The Hope Factory A Novel

twenty-one





THIS WAS ONE OF THOSE MORNINGS when he rose well before the alarm. On the balcony in the cold dawn, he watched the lightening of the sky and listened to the neighborhood muezzins. They had acquired competing loudspeakers, the mosques; one maulvi’s voice had a magical, haunting quality, the other squawked self-importantly. Behind them, like so many echoes, the sounds of prayer ebbed and flowed over the awakening city, the suprabathams from the temples and, when the sun strengthened, distant bells from the Catholic church.

There was nothing left for him to do. He had fussed over the paperwork for a week. The demand drafts were ready and waiting in the safe.

He went downstairs to fetch another cup of coffee and joined his father on the verandah, where the older man was working his way through a sudoku puzzle. “I am a little surprised,” said his father, on Anand’s appearance, for this had evidently been bothering him, “that he has still not come to visit me. Or invited me to their home. It is disrespectful, is it not?”

Anand kept silent. He could not explain to his father why Harry Chinappa was maintaining an unusual distance from his daughter’s house. And why he, Anand, could not care less. Instead, he listened to his father on the subject of Ruby Chinappa, who had visited the previous day, seeking, by her nervous presence, to diffuse her daughter’s anger and atone for her husband’s distance.

“Your father is looking so well,” she had said to Anand. “So good to see him in such health. Harry is very busy right now, so many things, you know, but we really must have your father over for a meal, we really must, I will speak to Vidya about it…. Anand, are you keeping well? Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Anand said, but that did not appear to reassure her. The worry in her face was tangible as she went slowly up the stairs to see her daughter, and deepened when she eventually scuttled back to her car.

Anand drank the last of his coffee. On an impulse, he told his father, “Today, I am going to register the purchase of some land … twelve acres of farmland …”

“Is it? Good, good,” said his father. “You are planning to become a farmer now?”

“Not exactly,” said Anand, wryly recognizing the real anxiety that lay behind his father’s jest. “I am buying this for the company—to expand our facilities.”

“Oh, is that so?” said his father. “In that case, be sure to avoid signing the agreements during the rahu-kaal times.”

“Rahu-kaal?” said Anand. He had never worried about scriptural notions of auspicious and inauspicious times; he could not see the sense of such superstitious behavior, though he was aware that no one else, including Ananthamurthy, seemed to share his view. “What would happen if I did sign in rahu-kaal?”

His father shook his head. “Do not joke about this. It is important. Suppose something went wrong just because you signed in an inauspicious time?”

“Nonsense, Appa,” said Anand, but minutes later, as though on cue, he received a phone call from Ananthamurthy. “Sir, I hope,” said the operations manager, “that you are avoiding the rahu-kaal.”

Anand called the Landbroker. “Are we avoiding the rahu-kaal for signing today?”

The Landbroker said: “Yes, sir, not to worry. Today’s rahu-kaal is finished six-thirty to seven-thirty in the morning.”

“Right. It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Anand. “How much time will the registration take? The full day, is it?”


MUCH HAD HAPPENED IN the two weeks since he had last seen Harry Chinappa.

Anand and Mrs. Padmavati had signed the agreements to purchase the land, below the company seal and next to the fingerprints and the signatures of the farmers who were selling. They had handed over large sums in both check and cash to the Landbroker. They had paid more than Anand would have liked to at this preliminary stage, but the Landbroker had echoed what Vinayak had told him at the very start: such large payments were needed just to convince the farmers to sell. The concluding payments would be correspondingly less, of course, but the risk was unquestionably higher. If something went wrong with the registration, they would find it difficult to recover the money. Their financing in the factory was so tight, it was not a loss they could bear easily.

“Sir, do you think he is trustworthy?” Mrs. Padmavati asked.

Anand smiled wryly. “I hope so, Mrs. Padmavati.” He devoutly prayed he was not making a mistake. As much as he tried to ignore them, Harry Chinappa’s words of warning preyed on his mind, louder and louder as the registration date appeared. Mrs. Padmavati and Mr. Ananthamurthy had started vociferous discussions with the earnest architect, newly hired for the project, not too expensive but competent. Anand kept himself aloof from the process; he would not feel truly confident until the sale was complete. The agreements may have been signed, but until the final sale deeds were executed, until the land ownership papers were handed over, until the land was safely registered in the name of Cauvery Auto—the deal was not done. The Landbroker had laughed at Anand’s caution. “Not to worry, saar,” he said. “The land is yours. We will register immediately. You please start your planning. We can start building a compound wall right away. And leveling the land for your future construction. Shall I have all the trees removed?”

