The Hope Factory

by Lavanya Sankaran

  She thought of her old hopes and stopped herself. That was foolish. She had to look for another job. She had to find another home. She had to find some other method of educating Narayan. She sat silent upon her haunches, lacking the strength to move, utterly exhausted, drained of hope and will.

  thirty-one

  A CALL TO WAR. THE PLOTTING of a campaign. Already the schemes were unfolding within him, spores planted, the fungus spreading through, feeding on a hot, moist bed of anger. To twist things in his favor, Anand would have to employ not only his father-in-law’s manipulativeness but also a page from Vinayak’s cynical approach to democratic government. If that was what it took, he would. But how to get access to Vijayan?

  The following morning Vidya, unwittingly, showed him the way.

  She appeared at the breakfast table, freshly showered, wrapped in a shawl, taking refuge behind a cup of tea. Like him, she seemed to focus her energies on interacting with the children. By the end of it she had relaxed a little, the very normalcy of the meal calming her. “Ey, you know, I was supposed to go with Amir and Amrita to that fund-raiser this evening. But I can’t do it. I’m too exhausted. Can’t face anyone. Amir is going to be so disappointed.”

  “You shouldn’t go,” he said, with sterilized, routine comfort. “Rest up.”

  She said, and he snapped to attention: “Vijayan is going to be there, you know. First time I would be meeting him since Diwali…. But I just don’t feel up to it. I can’t even think of an excuse.”

  “You know,” said Anand, “why don’t I go? Instead of you? I’ll speak to Amir.”

  “Really? You will? That’s great…. Yes,” said Vidya, her eyes moist. “I really need my rest.”

  HE CALLED AMIR IMMEDIATELY from the study. He could not share his various schemes with him, for Amir might not understand; he would urge Anand not to pay any bribes and to stand strong and watch his company fail. “Hey, buddy, listen, Vidya is not feeling very well and I was wondering if I could come to the fund-raiser instead of her? Yeah, should be interesting…. Yeah, I’ll swing by and pick up an invitation. Are you sure Vijayan will be there tonight? Great!”

  Amir was in the small office he and Amrita used for their charitable work. It was cluttered with papers. When Anand arrived, Amrita was on her way out. “Hey, you!” she said. “Stranger! Don’t see enough of you…. But thanks again, for the latest check…. Are you coming to the fund-raiser tonight?”

  Anand grinned. “Maybe,” he said, and she left in a flurry of busyness.

  He checked at the door. Amir wasn’t alone; Kavika was seated there as well.

  He didn’t know how to react to her presence; he wanted her gone so he could compose himself; he wanted her there; he wanted to pour his soul out to her and her alone. Instead, he held out his hand to Amir for the invitation. “You’re sure Vijayan will be there?”

  Amir laughed at him. “Yes, bugger, but why do you care all of a sudden?”

  Kavika walked out with him, heading to her own car. “So how are you doing? Any solutions?”

  “I’m working on it,” he said.

  “Why do I get the sense that your interest in this fund-raiser has something to do with the problems at your factory?” He said nothing, but she saw something, surely, for she said: “Anand. Good luck. Whatever you have planned. Good luck.”

  She leaned forward. He knew she was going to hug him before it happened. He felt her arms lightly about him, her breath on his ear, the fleeting touch of her lips on his cheek. Her skin had an ancient familiarity to him, a coming home. He held himself still, the moment spinning out to all eternity, loss already gathering deep within him.

  She smiled and was gone.

  thirty-two

  HE LAY ON A MATTRESS ON the floor of their courtyard room, the fever soaking through his heated skin. The room stayed cool and dim, cocooned from the sharp winter light outside by the recessed door and the window, which had stayed firmly barricaded with plastic through all these years. The green paint on the walls had faded; in between the stains Kamala could distinguish where a much younger Narayan had left his scratches and scribbles, drawing idle pictures on the walls rather than attending to his homework.

