The Hope Factory A Novel

twenty-five





THE MEETING WITH GOWDARU-SAAR and the realization of what Harry Chinappa’s careless, self-serving lies had thrown his way unleashed an unprecedented anger that propelled Anand through his home in a great, all-consuming silence. The fat house, overbuilt, overspent; the mechanisms by which it had been created, the human infrastructure of his entire life; all existed, it seemed, to oppress him. He lived mute within it, his silence punctuated by the angry mutterings of his wife and watched in gathering bewilderment by his daughter.

Valmika saw something in his face that she had never seen before, and worked up the courage one morning to ask, “Appa, what’s wrong?”

They were headed into Cubbon Park. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing, kutty. Come on.” They stretched perfunctorily before starting to run. His legs stretched farther today, moving lightly over the ground, feeling an old, forgotten power for the first time in years. At the corner, he glanced back, but Valmika had been keeping pace with him.

There she was. Kavika. In the distance, holding the leash of her mother’s aging dog. He felt like running right up to her, shouting at her for her obliviousness, grabbing her arm, pulling her to the car, and driving away with her. Somewhere.

He accelerated, leaving Valmika behind, and came to a despairing halt in front of her. Kavika’s cheerful hello seemed unaffected both by his fevered fantasies and by whatever stories his wife was feeding her. “This guy,” she said, bending and fondling the dog’s long ears, “would lose a race with a turtle.”

Her eyes roamed his face; her voice was friendly, kind. “Anand,” she said. “Amir told me something in confidence. About your company. It really worried me …”

He couldn’t speak. Valmika had reached them and was sucking in shuddering gasps of breath. She fell to her knees, and Anand suddenly felt ashamed. He tried to speak to her cheerfully: “You ran really well, kutty. Great job!”

Kavika waited until Valmika had recovered her breath. She said: “Sweetie, do you think you could just ramble about with this fellow for a few minutes while I talk to your father? Thank you! And don’t go too far, stay within our sight all the time.” She turned back to Anand. “Amir told me that you were being pursued by some political goon for money…. Is that true? Are you okay?”

Anand sat on the grass and started talking, telling her, freely, easily, of everything that had happened. He was no raconteur; the narrative was bald and shorn of decorative detail, but she listened with an attentive sympathy that pulled the words out of him. He started with the land investment; he was soon speaking about Harry Chinappa with an honesty that he had never before managed with anyone. He knew that he could trust her, that she would not go running with these tales to either his wife or their friends.

She offered no conventional platitudes. Instead, she asked directly: “So do you think he is behind this political party coming after you? Harry Chinappa? Would he actually go that far?”

Anand sighed. He had been debating the same point himself. “No. I don’t think so. Actually, I doubt if he is even aware of it. Family is too important to him—believe it or not—even though he lied about me….” This was something Anand knew, he would never forget and never forgive. But even so, Harry Chinappa wasn’t behind the political parties. “I think Sankleshwar is the man behind it.”

“F*ck,” she said, digesting this, slowly, implications feeding through.

“That’s bad, right?” she said. “So … what is he after? Is it money? Is this Gowda person collecting the money for Sankleshwar?”

Anand did not need to think it through. “Sankleshwar doesn’t need my money. F*ck—it’s peanuts for him. He’s a vicious son-of-a-bitch who is pissed off at me. Thanks to Harry Chinappa. He’s pissed off at me—and wants to teach me a lesson.”

“So he put those political guys onto you?”

Anand looked up at the sky, fighting the tears of anger and fright welling up within him. He hadn’t cried since he was a teenager. “Yeah.”

“He has that kind of political muscle?”

“Yeah. He’s really connected. Apparently, in his early days, there were some very shady deals where he got his political buddies to convert large tracts of greenbelt land into far more valuable industrial through some rezoning—and in return the f*cker helped them launder black money into land. And, according to Vinayak, some business of violence in his early years. He got rid of some guy who didn’t want to sell to him….”

“Boy, Vinayak and his stories. Sometimes you just don’t know what to believe … I discount half the things he says.”

“Well,” said Anand, picking up a stone and flinging it against a tree, “that’s what I did too, right? What a f*cking mistake. I should never have gotten involved with either Harry Chinappa or Sankleshwar.”

“Anand.” She placed the warmth of her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You couldn’t have known. But this is a really crappy situation to be in. You know, it’s one thing to hear of the routine daily corruption we all deal with—but I had no idea that this sort of thing happened with companies. How do you function with this sort of political arm-twisting?”

“Jesus, Kavika, this isn’t normal,” Anand said. “I mean, you do hear of politicians and their goons sniffing around certain industries … real estate, for instance. Or liquor. Or mining.”

“Ah. Places that tend to need a helping, corrupt hand …”

“Exactly. Or getting kickbacks from companies who are chasing government orders. But normally they leave us manufacturing or software companies alone. At least if we keep our heads down…. Of course, we still have to deal with what you said: the routine, daily corruption—which is f*cking bad enough. But this … thanks to Sankleshwar, they have their claws into us, and they’re not going to back off. It’s scary.”

