The Hope Factory

by Lavanya Sankaran

  “You have been very successful,” she said, directly to the engineer. “We have all been so proud of you…. I have been telling my son that he too must succeed as you have …” She glanced at Narayan and then at the engineer. “He is too shy to ask you, but I promised him I would do it…. What advice can you give for a young boy to become successful like you?” She skittered nervously to a halt, suddenly appalled at her own question. It was one thing to admire someone’s achievement, another to reach greedily for it, with an unseemly covetous desire to possess it for oneself.

  But the engineer did not seem offended. He drank his coffee and said, “Aunty, I can say that three things are important to achieve what you are so kind as to call my success.

  “Firstly, he must be smart and work very, very hard.”

  “Oh,” said the engineer’s mother, “Kamala-ma’s son looks very smart indeed. I can see it.”

  “And he works hard,” said Kamala, ignoring her son’s surprise.

  “Good,” said the engineer. “Then, in that case, aunty, you must create the right opportunity for him. That is the second thing.”

  “What do you mean?” said Kamala.

  “Is he attending a government school or a paid school?”

  In the silence that settled, Kamala knew that the answer was visible to all. “Government,” she said.

  The engineer shook his head. “That is no use, aunty. You have to change that. I went for a few years to that government school.” He glanced at his parents; they were nodding at the collective memory. “There were no teachers half the time, … and the other half, the teachers would not teach us anything worthwhile…. One teacher used to send his son to sit there instead of him …”

  “Then you won that scholarship and could go to paid school,” said his mother. “Some company gave it. For five children.”

  “We were lucky,” said his father. “Lucky to have heard of the scholarship and lucky that the headmaster of Sri Hindu Seva Private School liked this boy and decided to enroll him and help him with his studies to catch up.”

  “And that is the third important thing, aunty,” said the engineer. “Luck. Since our good government will not bother to look after us, we need some luck. And God’s blessings.”

  He placed his coffee tumbler on the side table and stood up. Kamala made haste to stand up herself. At the door, she turned to ask him: “Son, you are happy now? All is well? I can see it is so with your parents, but with you?”

  “As well as can be, aunty,” said the engineer. “The work is hard. But I am happy to have it.”

  “And,” his mother lowered her voice conspiratorially, “he has given us permission to start looking …”

  “Oh, that is indeed good news!” said Kamala. “I have no doubt a great match will be found for your son. You will be blessed with a beautiful bride!”

  On the way down, Narayan emerged from a thoughtful silence to say, with an unusual severity, “I do not think he was happy to see us, Mother. He was eager for us to be gone. He thinks too much of himself.”

  “Nonsense,” said Kamala. “He was in a hurry, that is all. And he was so kind with his advice…. I want you to write to him,” she said. “A letter. I will get his address from his parents. Just to say thank you for his advice.” She did not mean to say more, but her desire escaped in spite of herself: “Perhaps he can help you get a scholarship also. Maybe from that same company that gave his.”

  Narayan nodded but without, she was forced to note, the awe, humility, and eagerness that she would have liked to see. “Okay, Amma,” he said agreeably, for all the world as though he were doing her a favor instead of tempting her into rapping her knuckles on his head, before slipping into his usual flim-flammery. “But don’t worry, if I do not get a scholarship, then I will go work in Dubai as a driver, or go work there in construction.”

  Construction, said his mother.

  Yes, said Narayan, “you do not know of these things, Amma, but there is a lot of money to be made in construction…. Raghavan was telling me that there are people who for a fee will get you jobs anywhere in the world….” Kamala listened with half an ear, her mind busy with her own thoughts. She was used to his rattling nonsense, absurd, fantastical tales of untold wealth in foreign countries like America, where even cleaning women like herself had microwaves and cars; garbage stories that so filled his brain with air until it seemed that his very feet floated three feet above the earth on which they stood.

