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.
thirty-four
FROM HER VANTAGE POINT on the balcony, Kamala could see party preparations in full swing next door. Vidya-ma’s new maid appeared in the garden—a replacement for Thangam, who, unable to bear the pressure from her chit fund creditors, had packed her bags and vanished in the middle of one night. No one knew where. The new girl did not seem very curious about her predecessor; she was far more engaged in talking to the old, married watchman in her spare time. Shanta reigned unchallenged in the kitchen.
Kamala’s current job involved housecleaning and some light cooking for her aging employer. It was a simple existence: a day of work, an evening of rest and quietude, with time enough, after the old lady went to sleep and the television they watched together was switched off, for Kamala to contemplate the accumulating losses of her life: her beloved courtyard home, or any home at all, and the one loss that grew more unbearable with time—the daily absence of her son.
Kamala saw him once a week, for a few brief hours. His days were full: in the mornings he attended school, in the evenings he still toiled as a table cleaner and dishwasher at the canteen, sleeping there at night. The canteen owner spoke of Narayan with affection, and Kamala listened but could not rejoice as she should. She yearned to cook for him and care for him.
She shared her sharp grief with no one, not even in occasional phone calls to her sister-in-law.
Indeed, the only person who stood firm in her life, surprisingly, was Anand-saar. He had kept his word. Narayan met him regularly to report on his academic progress, and it was in those repeated meetings that a small, flickering hope still lingered within Kamala, a shy hope, not to be dwelled on, not to be subjected to untoward prayers and lingering ferven
t desires, no, never again, no, no, but it remained.
What a good son you have, Kamala, the old lady, her new employer, often said, adding: “What a shame I cannot ask him to stay here also. But really, I cannot afford to feed an extra mouth.”
Narayan, if he were there to hear this, always smiled politely and said, “Thank you, aunty, but we can use the money from the canteen, my mother and I.”
What a good boy, the old lady would say. An answer to a mother’s prayers.
“Yes,” Kamala would say, and through her mind would fly this thought: Yes, an answer to my prayers, but did the gods have to let it take this form?
She could see him now, in the distance, walking toward her. He had grown taller and thinner still. His mien would be serious; he seemed to have completely lost the sparkle and mischief that had so delighted and exasperated her. He would, she knew, be bringing her the weekly money he earned and telling of school, where his progress was good.
Who were his friends, these days? she wondered. What were his dreams? These were not questions she could easily ask of him; they were fraught with discomfort; if she did ask, his answers were vague. The loss of her ability to feed him daily, to put nourishment into his mouth, to care for him, to wash his clothes, to pat his cheek and tug scoldingly at his ear seemed to echo her growing inability to pull answers and conversation out of him.
She watched her son walk toward her, the tar on the newly paved road yielding slightly beneath his feet. As he approached, it seemed he retreated farther and farther away.
thirty-five
THE WOMEN’S VOICES SOARED over the gathered crowd, the Sanskrit words and Carnatic melody rising above the silent, glistening machines into the triangulated factory eaves above.
Machines had been cleaned, desks tidied, and every machine, every tool, every computer, the stapler, the Xerox machine, and even the pen that Anand used to sign checks had been painstakingly decorated with vermilion kumkum powder, sandalwood paste, flower petals, and garlands in readiness for this day of Tool and Implement Worship. Ayudha Pooja. Even the cars out in the parking lot awaited their turn to be worshipped: in addition to sandalwood and kumkum and flowers, their bonnets bore jaunty banana fronds, which flapped cheerfully in the passing breeze.
Anand was not a man given to ritual, resonating as it did with the annoying, restrictive platitudes of his childhood, yet he enjoyed this particular festival. There was something very apposite about a day of thanks and celebration of the people and machines that worked together, every day.
Four goddess images lined the altar that had been temporarily built in the middle of the factory floor: Lakshmi, giver of material strength and prosperity; Saraswati, for knowledge and learning; Durga, destroyer of negative tendencies; and above them, Chamundeswari, a Shakti composite of all three.
