The Hope Factory A Novel

thirty-three





FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE, Anand prepared to ambush someone at an event. As soon as the speeches were done, he pushed through the crowd, smiling with the same implacable tenacity he had witnessed in Harry Chinappa at important social moments. “How are you?” he said, extending his hand to Vijayan.

His first level of worry—that Vijayan would have no idea who he was and brush past him impatiently—proved baseless. Vijayan, with a politician’s mastery of names and faces, remembered him well and spoke warmly about the Diwali party.

Anand said quickly: “Sir, I was wondering if I could have a photograph with you?” He’d been ready to add: “For my wife, she could not be here and she would be so excited,” but he did not reckon with a politician’s appetite for being photographed with supporters. What felt awkward to him was natural and easy for Vijayan; Anand merely had to signal Amir, who was waiting nearby with a camera (“For Vidya,” Anand had told him. “You know what she’s like”), and they were photographed together: Vijayan posing with practiced ease and Anand with a grim, smiling determination.

The camera safely in his pocket, Anand took the next step. He said: “I am so pleased, sir, at your comments supporting industry.” Especially when so many other politicians in India cater to the populist, rural vote, with its focus on agriculture. We really need people in government who recognize that industries provide jobs and growth and an economic future for the country. People just like you, sir.

“That is at the heart of my campaign,” said Vijayan warmly. “To create magnificent opportunities for industry without, of course, in any way compromising rural development. In fact, as I said in my speech, my dream is to seed industry across India’s rural landscape and to do so in ways that are socially responsible, environmentally responsible, and economically viable.” He leaned in, enfolding a moment of intimacy about them. “Mr. Anand, successful businessmen like you are vital to my vision for India’s future.”

“Thank you,” Anand said. “I hope that your campaign is going well?”

Vijayan smiled. “I am blessed,” he said, “with tireless supporters.”

“Yes, I know,” said Anand. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting one of your party men, a Gowdaru-saar.”

In the act of turning away, Vijayan paused. There was no mistaking the change in Anand’s tone: “He has raised an interesting … dilemma for me. I was hoping to discuss the matter with you personally.”

“Of course.” Vijayan, alert, wary, instantly breathing concern and confidentiality. “Of course. Certainly. Not a problem, I hope?”

Anand was not to be charmed. “I certainly hope not.”

“We must meet.” Vijayan nodded to his assistant, hovering at his side. This man, equally alert, took Anand’s phone number and promised that he would call to set up a meeting.

“Great,” said Anand. “I’ll be waiting.”


ANAND LEFT THE PARTY, camera in hand like a prize, one more job to perform. He would leave nothing to chance, or to minds changing after a distracted night. Vijayan’s assistant would call him in the morning. He would ensure it.

Vijayan was famous for not employing the campaign money collected by the party for his personal use. But surely he was familiar with all the ways in which such money was raised? How could one rise to a leadership position in a major Indian political party with all its hurly-burly corruption and be entirely free from taint?


AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning Vidya gazed at the newspaper, refusing to hand it to him in her surprise. “Oh my goodness. Look at this!” She reexamined the photograph of her husband with Vijayan. “It’s not bad,” she said. “I mean, it’s quite large and they have placed it in a really nice position. Goodness,” she said.

Anand drank his coffee without comment. He had orchestrated the publication of the photograph through a contact Vinayak had provided him with at a prominent newspaper well known for its propensity for combining genuine news with happy promotional pieces for anyone willing to pay for them. Vijayan’s team would know that he too could access the media.

“How cool, yaar,” Vidya said, with a reluctant, growing enthusiasm. “ ‘Prominent businessman Anand K. Murthy.’ Prominent! Damn cool…. I wonder if my parents have seen this. Has your father seen it?”

Anand finished his coffee and retired to his study to wait.


THE PHONE CALL FROM Vijayan’s chief assistant came early, as Anand knew it would. Would Anand care to meet with him? Vijayan was busy, but, if necessary, he too would be happy to meet with Anand a little later. Yes, he, the assistant, could meet Anand this very morning, no problem. Happy to, sir.

Anand preferred to deal with the assistant, Mr. Rudrappa. Despite the subordinate title, the man was Vijayan’s gatekeeper and very powerful.

Vijayan’s team worked out of an old, yellowing house in Jayanagar, converted to an election office and already, at ten in the morning, thrumming with energy and bulging crowds waiting to meet the candidate and his party members: people from the city, the hinterlands, offices and farms. Mr. Rudrappa had positioned an assistant on the pavement, waiting to receive Anand, to help him park his car, to guide him past the waiting people into the house and his own inner sanctum, next to Vijayan’s office. Mr. Rudrappa’s office was a small, spare room, bare of all but a desk, a briefcase, an iPad, two phones, a Kannada calendar, and a poster of Vijayan, identical to the ones permeating the city, on the distempered walls.

