The Hope Factory

by Lavanya Sankaran

  “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.

  V
almika 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.

  twenty-two

  THE FIRST PERSON KAMALA encountered when she stepped out of her room the next morning was the landlord’s mother. What the old woman saw on her face had her hurrying forward. “Oh, daughter,” she said. “Such misery! What a wretch I am to have caused you such anguish. Don’t distress yourself, do not. If only I could spare you this, I would. I will convince my son to agree to your offer, you do not worry. The gods will help you. Or your brother will. I know this. I wish I could spare you this.”

  “Thank you, mother,” said Kamala. “That is kindness. I will raise what money I can.”

  THE FIGHT IN THE KITCHEN was different. Kamala could sense that in an instant, even through her own worries. Shanta washed dishes in a sullen silence, while Thangam muttered in anger. “You promised,” she kept saying. “You promised. And I was a fool to believe you.”

  Vidya-ma had yelled at Thangam the previous evening—not for her work, which was getting more careless as her financial troubles increased—but for the ruckus that had taken place at the front gate, where a member of the chit fund had arrived, along with her family and friends, to demand the payout that was her due. Two other chit fund members had joined in, calling for Thangam, panicked about rumors of the failure of the fund and the possible loss of all their savings. Thangam, with growing numbers of defaulters and unable to compensate all of them, had cowered within. Vidya-ma had suffered a profound shock to find her house besieged by the denizens of the adjacent slum, barely repulsed by the feeble efforts of the watchman, much to the good-natured amusement of neighboring watchmen, drivers, itinerant laborers, and ragamuffins. Thangam’s angry creditors had refused to be dislodged by Vidya-ma’s threats and scoldings; she had finally retired to her bed with a screaming headache and a bad temper, none of it improved by Thangam’s abject apologies.

  Kamala was surprised that Thangam wasn’t fired for this, but beyond shouting at her through the day, Vidya-ma did nothing further. Thangam’s face this morning was swollen with tears. She had asked Shanta to return the money Thangam had loaned her in happier, easier times. You keep saying you will, she said, unmindful of Shanta’s shame and unhappiness. You promised, sister. Now do it.

  Kamala kept well out of their way. After days of praying ineffectively, she was finally resolved to do the one thing she had promised herself she would not. She would approach Anand-saar for a loan. She was frightened by the potential consequences of this: suppose he was annoyed by her request and canceled Narayan’s education sponsorship? Suppose Thangam’s ruckus of the previous day had adversely affected his attitude toward all the staff? Vidya-ma must surely have complained.

  She rehearsed her speech; she would start by thanking him for all he had given her; she would praise him—and Vidya-ma, and the children, and his father—for their benevolence; she would beg leave to ask him for a further favor. Her words sounded stilted and awkward in her mind; she knew, with a gathering sense of doom, that they would sound still worse when spoken aloud. She wished fervently for her son’s eloquence and ease of manner. When the day’s work was done and Thangam had resumed her quarrel with Shanta in the kitchen, Kamala gathered her resolution, said her prayers, and made her way to the study.

  The door was partially open; a quiet light burned within. She thought that she would knock and poke her head through the door, that Anand-saar might see her and summon her, but instead she paused and sniffed. Sniffed again. She dithered in the shadows of the stairwell, not knowing what to do. Anand-saar alone at his table and drinking alcohol was not normal. His chair scraped back. The light clicked off. He emerged, his posture straight and his movements brisk, but so unapproachable, his eyes, sorrowful, tear-reddened. Kamala remained in the shadows, feeling like she had intruded upon a moment not meant for her to witness.

  KAMALA WALKED HOME SLOWLY, her mood tinged with failure. The bright streets of her employment yielded, at the corner tea shop, to the dull lighting of her own neighborhood. Without warning, the whole area was plunged into darkness from an unscheduled power cut.

  Kamala stood still, waiting for her eyes to adjust; stepping inside the gutter would not aid matters. Behind her, in the distance, she could hear the sounds of private generators gunning and starting, harnessed to the electrical systems of large bungalows. Ahead, the tea shop owner lit a kerosene lamp; the light guided her forward.

  A group of males, an undifferentiated, dark mass barely illumined by the kerosene lamp, were gathered near the tea shop. Something about them made her watchful. Even in the dark, it was easy to distinguish between men relaxing after a
long day of honorable work and the malignant attitudes of those who spent their hours in less constructive ways. They were smoking, for one, a habit she despised. The intermittent glow of a puffed cigarette was succeeded by a golden arc as it was thrown into the gutter.

  A woman walking alone past such a group was an invitation for trouble. Kamala slowed her steps. She could feel them watching her. One of the group disengaged and moved toward her. She tensed as he approached.

  He seemed smaller than the rest. In a flash, she realized: the disquieting group by the tea shop was Raghavan and his friends; the slender figure approaching was her son.

  “Amma,” he said happily, taking her small bag. She accompanied him silently, her mind burning. When had he started seeing that good-for-nothing Raghavan again? One of the benefits of the new school was that, in its strict attention to matters of attendance and homework, many of Narayan’s old, worrying ways and companions, including these loafers, seemed to have fallen away. When had he started seeing them again? Narayan spoke before she could. “Mother, listen…. I have been thinking about our troubles, and, well, I have spoken with that Raghavan—you remember him?—and from the things he said …” he rushed his words past his mother’s defenses, “there might be other methods of earning money. Quickly. Enough money.”

  The bile rose sharply in Kamala’s mouth; she spat into the drain that ran alongside, her spittle landing sharply on the dark earth below. “No.” As though he might not have heard, she repeated: “No.”

  Never. For her son to throw away all his chances, his future, to engage in whatever lawbreaking ventures that Raghavan amused himself with. No. A secondary fear arose: that Narayan, with his independent mind, would not listen to her, would be tempted by notions of quick, easy money earned through disreputable means. She forced herself to smile reassuringly, as though she were a film star with an innate ability for lying drama, and patted his back. “I have a plan myself,” she said. “You don’t worry.”