The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,100
It seemed that any sudden gestures might set him to fleeing, startled light-foot, like a gazelle in the jungle.
“It has never happened to me before, saar,” said the Landbroker. “Usually, when such a phone call comes—and it happens, I’m not saying it does not happen—it is a simple affair. Some political fellows will call, they will ask for some money, I will pay, the deal will proceed. Normally, I would not even mention it to you. Just like I do not mention the number of times I might have visited this farmer, or drunk coffee with that one, or even helped that other one organize his daughter’s wedding.”
Anand knew all this, the laborious process of relationship building that underlay the Landbroker’s deals, part of his efforts to join a patchwork of independently owned fields into a single, consolidated sale of land. “Yes, yes,” he said encouragingly.
“All that is normal. I am doing every day. This is my work. And if a particular political party can benefit by such a sale, they will try. After all, they have to raise funds for elections, isn’t it? As I said, that too is normal. So when I received the call yesterday, at first I was not worried. I thought, okay, it will be some routine haggling with a cup of coffee. They will say a price. I will say something lower. Then we settle. As simple as that. And then that farmer will be instructed by them to sell. But this time …”
“Yes,” said Anand. “Tell me again.”
“This time, they are not fixing a price. They don’t want to meet me. They want to meet you. They say that, otherwise, they will not allow the deal to happen. They will not allow that farmer to sell.”
“Can they do that?”
“Yes, they have the power,” said the Landbroker. “This particular party is very strong in this area, many supporters. If they decide that this one sale should not happen, the farmers will listen to them. And for those who protest, they will be threatened by the party goondas.”
“If we have no choice,” said Anand, cautiously, “then I suppose I will have to meet them.”
The Landbroker nodded, so unnerved that he did not seem to be able to utter his usual comforting mantra of “not to worry, saar.”
Anand briefed his colleagues about this new development. Mrs. Padmavati listened to him in a wise silence, but Ananthamurthy turned voluble, in his agitation asking the same question that had first troubled Anand. “Why Cauvery Auto?”
Anand wagged his head, but Mr. Ananthamurthy’s question was apparently rhetorical; he had launched into a diatribe, triggered by god-knows-what memories and years of democratic injustice. “See,” Ananthamurthy said, “this is how it is. This is the very truth of the matter. We can work. We can create. We can work very hard—and the minute we can say, yes, we are having a little success, there they are, hands outstretched like beggars. Rubbish political parties! As though this country will not run better without any of them. They dare to speak of returning to Ram Rajya, but instead of setting up a kingdom of the gods, a land of honor and justice, they create a Ravana Rajya instead, unleashing a hundred demons across the land. I tell you, sir, there is no hope. With government like this, there is no hope. I tell you, sir,” he said, “I have been expecting this. The minute we gave that last wage increase—you remember?—three months ago?—I said, now they will smell money, and they will come. Rascals! Scavengers! Feeding like hyenas off the work of others. Hyenas—and as stupid as owls, no doubt.”
“Yes,” said Anand, aiming for soothing acquiescence rather than actual concurrence.
“But, sir,” said Mrs. Padmavati, taking his words with a certain particularity, “that wage increase was a very good thing, is it not? Our workers are happy.”
“Yes,” said Anand.
“It is a good thing,” said Ananthamurthy, with decision. “But see? It has attracted these rascals.”
Anand felt a matching exhaustion; it seemed he was infected by Ananthamurthy’s sudden pessimism. Perhaps it was never going to be possible to outrun the system. It reminded him of the story in his son’s book about the girl Alice who ran and ran in a nightmarish way and, when she stopped, found herself in exactly the same checkered square where she had started.
HIS FATHER WAS CROSS-LEGGED on the sofa in the drawing room. He was not alone, Anand saw; he was entertaining a friend.