The Hope Factory A Novel

fourteen





BY LATE EVENING, THE FRANTIC, happy din, the demonic lights, seemed to have been infesting his house for years. Presumably they all had places to live in, why couldn’t they just go home, motherf*ckers. Vidya had positioned Anand near the garden bar with strict instructions on his responsibilities. As he dutifully propitiated guests with alcoholic libation, he restlessly scanned the gathering crowd.

Vidya was an electric force weaving through the garden, the verandah, and the adjacent drawing room; receiving guests, feeding, introducing, sparkling, laughing, her elegant dress seemingly visible at different corners of the party at the same time. She had applied a great deal of makeup on her eyes; with the newly shortened hair, her eyes looked enormous. “Vidya,” he heard friends say, “how chic!” In a matter of moments, it seemed, all the other women present were contemplating chopping off their hair and dressing their bodies as Vidya had; where did she buy her clothes? He had seen her have this impact before—there was something about hosting a party that brought out a glowing performance from her—a sparkiness, a vivacity that was entirely charming—deflecting compliments that came her way with ease, turning her large eyes and conversation to the other person, blessing him or her with the warm glow of her attention.

He too had been charmed by this, all those years ago. When had she last turned that charm, those sympathetic eyes on him? He could not remember. He hadn’t registered the slow fade of her interest till, around him, she had become the person she was today: irritable, impatient, unimpressed.

His mind, with a flush of gratitude, went back to Kavika’s factory visit: to her evident interest, her questions, the laughter. Her engagement, her open appreciation of his achievement. He had not thought her particularly good-looking when he first met her; now he could imagine no one more attractive.

“Isn’t she just beautiful?” said a voice in his ear. “Mama?” He turned to his daughter; she was standing behind him and following the direction of his gaze.

“Yes,” he said. “She certainly is. But you know who I think the most beautiful girl at the party is?” he said, with a teasing smile.

“Appa!” she said, flattered and self-conscious. “You’re just saying that. All parents think their kids look the best…. Do you think we could have some soft drinks?”

“I’ll send some over,” he promised and watched Valmika rejoin her friends. From a distance, they stood transformed into women, shedding their girlhoods, all glowing faces and sweet-bosomed curves, newly ripened, luscious, bedecked with glitter and silk and stone, endearingly shy and uncertain of their charms. Valmika, he thought, was easily the prettiest of them all. She had evidently inherited more than beauty from her mother; he watched with sudden pride as she moved between her own friends and her parents’ guests gracefully, with no hint of teenage awkwardness.

Her little brother was a fixture at the fireworks display that had started a few minutes earlier on the street. Anand had positioned him carefully, knowing Pingu’s enthusiasms and worrying about him hurting himself or others inadvertently. He was on the nervous verge of banning his son from the proceedings entirely or, at any rate, condemning him to watching the display from the safety of the garden, when Narayan had appeared to help. “I’ll be here, sir, and take care,” the boy had said, and Anand had immediately relaxed. He rushed back to the bar before Vidya could notice, his eyes beginning their restless scanning of the crowd once more.

He saw Kavika’s mother first, before he noticed her; the sudden marked similarity between the two women: their lean height, the varying shades of gray, the simple Kanjeevaram silk sarees, and the matching traditional flat ruby collars. This time, Anand didn’t wait for a gesture from his wife; he carried a glass of sherry to Mrs. Nayantara Iyer, but Kavika had already moved on, disappearing into the colored waters of the crowd.

The guests pressed around the bar; in the drowning waves of noise, Anand glanced upward to the only uncrowded space, the air that stretched and ballooned to the sky, interrupted by clouds and the fluttering leaves of trees. Someone—his wife, his father-in-law—had strung the bottlebrush tree with little fairy lights and, in a semblance of festive fun, hung elongated village dancing puppets from the branches; in the noise and the wind, the long-skirted, blank-faced puppets slowly rotated, looking like dead bodies hanging by their necks, their ghosts animating the crowds below.

Considerably later, when guests were quite comfortably finding their own way to the bar and the hired bartender, Anand was finally free to leave his post. He made his way automatically over to where Amir and Amrita stood with a group of others, Kavika among them.

“Ah, there you are! Released from your bonded labor duties, I see …” Amir hailed him with a grin. “Cheer up, bastard…. I’m guessing from your tragic expression that full credit for this party goes to Vidya?”

“Yeah…. Oh, absolutely,” said Anand, gratefully seizing the opportunity to clarify the matter in front of Kavika. “You know me, yaar. I’m not into these large parties … prefer quiet evenings …”

He heard Kabir say: “You’re such a bore, yaar. Thank God for your beautiful wife … throws the best parties around.”

