The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,50

one. DALIT DELIGHT, said another in thrilled one-upmanship. VIJAYAN BY NAME AND VICTORY BY NATURE, said a third.

Once before, Anand had seen him in the flesh, at a function at a five-star hotel. Vijayan had been one of the speakers and afterward, under the gleaming lights, had casually stood in the center of a shy, adoring crowd. This was not the street; the audience’s extreme interest in Vijayan was tempered by their upbringing: they did not know how to mob him. Harry Chinappa had suffered no such shyness. He managed to get himself introduced to Vijayan and made Ruby take a picture of them together, asking the other people standing around to move out of the way. He then sent the photo to the newspaper offices, so that they might publish it on their party pages, and the next day, he wrote a follow-up letter to Vijayan himself, enclosing with it a copy of the photograph. So nice to meet you, he wrote. So rare to have politicians of such caliber in this great nation of ours. He sent it off, forwarding a copy to his son-in-law for his edification.

Anand asked Kavika: “Why do you have mixed feelings about Vijayan?”

She plucked restlessly at the tufts of grass next to the coir mat. “I don’t know,” she said. “He seems like a good guy. Clean. Qualified. But, on the other hand, he represents a traditional, established party—with all its corruption and fierce internal politics—so how clean can he truly be …?” Was that sudden mischief in her glance? “Your father-in-law,” she said, “certainly thinks he is a wonderful candidate …” He could not help himself; his eyes revealed his opinion of his father-in-law, gratifyingly reflected in the merry comprehension of hers. He glanced at his daughter and forced himself to compose his face.

He could hear Vidya bustling up. “Here it is! Thanks so much!”

Kavika got up to leave; she said, smiling directly at him: “So I will see—both of you?—next Tuesday evening.”

“How come?” asked Vidya.

“I told you,” said Anand. “Amir’s event.”

“Oh,” said Vidya. “Right. Amrita asked me too. So interesting, no? It really is about time that we make some effort to change the system.” Later she looked at him in some surprise. “I wonder why Amir called you? You don’t do anything that is not work-related. He really must have twisted your arm.”

THAT NIGHT, ANAND ENSCONCED himself in his study. His wife was out, the children were spending the night at their maternal grandparents’, for all practical purposes he was alone. He plugged his phone into the iPod dock, flipping through until he found the album he wanted. Pink Floyd, The Dark Side of the Moon. He adjusted the volume and reached into the steel Godrej bureau, his fingers searching past the files for the bag of hash he kept hidden in the back.

He locked the study door and drew the curtains before rolling his joint, emptying a cigarette tube of its contents, crumbling the black hash into the tobacco leaves, quickly hoovering it all back into the cigarette tube placed between his lips with an old expertise that, like so many things, was gained in college. He opened the curtains and the window screen as well. He switched off the lights and smoked the joint slowly, standing by the window and carefully blowing the smoke out into the night air. His son would not notice, he was too young, but Anand did not want either his wife or his daughter walking into the room hours later and asking awkward questions.

In the darkened room behind him, the music sang of money, time, and lunatics upon the grass.

Over the years, this Pink Floyd album had receded to the back of his mental musical shelf, but he had heard a couple of songs from it the previous weekend and now it leapt back quickly, engrossing him, the cadences so familiar, his body poised in ancient recognition, anticipating the next musical phrase in perfect, unfaltering sequence. It brought back memories: of the previous weekend, of college, and of the more recent, few-years-ago excitement of attending a Roger Waters concert in Bangalore.

He had bought his tickets as one might for a long-awaited pilgrimage. He arrived at the grounds an hour early, accompanied by Vidya. She was excited too, but for different reasons. She had never really listened to Pink Floyd, beyond dancing to the song “Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2)” at the discotheques of her youth, where it was packaged among the