The Hope Factory by Lavanya Sankaran

expansion, is it?”
    Anand explained briefly, glossing quickly over his expansion ideas and just speaking of the land he required.
    “So, about ten, fifteen acres, right? … And in that area? … Who did you deal with last time? Your father-in-law?”
    “No, no,” said Anand, explaining.
    “Great man, your father-in-law.” Vinayak spoke in tones that were entirely reverential. “Met him over the weekend, at that art thing … He knows everybody, no? Politicians, industrialists, everyone … even in Bombay-Delhi.”
    “Yes, he certainly knows everyone.” Anand saw that Vinayak was looking at him quizzically. “And of course, my first thought was to talk to him, but the thing is, he deals with these high-profile types. And someone was saying that it’s better to keep these land transactions low-key until everything comes through … What do you think?”
    “Oh, absolutely.” Vinayak was gratified to have his opinion solicited. “Yeah, best to keep it low-key … And I know the perfect guy for you. I’ll ask him to call you,” he said. “He is very good. Very low-key.”
    “Great,” said Anand. “And listen, nothing too expensive,okay? We’re a small company; making those damn monthly debt obligations is still a struggle …”
    “Arrey, don’t worry,” said Vinayak. “He’ll get the job done for you.”
    Anand nodded and then stifled a groan when he saw who approached their table. He should have anticipated this, for where Vinayak roamed, could the rat he rode on be far behind?
    “Vinayak,” he said urgently. “Don’t discuss any of this with anyone. Not my expansion, and not the land thing. Anyone.”
    Vinayak’s eyes gleamed with the wet pleasure of secrecy. “Of course not, yaar,” he said. “I don’t believe in gossip. Hey, Sameer!”
    “Bastard,” said the new arrival, placing a sweaty hand on Vinayak, “what’s all this ghaas-poos veg shit, yaar? Where’s my chicken? Hi, Anand.”
    Sameer Reddy was the dumb son of a smart father, whose growing mining empire and political contacts were sufficient cause for Vinayak—who never did things without an implicit calculation—to claim a friendship with him and act as his social sponsor. “Cute chicks here tonight,” Sameer said. “Damn hot babes.”
    The pale granite glitter of the bar was ice-cold, yet the heat and noise rushed at Anand; he was submerged, drowning, the sound of music so loud he could feel the drum beat in his chest, crowding his heart. Faces passed flushed with a strange, pulsing fervor, the men inexplicably abandoning their calm morning demeanors for spangled shirts and gel-spiked hair and restless, roving eyes; the women in tight skirts and painful shoes and bright, exclaiming smiles. A cocktail of races, European, African, East Asian, percolated and distilled into this lounge bar by the virulent forces of international mercantilism.
    “Hey, buddy, how are ya?” A blond man emerged from the crowd, red-faced, an arm draped around a pretty girl.
    “Hi, Brian,” Vinayak said: “He’s with Cisco …” he explained to Anand and Sameer. “A good guy. From California, I think. But did you see who he was with? Dilip Bannerjee’s daughter. I wonder if the parents know she’s hanging out with phirangs. But they are quite liberal themselves, her parents, so they probably won’t mind.”
    “She’s hot.” Sameer Reddy eyed the young woman’s elegant legs, accentuated by her short dress and high heels.
    “I have to go,” said Anand.
    “No, no,” said Vinayak. “Stay, bugger. Have another beer.”
    Anand acquiesced reluctantly. Vinayak was doing him a favor; he would stay.
    Sameer Reddy was nodding his head at a trio of Japanese businessmen. “They are going to kick our arses. Those guys.”
    “What?” said Anand. “Who? The Japanese?”
    “The Chinese. They are going to kick our arses to Mongolia and back. There’s no way we can compete with them. In manufacturing or anything else.”
    “I