The Hope Factory (12 page)

Anand telephoned Vinayak. “Listen,” Anand said, “that Landbroker …”

“Arrey, give him time,” said Vinayak. “Putting together these land deals is really complicated; it needs a good guy—and takes time. If you hurry, you’ll end up with some fucked-up piece of land that six other people also think they own and you’ll get tied up in the courts for years. You give him time …”

Time, like money, was something Anand could not afford to be generous about. Over the past few weeks, he had busily investigated other land-buying options: the businesswoman, for instance, who used her contacts in political circles to put together vast swaths of land for software companies was reputedly reasonable and efficient in her approach, but, alas, seemed to work exclusively in the Whitefield area, at the opposite end of a vast city; or, another option, the government-developed properties, also too far from his current factory and not always reliable in their deliverability. What he would have appreciated was an industrial land website: simple, logical, and transparent. Instead what he faced was very different: however much he might not like to, he was going to have to speak to Harry Chinappa.

In doing so, he was going to have to violate his own precept
of never combining work with his personal life, and do so, moreover, with someone with whom mutual dislike was tempered only by familial association.

He quietened his distaste: surely Cauvery Auto was worth it?

HE HAD MISSED A CALL
from him the previous night and received two messages via his wife.

“Ah,” said Harry Chinappa, when Anand returned the phone call. “Anand. How nice to finally hear from you. I thought, from the lack of response, that you had perhaps lost interest.”

“No, no, of course not,” said Anand. He forced his voice to sound cheerful. “How are you?”

Harry Chinappa did not waste time in pleasantries. “So, did you get my message? I told Vidya. I have arranged the meeting for tomorrow afternoon. Come over this evening to my house. I will brief you. Don’t be late,” he said, and disconnected.

Vidya, predictably, was aware of all the details about his planned meeting with her father. To this day, he knew, she talked with her parents several times a day, discussing family matters with her mother and matters of social importance with her father—unquestionably a better child to her parents than he was to his.

Now she said, “Daddy wants you to wear a white shirt for tomorrow’s meeting. With a jacket and no tie. And a nice shirt for tonight as well.”

“Why tonight?” Anand asked, puzzled. She was pouring tea: served as she liked it, English-style, with hot tea in a tea-cozy-covered pot, milk, and a bowl of sugar lumps. “Pingu! Sweetie, no,” she said, stopping her son from grabbing a second sugar lump. “All your teeth will fall out…. Because,”
she said to Anand, handing him a cup, “they are having a few guests over. But Daddy says to come over anyway; he wants to finish the discussion with you. Ey, it’s so nice of him, no? To help you like this. He’s so busy …”

Yes, said Anand. It is very nice of him.

THE CHINAPPA HOUSE WAS
at the end of a warren of lanes off Richmond Road. It had been built in the seventies, along with a few other houses in a plot subdivided from the remains of a large colonial bungalow and—as though to apologize for the lack of taste and heritage inherent in such a proceeding—the cement-roofed, mosaic-floored house was relentlessly stuffed with memorabilia of times past.

Years before, Anand, beguiled and lulled by his college sweetheart’s modesty in describing her home as small and cramped, “nothing compared to the old bungalow,” had accompanied her to her home and stared in amazement at the chintz-covered sofas, the heavy rosewood furniture, the windows swathed in heavy curtains, the lavish precision of the manicured lawn. Anand, awed, had thought it looked like something out of a magazine. He had wondered, abashed, what she would say when she saw his own childhood home in Mysore.

He had grown up in Lakshmipuram, not in one of the lovely old bungalows of that neighborhood but in the alleyways behind, in a tiny two-room house that was in its entirety smaller than his current living room. His parents had subsisted on the modest salary that his father made as a senior government clerk, refusing to augment it either by bribery or by better wages in the private sector. They seemed to think that the security provided by a nondismissible government job and a
clear conscience were entirely sufficient to live upon—a state of contentment that provided Anand with little consolation, especially when watching classmates scatter after school to their own large homes.

Vidya’s Mysore connections were of a very different nature. Harry Chinappa’s family had been dignitaries in the old Mysore maharaja’s court; the walls of their home were littered with fading sepia photographs of dead Chinappas with visiting members of the Nehru family, old hunting guns, and eviscerated, plaque-mounted skulls of animals killed in erstwhile times when such pleasures were legal.

