The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,2

scouring them for weeds. Anand felt the knot in his back ease, an involuntary welling of pleasure within, a shy disbelief that his efforts had yielded this campus, this precision, this grace.

He paused outside one of the warehouses, whose freshly painted sign said: GOWDON 2.

“That is a wrong spelling, no?” he said. “That is not how you spell godown.”

“I’ll check, sir,” said the painting supervisor and made a note.

The watchmen saluted as he walked past. Their uniforms were in the corporate colors—orange shirts and indigo pants, chosen in line with his mother-in-law’s suggestion, in the days when her opinion mattered. “So pretty, these colors,” she had said. “Like bird-of-paradise, my favorite flower.” Anand had blindly agreed—and was aghast to learn that in her youth she had once been referred to as a bird-of-paradise herself, a compliment never forgotten. She now spent her time telling acquaintances of her son-in-law’s delicate tribute. He in turn ignored her arch references to the subject, which, in his mind, made the best of an awkward situation.

The clock ran faster than Anand; he didn’t pause for lunch, satisfying his hunger with passing cups of coffee and glucose biscuits grabbed off the plates Kamath supplied for every meeting in his office. They were without end, everyone nervous, running plans and presentations by him relentlessly.

After the initial faux pas with the bird-of-paradise colors, his wife had recommended the anonymous safety of an interior designer who could create for Anand an office as it ought to be: well carpeted and tastefully furnished. Anand had ignored her suggestion. His office was just as he liked it: simple, uncluttered, a large desk, some chairs to one side that could be dragged up for a conference, and best of all, the soundproofed scenic factory window.

At 6:00 P.M., Ananthamurthy, Mrs. Padmavati, the HR person, and Kamath assembled in his office, a collective air of exhaustion about them. They had done all that they could; tomorrow was in the hands of the gods. Ananthamurthy, on the principle of leaving no stone unturned, was detailing the early morning prayers he would conduct on the morrow to ensure divine favors. For Anand, divinity consisted of preparing meticulously and leaving nothing to chance. He did not know quite how to articulate his next concern; he said: “I will be wearing a jacket, I think. And a tie.”

“You will be very hot, sir,” said Ananthamurthy, with mild surprise at this suggested deviation from the customary dress code of polyester pants and cotton shirts.

It was Mrs. Padmavati who grasped the underlying point Anand was trying to make. “Everyone should wear ties, sir, is it not? Or, in my case, a silk saree. For smart appearance.”

“Yes,” said Anand in relief. “Yes. I think so.”

ANANTHAMURTHY STOOD NEXT TO HIM, gazing down at the large, high-ceilinged bay, the machinery gleaming, the room flooded with light, so clean, so sterile; the very air seemed subdued and devoid of the dust particles that circulated outside the factory. The others had filed out, leaving the two of them alone.

Anand was normally the one to energize, to reassure, but now he gave way to sudden doubt. “We are ready, no?”

“I think we’re ready, sir,” said Ananthamurthy.

“A great success if it comes through,” said Anand. “A great success for us, Ananthamurthy.”

“If it comes through,” said Ananthamurthy, prosaically, “we will be in urgent need of more land, sir. At least ten acres. Without it, we will not be able to proceed. As it is …”

Anand sighed. “Yes, yes.” Land outside the city for industrial development was notoriously difficult to organize. “I’ll get on to it right away, Ananthamurthy.”

• • •

ON THE WAY HOME, on a sudden impulse, Anand took a small, unplanned detour into a low-grade industrial area. It was just a few kilometers from his factory, but it was an entry into a different, desperate world. The roads were hasty-made, unplanned, unpaved, and ravined by the rains. There were no large, graceful factory compounds here, no high-roofed shop floors, no landscaping. These factory sheds were little more than utilitarian shop floors built in desperate confinement, cheek by jowl, not wasting space, aesthetic-free, populated by workers who wore no uniforms and belonged to no unions. Anand’s low-bottomed car was out of place here; this was an area frequented by scooters and hardy transportation vans.

He parked on a muddy side slope, setting his hand brake, ignoring the few curious glances he received, and made his way to a shed in the distance. It was indistinguishable from its peers, tin-roofed,