take care of that. Not to worry, that land is as good as yours. Your friendship is important to us, saar.”

Through the grease- and dust-darkened window Anand could see the endless passing traffic, metal glinting in the sharp, white light of November and framed by the political posters and bunting that decorated the far side of the street. An enormous poster held Vijayan’s head over the streams of traffic that went past, painted in gorgeous tones of pink and white, the shadows on his face picked out in green.
THE NEW HOPE FOR DEMOCRATIC INDIA
, the sign said, next to an Ashoka Chakra, the blue spokes of a great forward-moving nation.

Harry Chinappa had received a very nice letter from him, personally signed, thanking him for his hospitality. Vidya had shown it to Anand, so excited he was surprised she didn’t frame it and hang it on the wall alongside the brightly painted oil canvases of turbaned men and bejeweled women that she paid significant sums of money for. They called it the best of Indian art, she and her friends, but to Anand it was hardly Indian; the romantic rural images depicted had nothing to do with the life any of them lived or indeed would want to live; it was all fantasy, like one might see in a film.

Gowdaru-saar noticed the direction of his gaze. “That,” he said, “is a great man. Very great, very great.”

Anand said nothing.

“It is an honor,” said Gowdaru-saar, “to be a member of his party. Like you, I too have a duty, Anand-saar. Is it not our duty, Anand-saar, to elect the best? For years, we have suffered with bad leaders. Now, finally, we have someone who we can respect. Who we can trust. An educated man. A good man. If we do not, right now, do everything we can to see him elected, would we not have failed in our duty? What use is it for me to talk of my love of my people and my village, if I do not guide them properly …

“So, Anand-saar, I know you can help us. You are such an important man, so much wealth in your factory.”

“No, no,” said Anand. “There is no wealth. We are a small company. We are struggling. You have been misinformed.”

“No, saar. You are doing well. After all, you are buying this large piece of land and even more,” said Gowdaru-saar, smiling, “you are buying even more, is it not?”

“What do you mean?” said Anand, puzzled.

“I mean you are buying some land with our good Landbroker here,” said Gowdaru-saar, “and we have heard that you have also met with Mr. Sankleshwar to buy land from him. Such an important man you are.”

“No,” said Anand, “I am not.”

Who else had Harry Chinappa told? And why? Ah, yes, Anand puzzled it out. Not Harry Chinappa at all.

Mr. Sankleshwar.

Anand at last had a gasp of insight: could this be why things had started going wrong with the registration? Somebody had instigated the Lok Ayukta—and somebody had brought him to this political thug’s attention. Who else but Mr. Sankleshwar, who was powerful, ruthless, politically connected, and—thanks to Harry Chinappa—convinced that Anand had wasted his time and, in scheming duplicity, reneged on their agreement
and signed this land deal with the Landbroker behind his back?

The realization made him catch his breath in dismay.

If he was being maliciously targeted, then he was possibly headed toward bigger trouble than he imagined. Fucking hell. He glanced at the Landbroker, who was also looking taken aback at Gowdaru-saar’s words; Anand had made no mention of buying land from Sankleshwar.

Anand tried to appear calm, saying firmly: “No, I am not dealing with Mr. Sankleshwar. I am only buying land from our Landbroker here. And really, we are a small company. You have misheard.” He could see the Landbroker trying to assess his truthfulness, nervous, unsure.

“Is that so?” Gowdaru-saar looked tranquil. “But we have heard otherwise from a close friend, saar. It does not matter. But you are not a small company, you are a great success. We have heard. From a very reliable source. We are sure you can help us.

“You see, Anand-saar, I am not asking for money for myself. Myself, I am content to live in a simple way, in the village where I was born, now part of this great city, with my family and my people. But I am asking for money for the party. Because without money, we cannot win the election. And this country needs people like that, is it not?”

Both their gazes shifted to the poster of Vijayan, smiling through the traffic at them in gentle benediction.

THE POSSIBILITY OF NARAYAN BEING
influenced by Raghavan so troubled Kamala, it pushed her into making a plan. She would speak to Vidya-ma as soon as she could. No, not for money, for that was futile. Instead, she would ask for leave. For a day or two. That should be sufficient. Since she had not taken even a half day’s leave so far, not for sickness or festival, hopefully Vidya-ma would not think badly of the request.

Her sister-in-law’s letter went through her mind. It was cheerful; scribed by her sister-in-law’s neighbor and read aloud by Narayan, but the important part had stayed clear in Kamala’s memory: that the small store in which her brother had acquired a share seemed to be prospering.

Over the years, she had received numerous offers of help from her sister-in-law, and had been steadfast in refusing it all. Now was the time to relax her pride on this. Narayan, in a smart pant and shirt uniform, a bag of books hoisted like
a proud banner upon his shoulder, was enjoying school for the first time.

After all, what had she asked of her brother since she had left his house twelve years ago? Nothing. And he had repaid that favor with his foolish, proud words to the landlord’s mother. Perhaps he did indeed, after all these years, feel a brother’s duty to her. She would ask him for help.

THAT THIS WAS NOT
a fortuitous day for requests was evident the minute she entered the kitchen; Vidya-ma was in full spate, not discouraged by Thangam’s sulky silence or Shanta’s grimness. “You do nothing but ask me for things! And in return you are so careless with your work! It’s ridiculous! I ask for a cup of tea, it comes cold. My clothes are not ironed. And when they are, they are burned!” She brandished Anand-saar’s shirt in one hand. “Who did this! Tell me that! No, utter silence from you lot. And then, on top of that, you come running to me for loans. No, no more! I will not give another loan to anyone. You seem to think … Kamala, you are late!” Kamala glanced at the clock; she had stopped to buy the grandfather’s pooja flowers, but the sight of them in her hand seemed to aggravate Vidya-ma all the more. “You’re wasting your time on all kinds of useless jobs, and when I need you, you are not available!” She marched out of the kitchen; they heard the front door slam.