  In truth, the engineer’s words had only served to deepen her unhappiness. The annual fees for a paid, privately run school were at least ten thousand rupees a year. Three months’ salary. How could she afford that? It would deplete her nest egg in a year. And how would she pay the fees for the years that followed?

  She spied the tiny Hanuman temple in the corner. “Come,” she said and led her son to it. At least she could pray for luck, for divine interference.

  eleven

  MR. SANKLESHWAR’S OFFICES WERE at the top of a tall glass building that swooped to the sky, an aerie overlooking the rumbling city and approached through a series of portals. His private reception room was brilliant with carved white marble. When they were ushered in, Anand expected Harry Chinappa to make an acerbic comment, but his father-in-law’s demeanor seemed to have altered materially. He projected a broad, appreciative friendliness that embraced the entire room and its contents with warm approval; he appeared to have forgotten his usual strictures on the unabashed exhibition of new money.

  Anand’s discomforts were manifold. He had done some research into Sankleshwar; his real estate empire was undeniably respected, with glorious buildings and a raft of foreign investors, but difficult to ignore were the sly rumors: of legal chicanery and bribery and corrupt political collusion. Heated whispers about Sankleshwar’s side interests in the liquor and film industries, and links thereby to the underworld, prostitution, and political thuggery. The gossip was probably exaggerated, but it was enough to make Anand nervous.

  Additionally, this was the first time Anand had walked into a business negotiation with his father-in-law, and, already, it seemed like a bad idea.

  Harry Chinappa glanced at the reception coffee table. “Ah,” he said, “the favored reading of the commercially minded. Would you prefer Fortune or Forbes? No? Perhaps the comic section of the newspaper? No, thank you,” he said to the receptionist, “no coffee or tea for us.” Anand would have liked a glass of water but said nothing. When they were summoned into Mr. Sankleshwar’s office, Harry Chinappa signaled Anand to stay behind.

  “It might be better if you wait outside for a bit while I have a quick word with him.”

  “No,” said Anand. This was the sort of thing he had been afraid of. He was not going to let Harry Chinappa discuss Cauvery Auto without monitoring the conversation very closely.

  Harry Chinappa seemed slightly nonplussed. “I do have some other matters to discuss with him, you know.”

  “That’s okay,” said Anand. “I don’t mind.”

  He followed closely on the older man’s heels, as though Harry Chinappa might slip in and slam the door in his face.

  The inner office was even larger than the waiting room. Mr. Sankleshwar was a round, squat man remarkable only for his long sideburns, like a seventies movie actor unmindful of the passage of time and beauty.

  “Anand, you know who this is, of course,” said Harry Chinappa. “Mr. Sankleshwar, as I explained, my son-in-law here is running a small factory.” He placed a fatherly hand on Anand’s shoulder, adding, in careless, happy mendacity, “which I helped him set up…. One must do what one can for the younger generation, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Sankleshwar. “Very true, Harry.” Except he called him Hairy. “I too am helping my sons and sons-in-law.”

  “Anand wanted some land and came to me for advice—all the children do—and a good thing it is too…. I wouldn’t want him to get caught in any of the shady dealings that can happen in this industry. Inexperien
ce is an easy victim, isn’t it? Life has taught us certain things, Mr. Sankleshwar, but Anand—well, I thought it best to bring him to see you.”

  Anand let Harry Chinappa’s words grate and slide over him. He was here for a reason and would not lose sight of it.

  Mr. Sankleshwar asked: “How much do you want? Where?”

  “Twenty acres,” said Harry Chinappa.

  “Ten to fifteen,” said Anand.

  “So fifteen acres,” said Mr. Sankleshwar. “In that area. So much of it already bought up and landmarked for projects—but I can manage something. If it is slightly larger? Smaller?”

  “At least ten acres,” said Anand. “Ten will do.”

  “Are you speaking to anyone else in this matter?” said Sankleshwar.