He could see his emotions reflected on her face. She was appalled. And angry.

“Oh, Anand. That is such bullshit. Bastards! … You know, I remember reading about the company that refused to support one party and, as revenge, the party members planted porn on the company premises and then got the police to raid them and arrest the CEO …”

Anand looked grim. “Yeah, I remember that too. Poor bugger.”

“Sorry, that wasn’t the most comforting thing to say…. So if Sankleshwar can set these guys on you, then presumably he can get them to back off. He’s the guy you must talk to.”

“He’s not returning my phone calls,” said Anand.

The jacaranda and rain trees made a high canopy of green over their heads, filtering the early morning sun. In the distance, they could see the cocker spaniel snuffling along, smelling the long grass, Valmika having released him from his leash.

“Someday,” Kavika said, “I will tell you my own story. Difficult choices there too—and I am not always sure I have made the right ones. It’s not always easy to see, is it?”

Someone had spread birdseed, and a large flock of birds had settled in the spaniel’s path. As he approached, nose and ears to the ground, they rose, the pigeons, in a single gray cloud of fright. The startled dog backed hastily away, almost tumbling over his rear legs, and peered in astonishment at the flying bird-carpet from behind the safety of a bush.

Kavika’s laughter bubbled up; she was sprawled on the grass, her giggles shaking her stomach. Anand found himself laughing too, for the first time in days—and he was still laughing when his daughter rejoined them, the dog back on the leash.

“Did you see that?” Valmika asked. “It was the funniest sight.”

Kavika stood up and gave Valmika a hug. “Thank you! I hope this fool did not trouble you too much? I’m glad!”

As they headed back to their car, Valmika said: “Appa. You’re smiling.”

“Yes,” said Anand. “I think I feel better after my run.” He remembered his earlier mood. “I’m glad you came running with me, kutty. And I’m sorry if I made you run too hard.”

Valmika snorted. “Hard? Appa, next time, I’ll beat you!”

He put his arm around her and hugged her hard.

*

HE WAITED UNTIL 10:00 A.M. and called Sankleshwar’s office again. The great man was traveling, they told him. In meetings. Busy elsewhere.

Ananthamurthy and Mrs. Padmavati worried over the financial end of the matter with him. Gowdaru-saar had sent word through the Landbroker: the sale price of the remaining land had gone up by 20 percent. This additional amount would have to be paid in cash. If they didn’t pay, the land purchase would not happen.

“We will have to pay,” said Mrs. Padmavati. “We have no choice. We must pay and hope that they do not once again ask us for more.”

“Mrs. Padmavati—how do we pay the full amount? We cannot pay more than ten percent; they want twenty. Even ten percent will stretch our budget to the maximum. The banks will not lend us more.”

“Sir, can you tell them this?” said Mrs. Padmavati. “Tell them we can only afford so much and no more.”

“It is worth a try,” said Anand. “But it will probably not work. I’ll speak to the Landbroker about this.”

He met with the Landbroker at the Swamy Miltry Hotel, just off the highway. Dark, low-ceilinged, tiny, walls stained with cooking grease and clumps of decaying cobwebs; the rancid odor of burnt sambar; what the place lacked in comfort, it made up for in anonymity. The Landbroker fetched two coffees from the serving counter, the tumbler inverted into a steel cup. They stood at one of the tall, Formica-topped tables that dotted the premises.

“Listen, not to worry.” Anand knew he first had to soothe the Landbroker, to return to him a sense of confidence that the meeting with Gowdaru-saar had undermined.

“What, saar,” said the Landbroker. “This is the first time this is happening to me. The first time I am having to face such political pressure and the first time”—the Landbroker was upset, barely meeting Anand’s eye—“where I am not sure if a client is buying from me or from someone else.”

“No, no. I am buying only from you. Not to worry. That Sankleshwar is a friend of my father-in-law’s; that is why there was some conversation. But that is all. Not to worry. Nothing has been signed; no money has been exchanged with him. I am only working with you. Where this Gowdaru-saar has got this information from I don’t know. And I do not know why he has approached me like this. But no matter,” said Anand, gliding lightly over his father-in-law’s dealings. “We have to now deal with this, and we will. You please tell him that we will pay, but you must make it clear—we can only afford ten percent more.”

The Landbroker looked doubtful and worried. “They will not like to bargain this way, saar.”

“Tell him this is all we can afford. You please tell him this. We are not as big as he thinks.”

“I will try, saar,” said the Landbroker, unconvinced.


AN EMAIL PINGED ACROSS his phone. It was a cheerful, encouraging letter from the Japanese company, looking forward to their next meeting. In Copenhagen, this time. Anand had planned to take Mr. Ananthamurthy and Mrs. Padmavati with him. For both of them, it would have been their first trip abroad. “We are very much looking forward to doing business in India,” the email said, “to participating in the growth of your great nation and, if all goes well, of your company.”