Mr. Rudrappa projected an efficient friendliness, as though Anand were nothing but a well-wisher. “Some coffee, sir?” he offered, but Anand waved the offer aside. He was prepared to be civil but did not care about being nice. He went straight to the point.

“I am a great supporter of Vijayan,” he said. “But I do not like to be pressured. I don’t think any businessman would. And certainly, it is not the right image for a man of Vijayan’s caliber. His supporters would be shocked to hear of such things.” The photograph that had so magically appeared in the morning newspaper lay heavily between them.

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Rudrappa immediately. “No, of course not. I am so sorry. Sometimes, our party functionaries can get overenthusiastic in their support. I will speak to Gowdaru-saar. Yes, immediately. Kindly accept our apologies. And, sir? Please let me know if I can help you in any other way.”


ANAND DID NOT HAVE to follow up on that promise. A few hours later, the Landbroker arrived at the factory, flowering with relief. “Saar,” he said, laughing. “How did you do it?”

The recalcitrant farmer was willing and eager to complete the transaction. Gowdaru-saar himself had called the Landbroker, to confirm that he was to proceed with full haste and no impediment. “How did you do it, saar?” The Landbroker’s happiness was contagious; he prowled the office in a bright celebratory pink shirt, glancing at Anand in some wonderment. “I saw that photo, saar. In the paper.”

Anand waved him off. “That was nothing. Now tell me, how quickly can we complete the land registration?”

The Landbroker’s gold-edged sunglasses joyfully caught the fluorescent office light. “Immediately, saar. Immediately.”

*

HE RETURNED HOME EARLY to find his father was waiting for him. Waiting to speak. “My presence here,” his father said, addressing the matter directly, “is making your wife uncomfortable?”

Anand was mortified. “No, Appa, no,” he said. “That was something else. She is happy to have you here.”

“She is not happy,” his father said and moved on to his next concern. “You did not come home one night. You stayed in the factory. Everything is all right, there?”

Anand sighed. “Yes,” he said. “There was some problem. I have sorted it out.”

His father inclined his head. “Good, good.”

He seemed to have more to say: “Anand, I still do not think that you have chosen the right path for yourself. In work and other matters. But perhaps you were destined to select such a path? … If that is the case, then there is nothing I or anyone else could have done to thwart you, is it not? … I see that you work very hard. That is good. After all, if this is your karma, then you have a moral duty to give it your best, to persevere. You are doing that.” The old man nodded. “You are doing that.”

“Why don’t you come see it?” Anand said, surprising himself. “The factory?”

His father responded as though it were the most natural suggestion in the world. “Next week,” he said. “Your mother will be here by then. One of her sisters, your Meena Chikkamma, will come to sit with your grandmother and we will be able to go home. We will both come to see your factory.”

Anand’s initial shock gave way to reluctant laughter, but his father did not seem to notice. He was absorbed, once more, in the day’s paper, his pencil at the ready.


ANAND HAD ONE MORE thing to do that day. Valmika had spent the past two days at a friend’s house on an extended sleepover; Vidya was surprised when he’d volunteered to fetch her. “Are you sure? It’s in Koramangala. That’s an hour’s drive. Why don’t I just send the driver?”

Valmika smiled when she saw Anand in the car. “I didn’t know you were coming to pick me up,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat beside him.

“Had a good time?” he asked. “Had fun?”

“So-so,” said Valmika. “We watched a movie. Mostly, we talked. Painted our nails. Look, Appa!” She waved her fingers in his line of vision; each nail was painted a different color and studded with glitter.

“Very nice,” he said. Despite the gesture, she seemed unusually sober and thoughtful.

Valmika fell silent, then: “Appa. Why are you so angry with Mama?”

“Me? I am not, sweetie. I am not. Why do you say that?”

She didn’t reply. After a silence, she said: “My friend, Anamika? Her parents are divorcing….”

Anand pulled over to the side of the road, switched off the engine, and caught his daughter by her shoulders. “Listen,” he said, “Listen. Mama and I are not going to divorce. Understand? Okay, laddu? This is a promise. Okay?”

“But you’re angry with her, Appa. I can see that.”

“Arrey. Last week when I made you study your physics, you were angry with me, no? It happens. Let it be.”

Valmika relaxed. Sighed. Anand started the car and eased into the traffic. After a while, she said: “They say Anamika’s father has a girlfriend in Brazil.”

“In Brazil? … All the way over there? … Not a very practical fellow, is he?” he said and was gratified to hear his daughter giggle.


EVENTUALLY HIS FRIENDS LEARNED that his political troubles had lifted, but Anand never volunteered to any of them the details of how he had pulled it off—or the fact that, once the registration of the land was complete, he wrote a check to Vijayan’s party, unsolicited, from his personal account, even though it irked him to do so. He wanted to ensure their continuing goodwill.

The elections drew nearer; the headlines had a photograph of Vijayan addressing a public meeting, with the caption: YES WE CAN! VIJAYAN VOWS TO FIGHT CORRUPTION.