The Hope Factory

by Lavanya Sankaran

  Anand’s “don’t worry, we’ll do something, we’ll do something” was said more to buoy the departing Landbroker’s spirits than with any real hope.

  THE FIRST SIGN OF trouble occurred later that morning.

  Anand, immersed in financial spreadsheets, was suddenly roused by a strange sound, which, he realized after a bemused moment, was actually the cessation of noise.

  The machines were quiet.

  The thrumming that drove his work life, like a mother’s heartbeat echoing through a womb, had fallen silent.

  He went to the production window and stared, shocked, as rows of workers left their spots and filed toward the exit. His mind played for a desperate, foolish instant with various farfetched hypotheses—could it be a fire drill? Had his watch stopped and he’d missed hearing the lunch siren?—before accepting that it was something far more serious. His workers were downing tools, unauthorized. This was a strike. Cauvery Auto had never experienced one before.

  At that moment, Mr. Kamath burst in, closely followed by the HR man and Mrs. Padmavati.

  They have stopped work, said Mr. Kamath.

  It is crazy, said Mrs. Padmavati.

  I have no idea why, confessed the HR man.

  Mr. Ananthamurthy has gone to speak to the union leader, said Mrs. Padmavati.

  But the union leader is waiting outside your office. He has come to see you, said Mr. Kamath.

  I have no idea why, confessed the HR man.

  Let me speak to him, said Anand. Is everything calm?

  Yes, they said. So far anyway.

  I don’t understand, said the HR man. We have just increased their wages and all the workers seemed so happy.

  The union leader who entered Anand’s office was very different from the energetic young leader Anand was used to dealing with. He looked scared and unhappy, evidently under considerable strain.

  “What is it, Nagesh, what’s going on?” asked Anand, but he already knew. The labor unions had their political affiliations; the union leader Nagesh was operating under pressure from a higher domain than his particular fiefdom.

  Now he would not meet Anand’s eye. “We are instructed to start work after two hours, sir,” was all he would say, but with so much misery in his face and voice that Anand could not chastise him.

  This was a message to him not from the unions but from Gowdaru-saar: that he had control over Cauvery Auto’s workers. A two-hour stoppage of work today could become a full-blown strike tomorrow. And there was nothing that Anand or the union leader Nagesh or Ananthamurthy or anyone else in the factory could do to stop him.

  Nothing, that is, except pay Gowdaru-saar the amount he had asked for.

  Two hours later, the machines started again, as though by remote control.

  IT WAS LATE EVENING; the workers were completing their last shift, in a semblance of normalcy. Anand leaned his head against the production floor window. Were they in any greater control of their fate than he was? He glanced around his office before leaving, with a feeling of doing so for the last time.

  The parking lot was in a distant corner of the compound. It was slowly emptying of the cycles and scooters that filled it during the day. Buses to ferry the last-shift workers home waited at the factory gates. His car stood alone, illumined by a tall lamppost. The light seemed to bounce off the bonnet in an unusual way; as Anand approached the car he realized why.

  Someone had carved a deep, vicious gash into the hood.

  When questioned, the watchman was predictably blank about it. “No, saar,” he said. He had absolutely no idea how it had happened.

  Anand felt people collecting behind him. “Oh my god,” said Mrs. Padmavati.

  “Who can have done this? Who?” In the glassy lantern light, Ananthamurthy looked old and frail and distraught.

  Anand touched the scar lightly; the surface had been cut through, leaving the metal below violated and exposed. This was meant to scare him. No doubt.

  Instead, he felt something shift inside, his fear lift, a welcome anger warming him deep within.

  He moved quickly; he did not want to advertise this to whoever remained on campus. He reversed and parked his car on the other side of the parking lot, the gash concealed.

  When the last shift ended, he personally saw all the workers off the premises. Over their protests, he sent Mrs. Padmavati and Ananthamurthy and Kamath home. He did not want them exposed to violence—or to whatever those political goons might have planned for the long night ahead.

