The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,95

his files, got out of the car, and locked it.

“What is going on?” he inquired of someone standing by. He received a muttered laugh in response. “It is the Lok Ayukta.” The anti-corruption cell had received information on bribes being paid and was raiding the land registrar’s office. To ensure their vigilance received due credit, they were being trailed by some media people.

The procession entered the building, and Anand returned to his car, frantically wondering what to do. He had spent his adult life grumbling about government corruption—but today was not the day he wanted the Lok Ayukta involved. Where was the Landbroker? Should he call him? What had happened to the bribe money? Was he to be implicated in any manner? All the documents had Cauvery Auto’s name on them. What the fuck should he do?

As though in answer to his panicked questions, the passenger door opened and the Landbroker jumped in. “Here,” he said, handing the bribe money back to Anand. “You hide this.” He was exuding the thick sweat of fear and, without permission, reached for Anand’s bottle of water and drank it down.

“You got caught?” asked Anand foolishly, for the answer was evident. If the Landbroker had been caught handing over a bribe, he would currently be parading in front of the television cameras, his career as a deal broker effectively over. “What happened?”

Somebody, it seemed, had phoned in a tip to the Lok Ayukta. But thankfully, said the Landbroker, the ill luck had befallen the briber just ahead of him in the queue. He, and the official he had paid the bribe to, were both under arrest. The Landbroker pulled out the image of Goddess Lakshmi, who swung on a pendant at the end of the thick gold chain around his neck, and pressed it to his forehead, offering prayers and thanks for his safe deliverance. A few moments later, and it would have been him in the dock: the Landbroker, the official—and Anand as well.

“Not to worry. It’s okay, saar,” the Landbroker said after a while, his brow cooling. “It happens sometimes. But now, see, they are leaving, and we can continue our work.” And sure enough, the Lok Ayukta people, the arrested villains, and the media cameras trickled away and life in the subregistrar’s office, the exchange of property and bribery, could resume as normal. “Okay, saar,” the Landbroker said, energetic once more, vanishing back into the fray. “Very soon now.”

An hour later Anand was accepting the transfer of the first piece of farmland into his company’s name. The people selling to him, getting their photographs taken, affixing their signatures to various documents, were a family of four: a mother and three sons, all grown. The widowed mother bore the evidence of a hardworking rural life: red betel-leaf-stained lips and gums over strong white teeth, skin darkened and wrinkled by sun and wind, wispy hair, and an eager, interested vigor in her eyes. She would not meet his gaze directly, but when he looked away he could sense her quick inspection. The sons looked like minor city clerks; they were no longer working the land; their hands were soft. When the time came for Anand to hand over the check, he smiled at them respectfully and was pleased at their cordial response. Three more plots of land were registered. Cauvery Auto was the proud owner of five acres of land. Four hours had passed. Another five registrations to go.

“So how much longer?” Anand asked.

“Not long,” said the Landbroker, leading Anand back to his car. “Sir, you please wait here. I will send the boy to bring you some coffee and tiffin.”

“Why? Where are you going?” said Anand.

“I am taking the sellers out for lunch, sir. It will keep them in a good mood,” said the Landbroker. It seemed another unorthodox procedure in an unorthodox day, but Anand did not doubt anymore that the Landbroker knew his business well, that his particular mixture of treats and cajolery and curses was what had brought all these people to the dealing table. He spotted the family he had bought the first small half acre of farmland from in the distance; they bore large smiles and no signs of ill usage.

An hour passed. Anand drank some coffee brought to him by a little urchin and began to fret. He finished his emails. He read all he could of the documents in his briefcase. He finished several phone calls. Twice, he walked about the grounds. He even relieved