The Hope Factory (36 page)

Conversation came naturally between them, the odd circumstances of the night breaking through barriers. Nagesh eagerly shared his life story: he was the oldest son and great hope of his family, the first to complete schooling, the first to finish his technical training, now bent on ensuring good marriages for his sisters; himself the father of two young children whose cellphone pictures Anand duly admired.

Anand, in turn, talked of his early years—and went from there to discussing his ideas for the new plant. He described the shop floor of his dreams, one drawn from a real-life visit that he and Ananthamurthy had made to a stampings plant that supplied a rigorous Japanese car company. They had followed the famous Toyota Production System, and Anand described in detail to the union leader what he’d seen: just-in-time processes;
the kaan-baan system; the unidirectional flow of work through the shop floor; the increased automation; and the detailed training that each worker received. “You will not believe,” he said. “They supply fresh batches of sheet metal pressings to the main car factory every twenty minutes. Can you imagine? Every twenty minutes, made to order!”

“This is in Japan, sir?” Nagesh said, wide-eyed at the notion of such efficiency.

“No,” said Anand. “This is right here. In Bangalore.”

“Sir, do you think someday we might do so as well?”

“I hope so, Nagesh. I hope so. Certainly the new factory will be a step in that direction.”

THE NIGHT WAS TROUBLE-FREE
, as Anand had suspected it might be. The two-hour strike and the damage to his car were Gowdaru-saar’s way of indicating future possibilities. A negotiating point, nothing more.

In the late nocturnal quiet, he found himself wandering about the deserted shop floor. When he was a child, his family would make vacation trips to see the temples of South India. It was a habit he’d continued with his own children: driving out and letting them explore. The family usually followed some guide who would ramble on about the religious symbolism and cultural history of the temples, but Anand would trail after them lost in the wonder of his own contemplations. For him, to visit Pattadhakal was to witness not only the genesis of stone temple architecture but a laboratory, where cutting-edge design and engineering excellence were birthed over a thousand years before. And so he would wander, through Pattadhakal, through the cave temples at Badami, through the Meenakshi temple at Madurai, marveling at the craftsmanship
and technical skills that had engineered miracles. And that, ultimately, was what spoke to the depths of his soul: a desire to belong to a people who, once again, reclaimed their ability to engineer objects of great beauty, form, and purpose. Who stood for perfection. Who knew what it was to toil, to craft, to construct things of truth and excellence that made onlookers gawk in wonder.

The machines, silent sentinels, the crates of finished metal pressings, the young union leader dozing on a chair. So much depended on his, Anand’s, ability to save this place.

No matter what the cost to his pride. Vinayak was right.

He would have to call Harry Chinappa.

Harry Chinappa, who had so painstakingly cultivated Vijayan, who would be able to put a stop to Gowdaru-saar’s demands. Harry Chinappa, who single-handedly had created the trouble they were in and then behaved as if Anand were to blame.

KAMALA PLACED BREAKFAST BEFORE HER SON
, her mind full of a strong determination: today, for Narayan’s sake, she would set aside her pride further.

She would speak to Anand-saar; she would ask him for money. She would throw herself at his feet; she would do as she had seen others do before her and as she had never done in her life: plead, cry, hug his ankles, pledge her labor for all eternity if necessary. She would hand over her entire salary to him to repay her loan. And—in order that they might eat—she would take an additional job. The canteen up the road might hire her in the early mornings to cook and clean—they were always busy. She could work an early morning shift there before reporting to Vidya-ma’s. She would seek an additional, third, late-night job somewhere else, cooking or minding a baby. Somehow she would save her son’s future, and shield him from the likes of Raghavan.

Before leaving for work, she whispered her plans to Narayan: “I am going to speak to Anand-saar. I may be home a little late.”

“I might come there in the evening,” said Narayan. “Pingu wanted me to play with that train set.”

Kamala hesitated, remembering Vidya-ma’s expression from the last time. She did not want anything to jeopardize her loan. “Better not today,” she said. “Wait for me here.”

To ensure her success, to give her voice strength and eloquence, Kamala stopped a moment to pray at the corner Hanuman temple: as Hanuman had transported mountains across the oceans, as he ferried the life-giving sanjeevini herb to Lakshmana, so too may he guide her steps, to move mountains, to find fresh life, to protect her son, whom she surely loved and cherished and served no less than did Hanuman, Lakshmana.

