The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,102
face sporting a mustache of magnificent proportions; frizzy, unruly hair that haloed out around a receding hairline. But where was the Landbroker? Surely he had not left Anand to meet with this political thug on his own?
Anand’s gaze cleared. He had been staring at the wrong table. The Landbroker was with someone quite different at a window seat against the far wall. Anand made his way over, feeling like he was attracting stares, even if he knew he wasn’t.
“Namaskara,” he said. In contrast to the flamboyance of the Landbroker, his companion was quietitude itself, in a simple cream shirt with signs of great piety about him, the turmeric and vibhooti dotted post-prayer in the center of his forehead, a red thread tied around his right wrist to ward off evil. In other circumstances, Anand might have identified him as a small-time merchant in Chickpet, selling bangles or hosiery or vessels, or an accountant in someone else’s firm. He did not make the mistake of treating him as either.
Gowdaru-saar returned Anand’s greeting with calm, smiling eyes, urged him to sit down, and summoned the waiter to order breakfast, his air of placid goodwill in shocking opposition to both the Landbroker’s nervous energy and Anand’s overwired tension. He seemed in no hurry to broach the matter they were there to discuss, as though this were nothing other than a cheerful, whimsical gathering of friends out to enjoy a lazy midweek breakfast.
“The traffic was very bad this morning,” he said, in typical Bangalore small talk; the traffic: auto-rickshaw drivers with their freewheeling style and panicked foreigners shrieking in the passenger seats; trucks and people-fattened buses that held their breaths and inched their way through improbable, ever-narrowing lanes; the fumes, mingling with the rising heat and rising fury, tamped eventually by rain and resignation; and the spasmodic beat of a passing Bollywood film song—ah baby, oh baby, sexy sexy baby baby.
A passing waiter quick-slammed three steel plates onto the table—fluffy rice idlis and a crisp brown vada, the sambar and chutney slopping over onto the plates from their steel cups. Gowdaru-saar’s food vanished quickly, mashed idlis moving along the conveyor belt of his tongue. Anand broke off a piece of vada and dipped it into the pale green, watery chutney before placing it in his mouth; it stuck in his throat and took forever going down. Cups of coffee arrived, and he sipped gratefully on the hot, sweet liquid.
The Landbroker was vibrating like a bee, unable to touch the food in front of him. Anand wanted to place a hand over his, to calm him, but with Gowdaru-saar’s sharp, observant eyes on him, he did not even venture a sympathetic smile at the Landbroker.
“Saar,” said Gowdaru-saar, “I am so happy to meet you. We have heard wonderful things about you and the work you are doing. So many jobs you are creating. It is very good, very good, saar.”
“Thank you,” said Anand. “You are too kind.”
“And it seems that you are expanding your factory. That means more jobs for our people. That is so good, saar.”
Anand tired of this. “Not so good,” he said. “There will be no new factory if I am prevented from buying the land that is required.”
“Ila, sir. No one is preventing you. Why do you say like this?” said Gowdaru-saar. “Yes, I heard. There was some confusion with the Lok Ayukta. Someone has mistakenly informed them. That is all. And it is really unfortunate that some fool is unwilling to deal with you. But we will take care of that. Not to worry, that land is as good as yours. Your friendship is important to us, saar.”
Through the grease- and dust-darkened window Anand could see the endless passing traffic, metal glinting in the sharp, white light of November and framed by the political posters and bunting that decorated the far side of the street. An enormous poster held Vijayan’s head over the streams of traffic that went past, painted in gorgeous tones of pink and white, the shadows on his face picked out in green. THE NEW HOPE FOR DEMOCRATIC INDIA, the sign said, next to an Ashoka Chakra, the blue spokes of a great forward-moving nation.
Harry Chinappa had received a very nice letter from him, personally signed, thanking him for his hospitality. Vidya had shown it to Anand, so excited he was surprised she didn’t frame it and hang it on the wall alongside the brightly painted oil canvases of turbaned men and bejeweled women that she paid