The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,107

bird-carpet from behind the safety of a bush.

Kavika’s laughter bubbled up; she was sprawled on the grass, her giggles shaking her stomach. Anand found himself laughing too, for the first time in days—and he was still laughing when his daughter rejoined them, the dog back on the leash.

“Did you see that?” Valmika asked. “It was the funniest sight.”

Kavika stood up and gave Valmika a hug. “Thank you! I hope this fool did not trouble you too much? I’m glad!”

As they headed back to their car, Valmika said: “Appa. You’re smiling.”

“Yes,” said Anand. “I think I feel better after my run.” He remembered his earlier mood. “I’m glad you came running with me, kutty. And I’m sorry if I made you run too hard.”

Valmika snorted. “Hard? Appa, next time, I’ll beat you!”

He put his arm around her and hugged her hard.

*

HE WAITED UNTIL 10:00 A.M. and called Sankleshwar’s office again. The great man was traveling, they told him. In meetings. Busy elsewhere.

Ananthamurthy and Mrs. Padmavati worried over the financial end of the matter with him. Gowdaru-saar had sent word through the Landbroker: the sale price of the remaining land had gone up by 20 percent. This additional amount would have to be paid in cash. If they didn’t pay, the land purchase would not happen.

“We will have to pay,” said Mrs. Padmavati. “We have no choice. We must pay and hope that they do not once again ask us for more.”

“Mrs. Padmavati—how do we pay the full amount? We cannot pay more than ten percent; they want twenty. Even ten percent will stretch our budget to the maximum. The banks will not lend us more.”

“Sir, can you tell them this?” said Mrs. Padmavati. “Tell them we can only afford so much and no more.”

“It is worth a try,” said Anand. “But it will probably not work. I’ll speak to the Landbroker about this.”

He met with the Landbroker at the Swamy Miltry Hotel, just off the highway. Dark, low-ceilinged, tiny, walls stained with cooking grease and clumps of decaying cobwebs; the rancid odor of burnt sambar; what the place lacked in comfort, it made up for in anonymity. The Landbroker fetched two coffees from the serving counter, the tumbler inverted into a steel cup. They stood at one of the tall, Formica-topped tables that dotted the premises.

“Listen, not to worry.” Anand knew he first had to soothe the Landbroker, to return to him a sense of confidence that the meeting with Gowdaru-saar had undermined.

“What, saar,” said the Landbroker. “This is the first time this is happening to me. The first time I am having to face such political pressure and the first time”—the Landbroker was upset, barely meeting Anand’s eye—“where I am not sure if a client is buying from me or from someone else.”

“No, no. I am buying only from you. Not to worry. That Sankleshwar is a friend of my father-in-law’s; that is why there was some conversation. But that is all. Not to worry. Nothing has been signed; no money has been exchanged with him. I am only working with you. Where this Gowdaru-saar has got this information from I don’t know. And I do not know why he has approached me like this. But no matter,” said Anand, gliding lightly over his father-in-law’s dealings. “We have to now deal with this, and we will. You please tell him that we will pay, but you must make it clear—we can only afford ten percent more.”

The Landbroker looked doubtful and worried. “They will not like to bargain this way, saar.”

“Tell him this is all we can afford. You please tell him this. We are not as big as he thinks.”

“I will try, saar,” said the Landbroker, unconvinced.

AN EMAIL PINGED ACROSS his phone. It was a cheerful, encouraging letter from the Japanese company, looking forward to their next meeting. In Copenhagen, this time. Anand had planned to take Mr. Ananthamurthy and Mrs. Padmavati with him. For both of them, it would have been their first trip abroad. “We are very much looking forward to doing business in India,” the email said, “to participating in the growth of your great nation and, if all goes well, of your company.”

The first time Anand had traveled abroad, years before, to meet a potential client in Germany, he had not been able to stop staring: at the roads, the bridges, the tunnels, the cars, the trains, at the organized reliability of it all, so startled by such careless munificence he almost wept. When asked later