The bhajans signified the end of a long morning of worship. Mrs. Padmavati led the singing with a surprising muscular vigor, accompanied by Ananthamurthy’s two daughters. Behind him, Anand could hear Ananthamurthy explain to Valmika the symbolism and meanings behind the worship. “When we perform a pooja,” said Ananthamurthy, “we do not pray to some abstract god in the sky. That is a wrong interpretation. Instead, the prayers, the rituals, allow us to focus on evoking those divine energies within us. Thus Saraswati, so we may be ever-learning seekers of true knowledge; Lakshmi, that we may guide our fortunes well; Durga, that we may conquer our deepest fears within. For mindful work”—Ananthamurthy’s voice turned stern and sonorous—“is true spiritual grace. We worship our tools so that we may work mindfully and with correct humility, for best results.”
Valmika said, with a sudden touch of gloom: “I should probably worship my physics book before my test tomorrow.”
“Yes,” said Ananthamurthy with a twinkle, “but perhaps studying that is best.”
THE PREVIOUS DAY, THEY had inaugurated the new factory. Construction on all buildings was not complete, but the main production floor was ready, machinery being moved into place. Two executives from the Japanese parent company had flown in for the event, Ananthamurthy in assiduous attention; they had seemed pleased, the ordered beauty of the new structure validating their decision to pick Cauvery Auto. The bank manager too expressed his pleasure to Mrs. Padmavati in an animated discussion that celebrated his own foresight in lending to them.
Anand had made a few phone calls before the inauguration; this time, his father had accepted his invitation. As had Harry Chinappa—whose rigid decorum, much to Ruby’s and Vidya’s relief, melted to a benevolent, if startled, approval once he realized who the chief guest was going to be: on the heels of a successful election, getting Vijayan to accept, said Harry Chinappa, was a coup.
Vijayan had played his role in the inauguration, cutting ribbons, making speeches, and planting a sapling. The Landbroker wore a silk shirt for the occasion. Next to him stood Gowdaru-saar, unctuous. The word from Vijayan’s office had caused Gowdaru-saar to back off, to vanish, to sink like a startled crocodile into the depths of the water, surfacing, with beady eyes greedy and glistening, just two days before the inauguration. He had arrived in Anand’s office, eyeing the new factory. “Congratulations, saar,” he had said. “We look forward to your future success.”
I bet you do, motherfucker, thought Anand, smiling politely.
Sankleshwar had shifted his residence to Dubai, forewarned, the rumors went, about an impending tax investigation. “It’s all these new-money rascals,” said Harry Chinappa. “It’s a good thing I stopped my development deal with him. I always had my reservations, you know, m’boy. By the way, this year,” he said, “we really should change the caterer for the Diwali party. The last fellow was terrible.”
On the drive to the factory, Anand had glanced at Vidya and had searched for something nice, something true, to say: “You look pretty,” he said. “That’s a pretty outfit.”
“Do you like it?” she said, immediately flattered. “I found it at a boutique that showcases ecologically conscious designers. They make things with a smaller carbon footprint. Such an important issue, I can’t see why more people don’t feel more strongly about it.”
Toward the end of the tree-planting ceremony, when all the chief guests and managers had had their turn, Mrs. Padmavati guided Valmika and Pingu in planting theirs, aided by a gardener.
“Perhaps your daughter may one day work with us, sir,” said Mr. Ananthamurthy at his ear.
“Only if she wants to,” Anand replied, absurdly pleased with the notion, watching covertly as Valmika gazed curiously about at the factory buildings.
AT THE END OF the Ayudha Pooja, the red-stained kumkum-and-coin-stuffed pumpkin was ritually shattered, symbolizing the animals sacrificed in ancient times. The cars were driven over the good-luck-giving lemons and the aarti plate containing a single flame carried through the crowd by the priest.
Anand did not consider himself a particularly religious person. For him, worship lay in the doing, in working each day to extrude from the center of his being the very best that he could give. When the aarti plate reached him, he placed a fifty-rupee offering on it, ritually passed his palms over the flame, and raised them to his face, the warmth touching his eyes just like a blessing.
about the author
LAVANYA SANKARAN is the author of The Red Carpet, the acclaimed debut collection selected for Poets & Writers magazine’s Best First Fiction award as well as Barnes & Noble’s Discover Great New Writers. Her work has been featured in The Atlantic and The Wall Street Journal among others, including publications in India and Europe. She studied at Bryn Mawr College and lives in Bangalore with her husband and daughter. The Hope Factory is her first novel.
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The Hope Factory Page 31