  He was going to stay behind. He would not abandon his factory. Perhaps all would be quiet. It didn’t matter. In case of violence, he was not sure what he could do anyway, but he could not just leave. He called up the security company and asked them to send two more watchmen for the night shift.

  He wondered whether to call Vidya or not but had no idea what he would say to her. They had not spoken since the previous night. Instead, he compromised, sending a text message to his daughter: Some problem here. Spending night at factory. C u tomorrow. She would let her mother know.

  THE FACTORY SETTLED INTO a profound silence. Anand kept the lights on and walked endlessly around the production floor and the offices.

  And as for Harry Chinappa, what had he done, really, to earn anyone’s respect? He belonged to the generation that had achieved nothing—suffocated, they claimed, by the government’s restrictive socialist policies, but, in a democracy, was that really any excuse? Theirs was the generation that had refused to look forward, gazing instead for inspiration to the British, whom their own parents and grandparents had kicked out of the country, aping their mannerisms and talking, like sighing damsels in unrequited love, of the wonder of times gone by and the marvelous organization of the British empire. Which one of them had stepped forward to embrace the freedom so hard-won, which of them had dared to contemplate empires of their own? No, much easier to mope and romanticize the past—as though the British, when in India, had invited these people to tea, torn down those signs in front of their stupid, beloved ex-colonial clubs that said: INDIANS AND DOGS NOT ALLOWED. Did he remember any of that, Harry Chinappa? Did he, in his own life, demonstrate what it took to be a man?

  AT ABOUT 11:00 P.M., Anand heard a small disturbance at the front gate. He went out to the steps of the admin building. The lights blazed behind him; he knew he would be seen.

  One of the security guards approached, the union leader Nagesh following. “He wanted to see you, saar,” said the guard. “He insisted.”

  The union leader was alone. Anand wondered whether he was bringing a message from Gowdaru-saar. Anand let him approach, eyes restlessly scanning the darkness beyond the gate. There didn’t seem to be anyone else there, lurking in the shadows; no crowds, no goons.

  “Sir, I heard you were staying here,” Nagesh said, abrupt, uncomfortable, not to be thwarted.

  “I just heard about your car, sir. I wanted to say: we had nothing to do with that. We would not do that to you, sir. I came to say that.” The union leader’s concern and worry were palpable. “They are some goondas who did this. We have nothing to do with them.”

  Anand nodded, concealing a huge sense of relief. The possibility of his own workers turning against him had worried him more than anything.

  The union leader seemed reluctant to leave. He blurted out: “Sir, are you planning to spend the night?”

  “Yes,” said Anand. “I am.” He frowned. “Why, have you heard anything? Are they going to do something?”

  “No, sir, I have not heard,” said the union leader. “They would not tell me even if they were planning something. But, sir,” he said, “you should not wait here alone.”

  “I am not alone,” Anand spoke firmly. The three security guards waited at the entrance. “If anyone comes, rest assured, I will call the police.”

  He turned to go in and found the union leader hard at his heels.

  “I will wait here with you, sir,” said the young man.

  THEY SET UP TWO chairs on the factory s
hop floor. The union leader organized some coffee, and Anand unearthed the glucose biscuits from Kamath’s stockpile. “Hopefully there will be no trouble,” Anand said. “But I am glad you are staying, Nagesh. Thank you.”

  “No need to thank me, sir,” the union leader said, with a great seriousness of purpose. “I was thinking about today. I did not like that. Having to stop work because it suits some political party. I was thinking: how does this benefit us working on the floor? If we lose our jobs, will the politicians give us another? No. They will not. That is why I am here, sir. If the company suffers, we all suffer. We can’t let that happen.”

  Conversation came naturally between them, the odd circumstances of the night breaking through barriers. Nagesh eagerly shared his life story: he was the oldest son and great hope of his family, the first to complete schooling, the first to finish his technical training, now bent on ensuring good marriages for his sisters; himself the father of two young children whose cellphone pictures Anand duly admired.

