The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,114
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