The house had not changed much since his first visit. He could hear a piano being played; he did not recognize the song. He had his cellphone pressed against his ear, trying to complete a conversation with a rascally supplier, and walked straight into a chorus of singing voices that drowned the conversation on the phone. “What? Hello?” he shouted and drew the suddenly silent attention of many astonished eyes.

Ruby Chinappa levered herself out of an overstuffed armchair and came surging toward him, breaking like a sturdy, determined wave about his ankles. He was short; she was shorter still and terrifyingly wide. “Anand!” she said. “Put away that silly phone; so busy all the time…. Come and enjoy the music! We are having such a nice sing-song.”

He hesitated and was lost, swept in her wake into the paralyzing throng; he would complete his phone call later. He recognized in some of the guests the fixtures of his in-laws’ social life: fossils from the club and relicts of the city’s old homes; as far as he knew, the patrons of the newer apartment buildings were never welcome in his father-in-law’s house unless he knew their parents and approved of their antecedents—
or unless their successes earned for themselves a mention in the newspapers.

Harry Chinappa was as tall as his wife was short, towering over Anand; the hospitable smile on his face tightened as he beheld his son-in-law. “Ah, Anand, come in, come in…. You’re late,” he said, bringing his voice down.

Anand felt himself flush. “I had some meetings with the bank,” he said.

“Anand’s work is going very well,” announced Ruby Chinappa in some haste, and Anand felt the chill of polite attention settle upon him.

“Oh, yes!” said Colonel Krishnaiah. “Vidya was telling me the other day. Factory full of orders, is it? How nice. Well done.”

“Vidya seems so proud of your successes,” he heard someone else say.

“Yes, yes,” said Ruby Chinappa. “We all are.”

“Ruby! The chip bowls appear empty,” said Harry Chinappa. “I have to keep reminding you. Really,” he announced, “if one wants anything done well in this household, one is almost forced to do it oneself…. Now, if you will all excuse me for a few minutes.” He waited until a flushed Ruby Chinappa hurried in with freshly topped chip bowls before sweeping Anand before him into a little side alcove lined with books, a desk, and uncomfortable wooden chairs that could never be criticized because they were older than all the humans in the house.

Anand settled himself into a chair, feeling the knots of wood press into his back. If the object of highest veneration in the Chinappa household was the piano, the books in this alcove came a close second. Anand had not closely encountered the first before his marriage and had never displayed any affinity
for his father-in-law’s library of books by dead English writers with names like P. G. Wodehouse and H. H. Munro; all this apparently served to put him even further beyond the pale of Harry Chinappa’s approval.

Harish “Harry” Chinappa was a proud man—who had made one incalculable mistake in his life—selling most of his vast Coorg coffee plantation when land prices, and coffee prices, were at their lowest. He sold and, having sold, was destined to spend the remainder of his existence watching land prices rise and recalculating his putative net worth had-he-but-not-sold. His son-in-law’s small successes might be a source of comfort to his wife; he himself appeared to reserve judgment.

Harry Chinappa sat down at the table. “The meeting tomorrow,” he said, “is with Mr. Sankleshwar.” In the brief silence that followed, he seemed to sense Anand’s surprise and hesitation and said: “Are you having any success in sourcing the land?”

“Yes,” said Anand. “That is to say, I have spoken to a landbroker of Vinayak’s. My friend, Vinayak Agarwal? But nothing has yet come through. They said these things take time.”

“Vinayak Agarwal?” said Harry Chinappa. “That young fellow? He has no concept of these things…. Why should it take time? What utter nonsense. No, don’t bother with him. My boy, when someone says something will ‘take time,’ it either means that they don’t have the resources to do the job or that there is some other unknown complication.” Harry Chinappa seemed to gain confidence as he assessed the effects of his words on Anand. “Now, about Sankleshwar. It is a big opportunity. I think I do not need to spell that out for you. Really, you are very lucky to be invited to his office. I know people who wait weeks and months just to see him, in fact, just
the other day, who was saying? … I forget who, someone was saying that they have waited now to meet him for two and a half months…. You are very lucky. Very lucky indeed. But, as you know, I begrudge no effort if it will benefit you youngsters.”

“Okay,” said Anand.