“Thanks also, I think, to our good and benevolent Harry Chinappa. I detect his subtle hand behind the arrangements …” said Amir, raising his glass. “A toast to him.”

In the distance, Harry Chinappa worked his way around the room as only he could, with a calm tenacity and a bluff smile that apparently hid the darker shades of his personality from the people he encountered. He had the habit of placing one hand lightly on the arm of the person he was talking to, or enclosing their hands in both of his, of staring intently into their eyes as they spoke; by the time the conversation was over, they found themselves committed to a lifelong friendship with Harry Chinappa without quite being aware of how it came about.

Anand had forgotten to ask who his father-in-law’s very important guests were going to be. At the height of the party, Vinayak, standing next to him said, “Oh my god,” and the rest of the party went silent. And there was Harry Chinappa threading his way through the guests, Harry Chinappa not alone but gilded in his hour of triumph by the man who was following in his footsteps, stopping every now and then to smile at people, to shake hands, to modestly and lightly wear the tingling cloak of celebrity that swept over the room, Vijayan.

He was not alone; accompanying him was a film actor who had a huge following in the state but even so could not detract attention from the politician he was trailing. Even Amir and Amrita, Anand saw, appeared starstruck.

Harry Chinappa looked around. Their eyes met; Anand’s first instinct was to pretend that he hadn’t seen him, but he could not avoid his fate indefinitely. He duly made his way over and was introduced to Vijayan. A few words, closely monitored by his father-in-law, and the audience was over. Harry Chinappa placed one hand on Vijayan’s shoulder and turned away, dismissing Anand, swallowed instantly by the thronging crowd.

The politician and his actor friend were, under his father-in-law’s stewardship, soon seated at a card table, where Vinayak, with unerring calculation, also quickly planted himself.

Amir began to talk politics—and if Diwali wishes came true, Anand would have guided the four of them—Amir, Amrita, Kavika, and himself—into his study, where they could sit at their ease in the peace and enjoy the luxury of their conversation. And perhaps, after a few minutes, Amir and Amrita would excuse themselves and wander back to the party, leaving him alone with Kavika. He glanced at the woman standing next to him; surely this magical creature would infinitely prefer that to the noise of this rank and fevered crowd? She was nodding now as she listened to Amir, but whatever she was about to say was rudely interrupted.

“Good point, very good point … now, Amir, bhai-jaan, can you quit being so f*cking serious for one evening?” Kabir had reappeared with a tray with tequila in shot glasses, salt, and lime, Vidya laughing by his side.

Amir shook his head austerely. “No, no. Shots, ugh. What are you guys, college kids?” he asked, as he sniffed reverently at his glass of single malt whiskey. Anand refused the tequila; Kavika, Vidya, and Amrita downed the shots with Kabir.

The party seemed to shift into a higher gear. The music switched from soothing sarod to muscular, drum-thumping Bollywood, and Kabir immediately swung Kavika out to dance.

Anand noticed two things: Kavika was a graceful dancer, with all the right moves. And Kabir, in his well-tailored black sherwani, looked like a movie star.

Anand himself, as a concession to the occasion, was wearing a cotton kurta, rejecting the silk one that Vidya had laid out for him. He had looked at himself in the mirror before the party; he’d appeared normal. He hadn’t been able to tell if that was good or bad. Next to his wife, he had looked plain. Now, he suddenly wondered: was everything Vidya routinely implied about him, in fact, true? He felt it might be; he felt awkward, boring, dull.

The heat rose within him, he was enveloped in hot glue. The tide and tug of the crowd pushed him this way and that; he smiled perfunctorily at random faces. He had an overwhelming desire to leave immediately, to go home, instantly followed by the despair of knowing he was home; he could not leave. He went to the bartender and collected a glass of beer, watching the foam slip down the sides of the glass, settle, and slowly disappear into the pale yellow liquid. The puppets danced above his head in the wind, laughing at him.

• • •


LATE THAT NIGHT, HARRY Chinappa, flushed with the success of the evening, placed his arm around Anand’s shoulders. “Good job, my boy,” he said generously, as though the party was entirely Anand’s doing. “Those tiger prawns … Excellent idea, if I say so myself…. Vidya, did you see how happy Vijayan was? Excellent evening …”

Vidya, stretched out in exhaustion on the sofa, with her feet up and her hand wrapped around a glass of water, looked at the strange tableau of Anand and her father in silent astonishment. “My father seems happy with you,” she said later, and there was as much doubt as surprise in her voice.