SHE HURRIED TO WORK
. She would be nice and early, a necessary atonement for the previous day’s unauthorized absence. She would first apologize for her absence to Vidya-ma, meekly accepting whatever scoldings her mistress saw fit to throw at her. Then she would look after the grandfather and do all her chores to the best of her capability. And then, in the evening, no matter what, she would corner Anand-saar and launch into her petition.

Oh, Narayan. Oh, Narayan. In her mind, the sky grew dark, and once again, a cigarette butt went flying through the air, launched by a disreputable, corrupt hand that waited to clutch at her son.

When she reached the house, her unusually serious demeanor kept even the watchman from the casual remarks he
was wont to make as he unlocked the gate for her. The kitchen was preternaturally quiet. Both Thangam and Shanta reacted differently to her arrival. Thangam, folding clothes, glanced at her and looked quickly away; Shanta narrowed her eyes. “You have come back.”

“I told you,” said Kamala shortly. “I was not feeling well.”

“I think everybody”—Shanta spoke with a curious triumphant aggression that Kamala couldn’t comprehend—“knows that is not true.”

“I do not lie, sister. Where is Vidya-ma?”

“She was asking after you,” said Shanta. “Perhaps you should go and see her.” As Kamala left the room, she heard the cook say: “After this, just let her try and act big with me in my own kitchen! Just let her try!”

VIDYA-MA WAS IN THE BEDROOM
. Kamala paused at the door. Her mistress lay prostrate upon the unmade bed, her eyes reddened, the room darkened, as though she might be sick. She did not look happy to see Kamala.

Of all possible receptions, this was the worst, but Kamala launched quickly into her apology. “Vidya-ma, forgive me,” she said, “I was unwell. I am so sorry.”

Vidya-ma eyed her contemptuously. “Lies!” she said. “I sent the watchman to your house to check. You were not sick. You were not there!”

Kamala had planned to say that she had gone to see a doctor when the watchman visited, but instead, on the spur of the moment, she decided to tell Vidya-ma the truth. It might awaken her sympathy. “I’m so sorry, amma,” she said. “The truth is I had need of a large sum of money and went to
the pawnbroker in Chickpet to sell some jewelry…. I need fifty thousand rupees, ma.”

The look of intense anger on Vidya-ma’s face shocked Kamala. It was more than anger, it was rage. She sat up and flung her tissue to the floor. “How dare you!” she said. “You speak of it so brazenly? Sell some jewelry—as though it were yours to sell!”

All Kamala could say in her bewilderment was: “Vidya-ma?”

“Do you think your need excuses what your son has done?” Vidya-ma’s voice began to escalate to a shout. “For him to steal? Could you not have asked me for the money? Would I not have given it to you? Am I not generous? Why should he steal? Oh, don’t look so innocent! Don’t think I do not know! Your son. I saw him come up the stairs that day. That very day that my necklace was lying on the table. Fool that I was! I assumed I could trust everyone in this house. But he was very clever. For a moment of carelessness, this is how I am repaid. Do you know how much that necklace is worth? Much, much more than fifty thousand rupees! Could you not have just asked me for that money?”

“Amma,” said Kamala, truly frightened. “Narayan has not taken any necklace. I went to sell my own jewelry. I promise you. He is a good boy. Amma, everyone knows that!”

“Good? Rubbish! He might be able to fool Anand-sir, but I have been told about his character! He may look innocent, but he hangs about with all manner of ruffians. I was told this!

“No, do not tell me you know nothing of this. How dare you! After all my care and concern. Do not tell me this!

“Shanta tells me you often lie.

“Now, you go and you bring that necklace back to me. Get it back from the pawnbroker! And if you don’t, I will tell the
police and they will put your son straight in jail. Oh, god, that little thief. How freely I have allowed him in this house!

“Oh, god.” Vidya-ma began to weep again. “Who knows what else he is planning to steal? Awful, wicked boy.”

Kamala stared at the sobbing, raving woman, and an old hidden anger emerged, like a serpent, coiled, taut, ready to attack.

Stop it! she shouted, the volume of her voice easily competing with Vidya-ma’s.

