The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,26

the Landbroker’s car would be big and expensive and flashy.

“Namaskara,” said Anand, after a pause. “Bani, bani.”

“Aanh,” said the Landbroker. “Namaskara.”

He did not sit down when Anand offered him a chair. He spent a few moments wandering around the office, inspecting the furnishings, staring at the files on the table, coming to a halt before the production bay window. He leaned one hand against the glass, staring intently at the workers, at the lines of machinery, absorbed in an intense process of internal computation and evaluation, as a callused, yellow-nailed toe in a black Bata sandal scratched the back of his calf through the shiny gray material of his pant. The Landbroker radiated a restlessness that carried the scent of him over to Anand, a musk of sweat and sun and some deep, fervent desire.

Within moments, all sense of amusement had vanished from Anand.

The Landbroker looked like a first-rate thug; Anand felt annoyed at his blatant, unshadowed assessment of the factory. He should have refused to see him; he should have met him outside; he should have thought of some other alternative; Vinayak was a buggered-up idiot and Anand a bigger one for listening to him. This man was startlingly different from normal real estate agents, who inhabited nice offices and accompanied their sales of city properties with a line of upbeat, cheerful patter. The Landbroker did not spring from such a pleasant-faced, well-regulated mercantile landscape. He seemed the embodiment of a more primitive commercial force, like a tiger in the wild, rare and thrilling to encounter but admittedly not without its risks.

Anand felt like a cow left tethered in the middle of the jungle.

He cleared his throat. The Landbroker turned away from the window and eased himself into a chair. He placed an ankle on the opposite knee and then proceeded to scratch it absentmindedly with the nail of his left little finger, which, unlike his other bitten-to-the-quick nails, was long and luxuriant and painted a bright red. As he talked, the red nail moved to his ear, to explore the interiors and extricate what wax it could.

“Aanh, saar,” the Landbroker said. “So you need land, it seems.” His Kannada bore the rough edges of street-speak.

“For the factory,” said Anand. “We have fully expanded here.”

“Yes, I saw, I saw.” The Landbroker’s assessment was now concentrated on Anand. “So how is it you know Mr. Vinayak? Joint business with him?”

“No,” said Anand, wrenching his gaze away from the long red fingernail. “He is a friend. You have done work for him, isn’t it?”

“Yes, a little,” said the Landbroker. “Some twenty acres in Bangalore and then again some land in Hubli. I have contacts there as well. He has told you about that?”

Vinayak hadn’t, but Anand nodded anyway. “He is a good person, a good businessperson,” said the Landbroker, “so when he mentioned about you, I knew it would be no problem. In my line of work, it is very important to work only with people who are of good quality, who will deal straight. No tricks, no games, no crooks.”

“Yes,” said Anand.

“So, how much land are you looking for, saar? And how soon?”

“About ten acres would be perfect. As close to this factory as possible. And the need is urgent.”

The Landbroker sank into brief thought. “I will show you two plots this morning,” he said. “Come, saar.”

They took the Landbroker’s car; contrary to Anand’s expectations, it was small and nondescript.

“What are the payment terms as such?” asked Anand.

“We will discuss everything, saar, the rates, the payment terms,” said the Landbroker. “But first we will find something that you like. Then we will discuss everything else.”

He drove quickly and efficiently, speaking brusquely into his cellphone, the car juddering over ill-finished roads that led into the interiors of the land. A few minutes’ drive brought them to the first plot.

It was surrounded by a high concrete wall, with power cables running into the property and a bore well sunk in one corner. “This is about four acres. It is officially converted to industrial land—therefore more expensive.”

Anand stood at the entrance for not more than a minute; the convenience of such a plot was rendered irrelevant by its size—four acres was too small.

The second plot was larger. It was unfenced; Anand tracked the land visually from the side of the road to the distant tree and again to the hillock and back to the road.

“This is about six acres. This is farmland, so it is slightly cheaper. But you will have to pay