  She dipped a cloth in cool water and wiped it over his forehead, registering the temporary ease it brought him. He had developed the fever from hours of trying to sell magazines in a cold winter rain.

  “Did you give him the tablet?” the landlord’s mother asked from the doorway.

  “Yes, mother, I did,” said Kamala.

  “Good,” said the landlord’s mother. “Good. That will bring the fever down…. Do not worry, daughter,” she said. “He will be whole again soon and delighting us once more with his mischief!”

  Kamala said nothing, dipping the cloth in the water, squeezing it out and dipping once more.

  Behind her, the landlord’s mother kept talking, a garrulousness that would not cease, that must be replied to, even if there were no resources within Kamala to assuage her neighbor’s concern beyond the mechanical use of common courtesies. “Would you like something to eat, daughter?” the landlord’s mother asked again. “I have made some garlic saaru, hot and fresh; it will heat your vitals and give you energy.”

  “No, mother, thank you,” said Kamala, again. “I have made some food for us. Narayan is not eating much, and I do not seem to have much appetite either.”

  It was a while before the light behind her brightened; the landlord’s mother finally moved away from the door to attend to her own tasks. Kamala applied the cool, wet cloth to her son’s forehead once more.

  WHEN THE LIGHT DIMMED AGAIN, Kamala thought for a moment that it was already nightfall, that the entire day had just vanished beneath her squatting feet. But the sound of ankle bells roused her. Thangam stood without; beckoning to her.

  “Let’s not wake him up,” she whispered. “Let’s talk outside.”

  Kamala did not know what remained to be said, but Thangam was a woman determined.

  “Listen,” she said. “I have made some arrangements for you…. You have to move, you cannot stay here anymore, is that correct? Right. So the old woman who lives next door to us? Do you know which house I am speaking of? Not that big one with the shouting Sindhi lady, but the small one on the other side. Where the old man died some months ago, those Andhra people. Well, her maid just quit. Getting married; a nice man working in the garment factory; good prospects. He seems too good for her, but such is the luck of life! So the old widow is looking for someone new, and the minute I heard, I went over and spoke to her. She first thought that I was looking for a job—and she said no, nothing doing, she did not want to hire another pretty girl who will just work for two months before running off and getting married, so I said, ‘No, no, this is not a pretty young girl, this is Kamala, who is most reliable.’ That is what I told her, sister.”

  Seeing Kamala’s continuing look of incomprehension, Thangam tugged at her arm. “Don’t you see? It is a live-in position. You will get your salary and your food and everything, and no rent. Haven’t I saved you, Kamala-akka!”

  But Kamala just stared at her, puzzled, and then turned to look into her little room, where her fevered son still slept.

  “Ah,” said Thangam, following her gaze. “Yes, that is a problem…. I do not think she will want any family staying with you. You will have to think of some other arrangement for him.”

  *

  “NOW, DAUGHTER, HAVE NO fear,” said the landlord’s mother. “He will be fine. They will feed him well…. You have forgotten that vessel, see? Over there …”

  Kamala reached for the cooking vessel and stuffed it into the cardboard box that contained all her worldly possessions. There was another small one full of her clothes and, the part that grieved her the most: a separate coir bag for Narayan’s things, destined for a different journey.

  “He will be fine,” said the landlord’s mother again, with a firmness that seemed to comfort at least herself. “We will keep an eye on h
im for you, you may rest easy on that. My nephew is a good man, and he will feed him well. I would not have suggested it otherwise.” It was the landlord’s cousin who ran the canteen on the adjacent road, a small idli-coffee place that catered to the busy workers of the area. The landlord’s mother had arranged for Narayan to stay with him, sleeping nights in the canteen while his mother worked at her new job as a live-in maid.

  Kamala nodded, trying to appear grateful, as indeed she was, for this arrangement would at least keep Narayan in the neighborhood. It was not an act of charity by the landlord’s cousin; he was used to employing the indigent children of the neighborhood, whose parents could not provide for them; Chikkagangamma’s children had worked for him for months.