Stop it. My son is not a thief and he never will be. Do you hear me?

She could hear the thudding of feet, the hasty collection of an astonished audience: Valmika, Thangam, Shanta.

Kamala, awash with a glittering, righteous anger, did not care.

THE FIRST TEXT MESSAGE FROM
Valmika said:
Pls call mama necklace trouble
. The second, sent minutes after the first, said:
call!!!!

Anand checked his phone. There were no missed calls from his wife.

Around him, the noise of the factory resonated reassuringly. The machines were running; administrative staff were filing in. Kamath had arrived early, his concern evident as he surveyed his unshaved, sleep-deprived boss.

“Don’t worry, Kamath,” said Anand. “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry.”

He projected a similar confidence to Ananthamurthy. He did not want his team demoralized further. He himself desperately wanted a bath, to cleanse his mind and spirit with buckets of hot water. A bath, and something to eat.

He didn’t want to return home for either.

He received Valmika’s messages as he walked out to the car.
He called her—but he didn’t have to ask why she was calling. Over his daughter’s nervous, thankful “Appa?” he could hear Vidya’s voice in the background, crying, hysterical, shouting. “I’ll be there,” he told his daughter. “Kutty, I’m leaving right away. I’ll be there.”

VALMIKA MET HIM AT
the entrance of the house. He placed a comforting arm about her, this beautiful girl, his daughter, already taller than he was, with Harry Chinappa’s genes unfolding inside her. “It’s that necklace,” she said. “Appa, there was a
huge
uproar this morning.”

That seemed to be an understatement. His arrival appeared to trigger a Brownian motion of people about the house. Thangam and Shanta came tumbling down the stairs and scurried into the kitchen. His father emerged from his bedroom to say, “Something has happened … I don’t know what….”

“Kutty, what is it?” He could see Valmika hesitating, not used to broaching discussions about her parents’ affairs. “It’s okay,” Anand encouraged her gently. “Tell me what happened.”

“That necklace,” she said. “Mama has been … sick … in bed….” He could see the tears rising in her eyes.

“It’s okay, tell me. Mama has been upset, I know….”

“Yes. And yesterday, the necklace went missing. Remember? From Thatha’s family, really old, priceless. I’m not sure, I don’t know why, maybe the other maids said something, but when Kamala came to work this morning, Mama shouted at her. Something about Narayan taking it—and, Appa! Kamala got so
angry
.… She shouted back at Mama. She picked up an empty water glass and
threw
it against the wall. Even Shanta screamed. Then she left the house, and Mama …”

Ruby Chinappa appeared on the landing. They had spoken with each other on the telephone early that morning, but they had not discussed her daughter at that time. Now, she did not seem to know how to proceed. “Oh, Anand,” she said and burst into tears. He pushed past her into the bedroom.

The shouting he had heard over the phone had died down. Vidya had subsided into silence. She was sitting in bed, still wearing the same T-shirt and pajamas he had seen her in two nights ago, surrounded by snot- and tear-filled tissues. Her features appeared dead, drowned, distended. She would not look directly at him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Anand could see his daughter and mother-in-law at the door. He asked Valmika, softly, “Where is Pingu?”

“School,” his daughter whispered. “I thought he should go.”

“Good girl,” he said. “Kutty, why don’t you take Avva downstairs and ask Shanta to make a cup of tea for her before she goes home. Ask Thangam to bring one for Mama as well. Also, ask her to bring a broom and sweep up this mess.”

Anand turned to Vidya. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t know what to say. His insides felt like rough gravel after the events of the previous day; he wished he could turn and walk out.

“The necklace went missing?” An obvious question, tentatively uttered, in lieu of all the other unresolved quarrels that lay between them.

“Fuck the necklace,” she said. Flat-voiced. “If she took it, let her keep it. Who gives a shit?”

He had spoken the truth two nights previously—and part of him still exulted, whooping rebelliously, in the freedom. Another part, which had supported this relationship for fifteen years, knew the hurt his words had inflicted.

“Ey,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you. I’m sorry.”

She met his eyes finally. “I’ve done my best by you, Anand.” But the sharp doubt was in her, he could see that, razor-edged, slicing through her self-respect, the rationale for her entire adult life.