  “Oh, no,” said Harry Chinappa, before Anand could answer. “I mean, Anand has talked to some other people and received, I must say, some extremely odd advice—I was forced to tell him that it just won’t do. Much better if he deals directly with you.”

  Mr. Sankleshwar’s gaze flicked between Anand and Harry Chinappa. “Let me see what I can do. I will put my men on this. Payments,” he said, “will have to be entirely by check. I do not believe in handling cash or unaccounted-money.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Harry Chinappa. “Of course. Of course. Absolutely.”

  Once again Mr. Sankleshwar’s eyes darted to Anand’s face and back. “I will organize this for you, Hairy. If you are serious about it, that is. I would not wish to waste my time.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Harry Chinappa. “Oh, yes indeed.”

  “Well, I will first have to see the details of the land before deciding,” said Anand.

  Harry Chinappa smiled. “Anand,” he said, “I think Mr. Sankleshwar would be aware of that.”

  THE LANDBROKER CALLED HIM EARLY on Saturday morning, and Anand immediately felt better about having met with Sankleshwar.

  “Saar,” said the fool. “There is this nice site, close to you. Seven acres. We’ll go and see?”

  “No,” said Anand, exercising extreme patience. “Ten to fifteen acres is what I need. Ten to fifteen.”

  “Okay, saar,” said the Landbroker, “you don’t worry, tension maad beda, I will organize.”

  Anand disconnected without replying. “While we are waiting to hear from the Landbroker,” he told Mr. Ananthamurthy, “I am also speaking to Mr. Sankleshwar. Yes, I know. It is very good. My father-in-law is helping me with this. There is some personal contacts there.”

  “Oh, very good, that is a good backup, sir,” said Mrs. Padmavati when he spoke to her in turn. “Mr. Sankleshwar may be a little more expensive, but that Landbroker fellow looks not very reliable, sir.”

  HIS WIFE WAS GOING to be busy with some friend’s art gallery opening; Anand planned to spend the day with his children. He pushed thoughts of work aside and drove to MTR to pick up a parcel of masala dosas, dripping with ghee and spices; the children adored them.

  “So, what?” he asked them, after breakfast was done.

  “Cricket!” said his son, as he usually did. “Oh, god,” said Valmika. She had given in to her father’s pleading; she would spend the morning at home and join her own friends for a movie in the afternoon. “Let’s have a picnic instead?” she said now.

  “Both,” Anand said. “Why not both?”

  The rectangular lawn was small and smooth and surrounded by flower beds, not ideal for weekend games of cricket, but Anand and Vyasa never let that discourage them.

  “I want to be on your team, Appa,” said Pingu.

  “And what about Valmika? She can’t be on a team by herself.”

  An argument was averted when the side gate creaked and a small figure slipped through. Pingu saw him first. “Yay! He’s here! Narayan, come! I’ll be on your team.”

  The game was geared to the enjoyment of his son; yet for Anand relished the heft of the ball and bat in his hands. He had been an all-rounder in school; he still followed the national team with due fervor and opinion. He would never say it out loud, but the true pleasure of these weekend matches for him was to play against Narayan. Kamala’s son had a real understanding of the game and was old enough to play well, placing his ball with accuracy whether bowling or batting. The boy seemed to appreciate this as well; he was gentle and amused when playing with Vyasa, but there was a spark in his eyes waiting to bat against Anand’s bowling that wasn’t there otherwise.

  “Get it, Narayan!” Vyasa said.

  “Good catch!” said Anand, pleased in spite of himself. The boy had lifted himself into the air and caught the ball off Valmika’s bat very neatly.

  “Hah! Nice game!” When they had played for an hour and a half, and the game had descended into sweat and arguments, Anand flung the bat down and collapsed with the children onto the grass. “Here,” he said, handing a glass to Narayan, “have something to drink.” He himself drank thirstily from the glass of Pepsi that Kamala had brought out on a tray and wiped the moisture from his forehead. The children were already holding out their glasses for more. Narayan quickly drank his Pepsi, refused a refill, gathered the bat, wickets, and ball, and carried them to the back of the house, where his mother would put them away and set him to some cleaning job in the backyard.