  WHEN ANAND-SAAR HAD summoned her, she had debated whether to go. She did not want to face another scene with Vidya-ma. But the thought of the balance salary had decided her; she could not afford to leave it unclaimed.

  She took Narayan with her, for Anand-saar had requested his presence as well. The watchman told them that Vidya-ma and the children were out of the house, and she was grateful.

  Anand-saar studied Narayan, quiet, sober, and thinned by his recent illness. “You have had some fever, I was told…. It has settled now?”

  “Yes.” Narayan was almost inaudible.

  “Kamala,” said Anand-saar. “Tell me what happened.”

  With no further prompting, Kamala told her story: needing the money, the threat of losing her home, visiting the pawnbroker, Vidya-ma’s false accusation, and her own grievous subsequent loss of temper. Of all people, given his past kindness and support, she wanted Anand-saar to understand. When at last she fell silent, he said: “Kamala, you have done nothing wrong. Apart from taking leave without permission, and that is a small thing. Unfortunately,” he said, “you cannot work here anymore. Vidya-ma will not allow it. But I understand you are to start work in the house next door?”

  Yes, saar, said Kamala.

  He nodded. “That is a good thing. At least that will keep you in the neighborhood. Well, I cannot offer you employment in this house. But I think there is no reason for us to stop Narayan’s education.”

  Kamala felt her son’s hand clutch at hers, and her eyes filled. Anand-saar continued to address Narayan. “… I want you to continue your studies. Do you understand? I will support you. And if you work very hard and do well—then that is the way you will repay me. And secure your own future. Do you understand me?”

  It seemed that Narayan did.

  “AND YOU ARE NOT moving far away either,” continued the Landlord’s mother, “so we shall continue seeing each other, which is a great comfort to me, for you are like my own daughter, Kamala. You must visit us often in our new home….” The landlord’s family was moving out soon themselves; the courtyard had sold quickly; they were shifting into a small, newly built apartment on an adjacent road. It had a bathroom built in and tiled floors, and they were proud and shy about their sudden newfound prosperity.

  “You are too good, mother,” said Kamala. She wondered what she would do with her cooking vessels; there was no point in carrying them with her to her new job, and she had no one to leave them with. To the raddi-man they would go, sold as they had once been purchased. She put the last item into the box and stood up to stretch her legs.

  I will return shortly, she said, and she picked up Narayan’s bag. She hesitated; she hadn’t packed his cricket bat and scuffed ball, for where would he have the opportunity to use them? But now she pushed the ball into the bag. She would keep the bat safe for him. She hefted the bag onto her shoulder and made her way out of the courtyard, down the crowded gully, and onto the main road. There, a little way up, was the canteen. She squeezed past the vegetable carts and came to a halt. She could see him. He was wearing a brown shirt and shorts, the uniform slightly ragged and stained and left behind by the boy who had worked there before him. He moved between the little tables that had people clustered around them, eating as they stood. In one hand Narayan carried a plastic basin, into which he piled the dirty plates and tumblers left behind by customers. He wiped each table down hastily with a dirty, wet rag before moving to the next one. He was concentrated upon his task and did not look up.

  He would attend school in the mornings and work for his keep in the evenings. He would make much less at this job than he would selling magazines at the street corner, but he would have a place to sleep and, hopefully, hot food in his belly at night.

  Be good to him, she whispered, to the cook behind the counter, to the canteen owner at the cash counter, to the gods. He is a good boy. Be good to him. As his mother would.

  THE WATCHMAN AT ANAND-SAAR’S house nodded at her, but she did not stop to chat, walking past the familiar gates to the ones just beyond. These were smaller, as was the house that stood beyond them. A small house, neatly confined, not so difficult to clean, she judged. The peeling paint and slightly unkempt garden spoke of parsimony, or a lack of attention. She rang the bell.

  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 chanc
e, 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.