The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,93

superstitious behavior, though he was aware that no one else, including Ananthamurthy, seemed to share his view. “What would happen if I did sign in rahu-kaal?”

His father shook his head. “Do not joke about this. It is important. Suppose something went wrong just because you signed in an inauspicious time?”

“Nonsense, Appa,” said Anand, but minutes later, as though on cue, he received a phone call from Ananthamurthy. “Sir, I hope,” said the operations manager, “that you are avoiding the rahu-kaal.”

Anand called the Landbroker. “Are we avoiding the rahu-kaal for signing today?”

The Landbroker said: “Yes, sir, not to worry. Today’s rahu-kaal is finished six-thirty to seven-thirty in the morning.”

“Right. It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Anand. “How much time will the registration take? The full day, is it?”

MUCH HAD HAPPENED IN the two weeks since he had last seen Harry Chinappa.

Anand and Mrs. Padmavati had signed the agreements to purchase the land, below the company seal and next to the fingerprints and the signatures of the farmers who were selling. They had handed over large sums in both check and cash to the Landbroker. They had paid more than Anand would have liked to at this preliminary stage, but the Landbroker had echoed what Vinayak had told him at the very start: such large payments were needed just to convince the farmers to sell. The concluding payments would be correspondingly less, of course, but the risk was unquestionably higher. If something went wrong with the registration, they would find it difficult to recover the money. Their financing in the factory was so tight, it was not a loss they could bear easily.

“Sir, do you think he is trustworthy?” Mrs. Padmavati asked.

Anand smiled wryly. “I hope so, Mrs. Padmavati.” He devoutly prayed he was not making a mistake. As much as he tried to ignore them, Harry Chinappa’s words of warning preyed on his mind, louder and louder as the registration date appeared. Mrs. Padmavati and Mr. Ananthamurthy had started vociferous discussions with the earnest architect, newly hired for the project, not too expensive but competent. Anand kept himself aloof from the process; he would not feel truly confident until the sale was complete. The agreements may have been signed, but until the final sale deeds were executed, until the land ownership papers were handed over, until the land was safely registered in the name of Cauvery Auto—the deal was not done. The Landbroker had laughed at Anand’s caution. “Not to worry, saar,” he said. “The land is yours. We will register immediately. You please start your planning. We can start building a compound wall right away. And leveling the land for your future construction. Shall I have all the trees removed?”

“After we register,” said Anand.

The Sankleshwar fiasco continued to sit in his mind. Mr. Sankleshwar was a powerful businessman—with a formidable network of political contacts and a history of ruthlessness. Anand would have liked to maintain a good relationship with him—and certainly not have his own reputation spoiled with such a man. He deeply regretted, again and again, the loss of temper that had made him walk out of that second meeting with Sankleshwar. If it had involved anyone else, he would have immediately written to clarify the matter. But to write and accuse his own father-in-law of lying would be to create an extraordinary scandal—and probably do nothing to restore Anand’s reputation.

He debated the matter in his mind for a half a day before leaving it unhappily alone. There was nothing he could do about it. Harry Chinappa might be willing to sacrifice Anand’s reputation to save his own. Anand could not bring himself to reciprocate. He wished he could talk this through with someone; he searched his mind for possibilities and failed; the very notion felt awkward, the situation too personal, too much of a family matter to make public.

THE SUBREGISTRAR’S OFFICE LAY an hour’s drive away; to reach it he had to pass the farmland. He didn’t slow down, just glanced quickly at the land lying lush in the sunlight, as a groom, full of future avarice, might sneak a peek at his bride’s breasts and bottom. The iPod was plugged into the car’s speakers, and he sang along softly to “Sugar Magnolia” by the Grateful Dead. In the bright morning light, it did something to ease the tension within him.

The rural land registrar’s office was far removed from urban congestion, housed in a sprawling, yellowing colonial-era government office building that abutted a village school. The building was a