  Anand, in turn, talked of his early years—and went from there to discussing his ideas for the new plant. He described the shop floor of his dreams, one drawn from a real-life visit that he and Ananthamurthy had made to a stampings plant that supplied a rigorous Japanese car company. They had followed the famous Toyota Production System, and Anand described in detail to the union leader what he’d seen: just-in-time processes; the kaan-baan system; the unidirectional flow of work through the shop floor; the increased automation; and the detailed training that each worker received. “You will not believe,” he said. “They supply fresh batches of sheet metal pressings to the main car factory every twenty minutes. Can you imagine? Every twenty minutes, made to order!”

  “This is in Japan, sir?” Nagesh said, wide-eyed at the notion of such efficiency.

  “No,” said Anand. “This is right here. In Bangalore.”

  “Sir, do you think someday we might do so as well?”

  “I hope so, Nagesh. I hope so. Certainly the new factory will be a step in that direction.”

  THE NIGHT WAS TROUBLE-FREE, as Anand had suspected it might be. The two-hour strike and the damage to his car were Gowdaru-saar’s way of indicating future possibilities. A negotiating point, nothing more.

  In the late nocturnal quiet, he found himself wandering about the deserted shop floor. When he was a child, his family would make vacation trips to see the temples of South India. It was a habit he’d continued with his own children: driving out and letting them explore. The family usually followed some guide who would ramble on about the religious symbolism and cultural history of the temples, but Anand would trail after them lost in the wonder of his own contemplations. For him, to visit Pattadhakal was to witness not only the genesis of stone temple architecture but a laboratory, where cutting-edge design and engineering excellence were birthed over a thousand years before. And so he would wander, through Pattadhakal, through the cave temples at Badami, through the Meenakshi temple at Madurai, marveling at the craftsmanship and technical skills that had engineered miracles. And that, ultimately, was what spoke to the depths of his soul: a desire to belong to a people who, once again, reclaimed their ability to engineer objects of great beauty, form, and purpose. Who stood for perfection. Who knew what it was to toil, to craft, to construct things of truth and excellence that made onlookers gawk in wonder.

  The machines, silent sentinels, the crates of finished metal pressings, the young union leader dozing on a chair. So much depended on his, Anand’s, ability to save this place.

  No matter what the cost to his pride. Vinayak was right.

  He would have to call Harry Chinappa.

  Harry Chinappa, who had so painstakingly cultivated Vijayan, who would be able to put a stop to Gowdaru-saar’s demands. Harry Chinappa, who single-handedly had created the trouble they were in and then behaved as if Anand were to blame.

  twenty-eight

  KAMALA PLACED BREAKFAST BEFORE HER SON, her mind full of a strong determination: today, for Narayan’s sake, she would set aside her pride further.

  She would speak to Anand-saar; she would ask him for money. She would throw herself at his feet; she would do as she had seen others do before her and as she had never done in her life: plead, cry, hug his ankles, pledge her labor for all eternity if necessary. She would hand over her entire salary to him to repay her loan. And—in order that they might eat—she would take an additional job. The canteen up the road might hire her in the early mornings to cook and clean—they were always busy. She could work an early morning shift there before reporting to Vidya-ma’s. She would seek an additional, third, late-night job somewhere else, cooking or minding a baby. Somehow she would save her son’s future, and shield him from the likes of Raghavan.

  Before leaving for work, she whispered her plans to Narayan: “I am going to speak to Anand-saar. I may be home a little late.”

  “I might come there in the evening,” said Narayan. “Pingu wanted me to play with that train set.”

  Kamala hesitated, remembering Vidya-ma’s expression from the last time. She did not want anything to jeopardize her loan. “Better not today,” she said. “Wait for me here.”

  To ensure her success, to give her voice strength and eloquence, Kamala stopped a moment to pray at the corner Hanuman temple: as Hanuman had transported mountains across the oceans, as he ferried the life-giving sanjeevini herb to Lakshmana, so too may he guide her steps, to move mountains, to find fresh life, to protect her son, whom she surely loved and cherished and served no less than did Hanuman, Lakshmana.