The first time Anand had traveled abroad, years before, to meet a potential client in Germany, he had not been able to stop staring: at the roads, the bridges, the tunnels, the cars, the trains, at the organized reliability of it all, so startled by such careless munificence he almost wept. When asked later to describe his trip, he was typically laconic: “Everything works,” he said. He had not been successful with the client; they had doubted Indian manufacturing capability.

That same trip, on a flight, he had met a German engineer who had complained bitterly about the proposed extension in Germany of a thirty-five-hour workweek. “So terrible!” the German had said. Anand, working a seventy-hour week with Ananthamurthy, had agreed politely, but inside, he had doubted. Within that conversation, he knew, lay the seeds of Western downfall, the stoic industry of their ancestors deteriorating into whining, waffling plaint, as full of fidgets as a spoiled child. It was the mirror image of his own existence.


THE PHONE CALL CAME when he was stepping into the shower that evening. The voice was uneducated and slightly unctuous: “Mr. Anand, saar?” The voice went on, starting in English and continuing in Kannada: “Ah, wun min-nut. Woru nimisha. If it is convenient, Gowdaru-saar would like to speak with you.”

Anand sat on the edge of the bathtub, the granite cool against his buttocks, a towel quickly pulled across his naked shoulders. “Namaskara.”

“Ah, Mr. Anand-saar,” said the quiet voice at the other end. “You seem to be very upset with me.”

Chuth. Behenchuth. “No, no,” Anand said. “Why do you say that?”

“Saar. Yes. Otherwise why else would you bargain like this? You are such a big man. You are not a small shopkeeper to bargain like this. Our party can thrive with your assistance only…. You please help us. What we have suggested,” said Gowdaru-saar, “is a very small sum for a man such as yourself.”

“It is very kind of you to think so highly of my company,” said Anand. F*cker. “But please understand. Ten percent is all that we can afford, Gowdaru-saar.”

“You can afford more, saar,” said Gowdaru-saar. “Twenty percent more, you can easily afford. We have heard. It is a small thing for you. Why you must say no? You please support us—and we will be like your brother, saar. We will support you for everything. Your land purchase, everything. Not to worry.”

As Anand stayed silent, the texture of Gowdaru-saar’s speech changed. “You please reconsider, saar,” he said. “We will definitely attend to this matter for you. One way or another, saar. One way or another.”

The threat was explicit. Anand felt fear rise from his stomach, from his heart, from the very center of his being, and collect in his mouth.

“We will speak again this weekend. Goodbye, saar.”

Anand stared uncomprehendingly at his surroundings: at the steam emerging from the still-running shower, at the vapor that clung to the mirror above the basin.

How was he to raise the money? Even if he could, wouldn’t Gowdaru-saar simply assume that Cauvery Auto could indeed afford it—and keep asking for more? What then?


HIS STUDY SUPPLIED NO solace that night. The passing hours only increased his foreboding, his sense of impending loss; waking nightmares populated by political goons and bank managers, multiplied like many-headed, fang-mouthed rakshasas until they passed the realm of the practical and danced fancifully about him, Kathakali dancers gone wild. His desk sat solidly before him, providing no answers.

Vidya appeared at the study door in an old T-shirt and pajama bottoms; her hair was unbrushed, her face flushed. She did not seem to be able to sleep either.

“Ey.” She looked stormy, spoiling for a fight—and for a brief moment he wondered if Kavika had spoken to her on the matters he’d discussed in the park. “Enough is enough. I want you to apologize to my father. I can’t live like this. You better apologize to him.”

“No, I won’t.” Anand discovered a new domestic implacability. “I won’t. Dammit. He owes me an apology.”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you these days. It’s like nothing matters to you!”

“I know what matters to me.”

“Then, it’s like I don’t matter to you!” she cried. “My family doesn’t matter to you. What I want doesn’t matter. My father …”

“Your father,” he shouted, “has bloody ruined my life, okay? … You happy about that? What, aren’t you going to run to Kavika to complain about this too …? Your father …” He found the courage to say the words. “I wish I had never met him.”

And then he said, unplanned, but the truth, blunt, recognizable as soon as it was uttered: “I wish I had never met you.”


HE WATCHED HER JERK backward as though she had been punched. A part of him wanted to move quickly to her rescue, as he had always done, routinely, to shield her, to smooth her way, to make the patterns of life easier for her—buying tickets, paying bills, staff salaries, fixing cars, plumbing, the bubble of support he had built so she could play within. But another part of his brain—victorious, battle-scarred, finally at liberty, heady from speaking the truth—held him back, and he watched her stumble, look to the sofa, look to the door, look at him, and bewildered, lost, retreat unsteadily from the room.