  Valmika took charge and turned her father and brother in to the house for a half hour, with strict instructions for them to stay put until she called them out. When she did, Anand was charmed to see that, with a mysterious efficiency, his daughter had organized their lunch into an alfresco picnic under the shade of the neighbor’s rain tree. She had spread a coir mat and laid out dishes and plates and cold drinks.

  “Arrey,” said Anand, “why are we eating out on the grass when there is such a nice dining room inside?”

  “Appa, please,” said Valmika. “How can it be a picnic otherwise?”

  He smiled at her. “And does it have to be a picnic?”

  “It does,” both children clamored. “You know it does.”

  “You’re right,” he said and settled himself on the grass, the children ranged about him, opening another can of a cold, aerated drink, feeling the sugar swell the sense of well-being within him. As they ate, he competed with them in telling silly jokes. Two peanuts were walking down the street and one was a salted. What did the fish say to the greedy prawn? You’re so shellfish. And their favorite: about the man who had an abscess in his bottom and whose breaking wind sounded like a Japanese car manufacturer, for an abscess makes the fart go Honda.

  After a while his daughter asked, with a casual air, “So, do you think I could go to that party tonight? All my friends are going …”

  “Hasn’t Mama already said no?” Anand shook his head. “Then don’t ask again, kutty, I don’t like it.”

  “All my friends are going,” she said again but stopped when she saw his expression. When next she spoke, it was on a different topic. “Appa, what happened at the factory that day? The export thing?”

  “Oh,” he said, surprised that she even remembered. “Yes, I think it went well.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “You’re going to export now?”

  “No,” he laughed. “Not yet. It’s not that simple. There will be more meetings and so on, it may take them months to decide, so we will have to see.”

  “Eat some of the chicken,” she said now, her tone motherly. “It’s delicious, try some.” He let her fill his plate. “Come on,” he said, “you eat too, before Pingu eats up the entire picnic.”

  There was a time when she would reach eagerly for her food, ignoring the admonishments of her mother to go slow, but she was suddenly at an age where she seemed to weigh every mouthful she ate, computing its worth in terms of calories and god-knows-what-all other fashionable parameters of nutrition offered by the women’s magazines that his wife flooded the house with. Anand watched her assess the picnic, choose small spoonfuls of chicken and vegetables, and eat slowly, bite by careful bite, and he worried: was it enough?

  So much of his dau
ghter was snared in inexplicable female mystery, and even though he seized gladly on the fact that she continued to chatter away to him as much as she ever did, there were still lines between them, newly formed, that neither could cross. When she argued with her mother, for instance. The topics seemed to him very silly and trivial, certainly not worth the tears or angry faces, but he never dared point that out to either of them. Or when, once a month, he saw her prostrated upon her bed, a cushion clutched to her belly to ease the pain that attacked her abdomen. He never knew what to do. Should he step up as he naturally would if she had scraped her knee and sit by the side of the bed offering comfort and concern and busy himself with pills and prescriptions and worried phone calls to the doctor, or would it embarrass her if he did?

  His concern stretched to other things too. There were times when he overheard conversations or read articles on how Indian teenagers—especially well-to-do urban ones—were changing, worryingly, into facsimiles of their Western counterparts.

  “Are you talking to her?” he asked his wife. “About drugs and sex and alcohol and so on?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I mean,” he explained, “about whether these things are happening in her school. Her friends.”

  Vidya looked troubled.

  “Anand,” she said. “Valmika is just fourteen. And she’s a good girl. She is not going to go near things like that. Neither are her friends, I think. We know all their families.”

  But wasn’t that what all parents thought, he’d asked—and yesterday Vidya had said, “Oh, yes, I talked to her. Or actually, Kavika talked to her for me, and it is the same thing.”