Harry Chinappa waited for him to say more and then sighed. “It might be best,” he said, “if you were to allow me to handle it. At least initially. It would not do to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I’m sure I needn’t remind you to be anything less than respectful to Mr. Sankleshwar. Such an important man. Really, you are quite lucky. But follow my lead in tomorrow’s meeting and we should be okay. Let me see, we need about twenty acres for the factory …”

“Ten,” said Anand. “Ten acres.”

“Yes. That is what I thought. Ten would be about right. Or perhaps twenty … Very good! … And of course I will absolutely ask for no special favors from Mr. Sankleshwar. In fact, I will insist that we pay a fair and reasonable price for the land. Not only must one be fair in one’s business dealings, one must also appear to be fair. At least, I like to think so.” Harry Chinappa moved a few objects absentmindedly about his desk; his gaze encountered Anand; he continued with some effort: “Very good! … Two o’ clock, tomorrow afternoon; you can pick me up and we can drive out to his office together. Excellent! … Oh, and I hear,” he said, with that slight softened change of tone that came about whenever he spoke of his grandchildren, “that Valmika is doing well in her studies. That’s wonderful! Vidya should see that the children spend more time out-of-doors. In fact, we should consider banning them from using things like computers…. I have said the same
thing to Vivek in an email,” he said, as though Vidya’s brother in America were not alcoholic, divorced, and immeasurably distant from both his parents and his children.

“They should exercise,” said Anand. “But I don’t think banning computers is the answer.”

“I am not surprised to hear you say so. Vidya tells me,” said his father-in-law, “that you are rather addicted to your gadgets…. I am thinking of taking the children with me to Coorg next weekend. They can jump about in the fresh air …”

“Yes, they’d like that,” said Anand.

“Well, time for me to rejoin my guests. Come, come. Don’t just sit here, come and have a drink.”

Harry Chinappa swept out of the alcove, leaving Anand mulling over the conversation, several aspects of it slowly falling into place. For weeks now, his father-in-law had enlivened family gatherings with his planned foray into the world of real estate development: an old family property that he had decided to develop into a shopping mall in collaboration with this Sankleshwar, Harry Chinappa’s contribution to the venture consisting of the property itself and, no doubt, a supply of unsolicited advice. His interest in Anand was not entirely altruistic; orchestrating the purchase of several acres would add to his business credentials—which, as far as Anand knew, were otherwise nonexistent. Harry Chinappa had kept occupied his entire life by busying himself in other people’s business.

But Sankleshwar was a well-known name in real estate; if he had a reputation for slightly dubious deals (which Harry Chinappa liked to gloss over), he was also a property developer of stratospheric proportions; it was very probable that he would be able to help Anand find the land he needed—that was the
rice in the midst of all the husk of Harry Chinappa’s words, and Anand forced himself to concentrate on that.

He trailed out of the alcove to find his father-in-law installed behind the carved rosewood bar, where he was once again dispensing drinks in his best plantation manner. “Ah, Anand! I thought we’d lost you to the lure of fine literature …” Harry Chinappa laughed at his own joke. “What will you have to drink, my boy? A beer to wash away the factory soot?”

“A beer will be fine,” Anand said. “Or a whiskey.”

“Ruby!” said his father-in-law. “Ask the boy to get another beer from the kitchen. And more ice, Ruby, for goodness’ sake! Quickly, please. Mrs. Nayantara?” he said. “Another sherry for you?”

Mrs. Nayantara Iyer shook her head, but the Colonel at the piano raised his glass for another whiskey.

“Ah,” said Harry Chinappa, in a pleased way. “I have here a single malt that I think you will enjoy. One of my collection,” he said, “that I save for special guests.” Anand knew that single malt; he had bought it himself (on his wife’s suggestion) the last time he’d passed through the Singapore duty-free as a ritual sacrifice on the altar of family relations.

“Actually,” said Anand, “I think I’ll have a whiskey too.”

To be honest, he was not that fond of whiskey; the strength of it tested his tongue and blurred the edges of his resistance after a single sip. He saw an empty chair next to Mrs. Nayantara Iyer and, on an impulse, made his way over. He sat down and wondered what to say, feeling foolish. He could not ask after her daughter; he did not know how to phrase the question in a casual way. Instead, he said: “Aunty, I saw your granddaughter in the park when I was out running with my daughter. Very sweet child.”