The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,127
every day.
Four goddess images lined the altar that had been temporarily built in the middle of the factory floor: Lakshmi, giver of material strength and prosperity; Saraswati, for knowledge and learning; Durga, destroyer of negative tendencies; and above them, Chamundeswari, a Shakti composite of all three.
The bhajans signified the end of a long morning of worship. Mrs. Padmavati led the singing with a surprising muscular vigor, accompanied by Ananthamurthy’s two daughters. Behind him, Anand could hear Ananthamurthy explain to Valmika the symbolism and meanings behind the worship. “When we perform a pooja,” said Ananthamurthy, “we do not pray to some abstract god in the sky. That is a wrong interpretation. Instead, the prayers, the rituals, allow us to focus on evoking those divine energies within us. Thus Saraswati, so we may be ever-learning seekers of true knowledge; Lakshmi, that we may guide our fortunes well; Durga, that we may conquer our deepest fears within. For mindful work”—Ananthamurthy’s voice turned stern and sonorous—“is true spiritual grace. We worship our tools so that we may work mindfully and with correct humility, for best results.”
Valmika said, with a sudden touch of gloom: “I should probably worship my physics book before my test tomorrow.”
“Yes,” said Ananthamurthy with a twinkle, “but perhaps studying that is best.”
THE PREVIOUS DAY, THEY had inaugurated the new factory. Construction on all buildings was not complete, but the main production floor was ready, machinery being moved into place. Two executives from the Japanese parent company had flown in for the event, Ananthamurthy in assiduous attention; they had seemed pleased, the ordered beauty of the new structure validating their decision to pick Cauvery Auto. The bank manager too expressed his pleasure to Mrs. Padmavati in an animated discussion that celebrated his own foresight in lending to them.
Anand had made a few phone calls before the inauguration; this time, his father had accepted his invitation. As had Harry Chinappa—whose rigid decorum, much to Ruby’s and Vidya’s relief, melted to a benevolent, if startled, approval once he realized who the chief guest was going to be: on the heels of a successful election, getting Vijayan to accept, said Harry Chinappa, was a coup.
Vijayan had played his role in the inauguration, cutting ribbons, making speeches, and planting a sapling. The Landbroker wore a silk shirt for the occasion. Next to him stood Gowdaru-saar, unctuous. The word from Vijayan’s office had caused Gowdaru-saar to back off, to vanish, to sink like a startled crocodile into the depths of the water, surfacing, with beady eyes greedy and glistening, just two days before the inauguration. He had arrived in Anand’s office, eyeing the new factory. “Congratulations, saar,” he had said. “We look forward to your future success.”
I bet you do, motherfucker, thought Anand, smiling politely.
Sankleshwar had shifted his residence to Dubai, forewarned, the rumors went, about an impending tax investigation. “It’s all these new-money rascals,” said Harry Chinappa. “It’s a good thing I stopped my development deal with him. I always had my reservations, you know, m’boy. By the way, this year,” he said, “we really should change the caterer for the Diwali party. The last fellow was terrible.”
On the drive to the factory, Anand had glanced at Vidya and had searched for something nice, something true, to say: “You look pretty,” he said. “That’s a pretty outfit.”
“Do you like it?” she said, immediately flattered. “I found it at a boutique that showcases ecologically conscious designers. They make things with a smaller carbon footprint. Such an important issue, I can’t see why more people don’t feel more strongly about it.”
Toward the end of the tree-planting ceremony, when all the chief guests and managers had had their turn, Mrs. Padmavati guided Valmika and Pingu in planting theirs, aided by a gardener.
“Perhaps your daughter may one day work with us, sir,” said Mr. Ananthamurthy at his ear.
“Only if she wants to,” Anand replied, absurdly pleased with the notion, watching covertly as Valmika gazed curiously about at the factory buildings.
AT THE END OF the Ayudha Pooja, the red-stained kumkum-and-coin-stuffed pumpkin was ritually shattered, symbolizing the animals sacrificed in ancient times. The cars were driven over the good-luck-giving lemons and the aarti plate containing a single flame carried through the crowd by the priest.
Anand did not consider himself a particularly religious person. For him, worship lay in the doing, in working each day to extrude from the center of his being the very best that he could give. When the aarti plate reached him, he placed a fifty-rupee offering on it, ritually passed his palms over the flame, and raised them to his face, the warmth touching his eyes just like a blessing.
about the author
LAVANYA SANKARAN is the author of The Red Carpet, the acclaimed debut collection selected for Poets & Writers magazine’s Best First Fiction award as well as Barnes & Noble’s Discover Great New Writers. Her work has been featured in The Atlantic and The Wall Street Journal among others, including publications in India and Europe. She studied at Bryn Mawr College and lives in Bangalore with her husband and daughter. The Hope Factory is her first novel.