“After we register,” said Anand.

The Sankleshwar fiasco continued to sit in his mind. Mr. Sankleshwar was a powerful businessman—with a formidable network of political contacts and a history of ruthlessness. Anand would have liked to maintain a good relationship with him—and certainly not have his own reputation spoiled with such a man. He deeply regretted, again and again, the loss of temper that had made him walk out of that second meeting with Sankleshwar. If it had involved anyone else, he would have immediately written to clarify the matter. But to write and accuse his own father-in-law of lying would be to create an extraordinary scandal—and probably do nothing to restore Anand’s reputation.

He debated the matter in his mind for a half a day before leaving it unhappily alone. There was nothing he could do about it. Harry Chinappa might be willing to sacrifice Anand’s reputation to save his own. Anand could not bring himself to reciprocate. He wished he could talk this through with someone; he searched his mind for possibilities and failed; the very notion felt awkward, the situation too personal, too much of a family matter to make public.


THE SUBREGISTRAR’S OFFICE LAY an hour’s drive away; to reach it he had to pass the farmland. He didn’t slow down, just glanced quickly at the land lying lush in the sunlight, as a groom, full of future avarice, might sneak a peek at his bride’s breasts and bottom. The iPod was plugged into the car’s speakers, and he sang along softly to “Sugar Magnolia” by the Grateful Dead. In the bright morning light, it did something to ease the tension within him.

The rural land registrar’s office was far removed from urban congestion, housed in a sprawling, yellowing colonial-era government office building that abutted a village school. The building was a warren of rooms organized around a central courtyard, the dust-encrusted architecture in slumberous contrast to the busy buzz and press of humans who entered its portals. Anand knew better than to go wandering through the warren. He parked his car and called the Landbroker.

“Yes, saar, I am already here,” said the Landbroker. “I will find you; you please wait in the car. Namaskara, saar,” he said, magically appearing at the car window before he’d finished speaking.

The Landbroker, a curious mixture of eagerness and pride, sitting next to Anand and telling of his achievements: Sakkath difficult, sir, to get everyone to agree. This was his moment of success: the bringing together of different farming families, entire disputing clans whose members had frequently left the land years before for the urban welter; to convince them to sell their land and divide the money, to negotiate across grievous family divides and old accusations of greed and sorcery on the unborn child and the division of dead goats, to cajole them into signing the documents of agreement a few weeks earlier, and again, today, to sign over the title deeds to their property and accept in return the money that Anand carried in his briefcase as a series of bank drafts.

In the distance, through the cacophony and crowd, the other parties to the deal clustered under the spread of a tamarind tree. They had about them an air of festivity, as though this were a picnic of no uncommon interest. Entire families: aging uncles and grandfathers, dressed in shirts donned specially for the occasion over their usual singlet vests and dhotis, towels placed around their shoulders like shawls; young mothers, neatly groomed with well-oiled and flower-bedecked hair; gossiping grannies with thinning gray hair twisted and knotted at the nape and red-stained teeth revealed in ancient laughter; squealing babies handed around to love and kissed foreheads and pinched cheeks. The middle-aged males of the family, clad in shirts and pants, stood together, talking, parrying, thrusting, taking one another’s measure and, according to the Landbroker, trying to evaluate the relative terms of the deal each was getting, hoping to learn more than each revealed, for the Landbroker had done his work well, sowing money and secrecy through the group, leaving each person convinced that he was possessed of a better deal than the others.

“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 f*ckers, 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 f*ck 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?

There was just one photograph with the two of them, Anand and Kavika as part of a larger group photo, posted by his wife. Anand did not like himself in the picture; he looked as he always did: ordinary. But he had downloaded the image onto his laptop, deleted it—and downloaded it again: it was the only evidence he possessed of the two of them inhabiting the same physical space. He pictured himself as a part of her other photographs, as a part of the rest of her life: his arm around her, casually, as though it had a right to be there, his face alive, captured in a moment of happiness.

Her visit to the factory replayed through his late night mind in an undying loop, as though she made a habit of visiting, coming there to listen to him, to laugh, to flirt, her casual touches meaning so much more, reserved only for him, her fingers sliding their way across his impatient skin until everyone else in the factory magically vanished and he possessed her body as thoroughly as she did his mind. His intense fantasizing in front of the computer never sustained itself in the bathroom; he found himself overwhelmed, crippled, frustrated, his wayward penis, usually so easily aroused by the slightest passing image, turning flaccid despite fervent tugs, his ineffective hand rising to wipe his eyes in the cooling shower.