  SHE HURRIED TO WORK. She would be nice and early, a necessary atonement for the previous day’s unauthorized absence. She would first apologize for her absence to Vidya-ma, meekly accepting whatever scoldings her mistress saw fit to throw at her. Then she would look after the grandfather and do all her chores to the best of her capability. And then, in the evening, no matter what, she would corner Anand-saar and launch into her petition.

  Oh, Narayan. Oh, Narayan. In her mind, the sky grew dark, and once again, a cigarette butt went flying through the air, launched by a disreputable, corrupt hand that waited to clutch at her son.

  When she reached the house, her unusually serious demeanor kept even the watchman from the casual remarks he was wont to make as he unlocked the gate for her. The kitchen was preternaturally quiet. Both Thangam and Shanta reacted differently to her arrival. Thangam, folding clothes, glanced at her and looked quickly away; Shanta narrowed her eyes. “You have come back.”

  “I told you,” said Kamala shortly. “I was not feeling well.”

  “I think everybody”—Shanta spoke with a curious triumphant aggression that Kamala couldn’t comprehend—“knows that is not true.”

  “I do not lie, sister. Where is Vidya-ma?”

  “She was asking after you,” said Shanta. “Perhaps you should go and see her.” As Kamala left the room, she heard the cook say: “After this, just let her try and act big with me in my own kitchen! Just let her try!”

  VIDYA-MA WAS IN THE BEDROOM. Kamala paused at the door. Her mistress lay prostrate upon the unmade bed, her eyes reddened, the room darkened, as though she might be sick. She did not look happy to see Kamala.

  Of all possible receptions, this was the worst, but Kamala launched quickly into her apology. “Vidya-ma, forgive me,” she said, “I was unwell. I am so sorry.”

  Vidya-ma eyed her contemptuously. “Lies!” she said. “I sent the watchman to your house to check. You were not sick. You were not there!”

  Kamala had planned to say that she had gone to see a doctor when the watchman visited, but instead, on the spur of the moment, she decided to tell Vidya-ma the truth. It might awaken her sympathy. “I’m so sorry, amma,” she said. “The truth is I had need of a large sum of money and went to the pawnbroker in Chickpet to sell some jewelry…. I need fifty thousand rupees, ma.”

  The look of intense anger on Vidya-ma’s face shocked Kamala. It was more than anger, it was rage. She sat up and
flung her tissue to the floor. “How dare you!” she said. “You speak of it so brazenly? Sell some jewelry—as though it were yours to sell!”

  All Kamala could say in her bewilderment was: “Vidya-ma?”

  “Do you think your need excuses what your son has done?” Vidya-ma’s voice began to escalate to a shout. “For him to steal? Could you not have asked me for the money? Would I not have given it to you? Am I not generous? Why should he steal? Oh, don’t look so innocent! Don’t think I do not know! Your son. I saw him come up the stairs that day. That very day that my necklace was lying on the table. Fool that I was! I assumed I could trust everyone in this house. But he was very clever. For a moment of carelessness, this is how I am repaid. Do you know how much that necklace is worth? Much, much more than fifty thousand rupees! Could you not have just asked me for that money?”

  “Amma,” said Kamala, truly frightened. “Narayan has not taken any necklace. I went to sell my own jewelry. I promise you. He is a good boy. Amma, everyone knows that!”

  “Good? Rubbish! He might be able to fool Anand-sir, but I have been told about his character! He may look innocent, but he hangs about with all manner of ruffians. I was told this!

  “No, do not tell me you know nothing of this. How dare you! After all my care and concern. Do not tell me this!

  “Shanta tells me you often lie.

  “Now, you go and you bring that necklace back to me. Get it back from the pawnbroker! And if you don’t, I will tell the police and they will put your son straight in jail. Oh, god, that little thief. How freely I have allowed him in this house!

  “Oh, god.” Vidya-ma began to weep again. “Who knows what else he is planning to steal? Awful, wicked boy.”

  Kamala stared at the sobbing, raving woman, and an old hidden anger emerged, like a serpent, coiled, taut, ready to attack.

  Stop it! she shouted, the volume of her voice easily competing with Vidya-ma’s.