The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,124

Anand. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting one of your party men, a Gowdaru-saar.”

In the act of turning away, Vijayan paused. There was no mistaking the change in Anand’s tone: “He has raised an interesting … dilemma for me. I was hoping to discuss the matter with you personally.”

“Of course.” Vijayan, alert, wary, instantly breathing concern and confidentiality. “Of course. Certainly. Not a problem, I hope?”

Anand was not to be charmed. “I certainly hope not.”

“We must meet.” Vijayan nodded to his assistant, hovering at his side. This man, equally alert, took Anand’s phone number and promised that he would call to set up a meeting.

“Great,” said Anand. “I’ll be waiting.”

ANAND LEFT THE PARTY, camera in hand like a prize, one more job to perform. He would leave nothing to chance, or to minds changing after a distracted night. Vijayan’s assistant would call him in the morning. He would ensure it.

Vijayan was famous for not employing the campaign money collected by the party for his personal use. But surely he was familiar with all the ways in which such money was raised? How could one rise to a leadership position in a major Indian political party with all its hurly-burly corruption and be entirely free from taint?

AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning Vidya gazed at the newspaper, refusing to hand it to him in her surprise. “Oh my goodness. Look at this!” She reexamined the photograph of her husband with Vijayan. “It’s not bad,” she said. “I mean, it’s quite large and they have placed it in a really nice position. Goodness,” she said.

Anand drank his coffee without comment. He had orchestrated the publication of the photograph through a contact Vinayak had provided him with at a prominent newspaper well known for its propensity for combining genuine news with happy promotional pieces for anyone willing to pay for them. Vijayan’s team would know that he too could access the media.

“How cool, yaar,” Vidya said, with a reluctant, growing enthusiasm. “ ‘Prominent businessman Anand K. Murthy.’ Prominent! Damn cool…. I wonder if my parents have seen this. Has your father seen it?”

Anand finished his coffee and retired to his study to wait.

THE PHONE CALL FROM Vijayan’s chief assistant came early, as Anand knew it would. Would Anand care to meet with him? Vijayan was busy, but, if necessary, he too would be happy to meet with Anand a little later. Yes, he, the assistant, could meet Anand this very morning, no problem. Happy to, sir.

Anand preferred to deal with the assistant, Mr. Rudrappa. Despite the subordinate title, the man was Vijayan’s gatekeeper and very powerful.

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