The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,24
olives that accompanied it. What, ultimately, was the magic of the olive that allowed it to flourish at the expense of other condiments; that took it from being a local fruit in a regional cuisine—probably once plucked and eaten by sweat-streaked, tree-climbing schoolboys in Italy before angry farmers could chase them away, much as he had raided nellikayi gooseberry trees in Mysore, dipping the spoils in salt and chili powder for a stolen after-school treat—and raised it to the status of an internationally hallowed bar food? He ate one: salty, squashy, cold, and green.
“Want to order some snacks, sir?” The bartender was dressed, like the other bar employees, in a white shirt, black pants, and red Converse shoes. SELVADURAI, his name badge said. Anand shook his head and noticed with relief the large figure lumbering in.
Vinayak levered his bulk with effort onto the barstool next to Anand. “Shit! These things are damn uncomfortable.” He placed an olive in his mouth and looked around, but all the tables were occupied. “Whiskey please, yes, that Aberlour is fine, and some paneer tikkas and masala nuts … What do you mean, no masala nuts. No tikkas also? Let me see that menu…. Okay, fine, bruschetta and, yeah, grilled mushrooms. Okay with you, Anand?” Anand nodded; he didn’t actually care. Vinayak was a strict vegetarian, having apparently attained his size on ghee and dal-bhatti alone. Food and drink ordered, Vinayak relaxed and inspected the other people in the bar. He waved at someone at a distant table. “See that guy? He got that large government order apparently by providing whores to the minister involved. What a pimp job, yaar …” Like his namesake, Ganesha, Vinayak was gifted with a potbelly, a penchant for prosperity, the cunning to market a stroll around his parents into a world odyssey, and a long, trunk-like nose perfect for poking into everyone else’s affairs. “Are we seeing you at Chetty’s party this weekend?”
“Yeah,” said Anand. “I suppose so.”
“Lucky bastard, Chetty, he sleeps around and his wife celebrates by throwing parties.”
“Ey, regarding that land broker you were mentioning,” said Anand, refusing to be sidetracked by Vinayak’s bits of heated gossip.
“Right,” said Vinayak, agreeably. “So you are planning some expansion, is it?”
Anand explained briefly, glossing quickly over his expansion ideas and just speaking of the land he required.
“So, about ten, fifteen acres, right? … And in that area? … Who did you deal with last time? Your father-in-law?”
“No, no,” said Anand, explaining.
“Great man, your father-in-law.” Vinayak spoke in tones that were entirely reverential. “Met him over the weekend, at that art thing … He knows everybody, no? Politicians, industrialists, everyone … even in Bombay-Delhi.”
“Yes, he certainly knows everyone.” Anand saw that Vinayak was looking at him quizzically. “And of course, my first thought was to talk to him, but the thing is, he deals with these high-profile types. And someone was saying that it’s better to keep these land transactions low-key until everything comes through … What do you think?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Vinayak was gratified to have his opinion solicited. “Yeah, best to keep it low-key … And I know the perfect guy for you. I’ll ask him to call you,” he said. “He is very good. Very low-key.”
“Great,” said Anand. “And listen, nothing too expensive, okay? We’re a small company; making those damn monthly debt obligations is still a struggle …”
“Arrey, don’t worry,” said Vinayak. “He’ll get the job done for you.”
Anand nodded and then stifled a groan when he saw who approached their table. He should have anticipated this, for where Vinayak roamed, could the rat he rode on be far behind?
“Vinayak,” he said urgently. “Don’t discuss any of this with anyone. Not my expansion, and not the land thing. Anyone.”
Vinayak’s eyes gleamed with the wet pleasure of secrecy. “Of course not, yaar,” he said. “I don’t believe in gossip. Hey, Sameer!”
“Bastard,” said the new arrival, placing a sweaty hand on Vinayak, “what’s all this ghaas-poos veg shit, yaar? Where’s my chicken? Hi, Anand.”
Sameer Reddy was the dumb son of a smart father, whose growing mining empire and political contacts were sufficient cause for Vinayak—who never did things without an implicit calculation—to claim a friendship with him and act as his social sponsor. “Cute chicks here tonight,” Sameer said. “Damn hot babes.”
The pale granite glitter of the bar was ice-cold, yet the heat and noise rushed at Anand; he was submerged, drowning, the sound of music so loud he could feel the drum beat in his chest, crowding his heart.