The Hope Factory by Lavanya Sankaran Page A

hope you are wrong,” said Anand.
    “I am not wrong, yaar. This is what my father thinks. And do you know why they will succeed? I’ll tell you. No democracy. They can do whatever they want. They don’t have to worry about elections and how to win votes. If they have to defend the country, they do it. If they have to build a new road, they just do it, without running around asking each and every villager what to do before they take a single decision.”
    “That’s a good point,” said Vinayak. “Though, I have to say, your father, Sameer, is an expert at getting around this system.”
    “Yeah, he keeps those government guys happy. They look after us well. And they should. I mean, we taxpayers are the true unprotected minority in this country. Right, guys, right?” Sameer Reddy laughed heavily.
    Anand struggled for diplomacy and failed. “A really privileged minority,” he said, pushing his glasses up. “And, secondly, of course we can manufacture things as well as the Chinese do. And as cheaply. We’re doing it already. And we’ll get better. We have no choice. And, thirdly, bugger, if there was no democracy in India, you know where we’d all be sitting?”
    “Where?”
    “At the gates of the American Embassy, squealing to get in.”
    He said good night abruptly, too annoyed to stay longer.
    Sameer Reddy was an idiot, an incompetent behenchuth who couldn’t fuck his own sister without assistance. Like so many people, he tended to confuse democracy with the problems of bad governance—that endemic, virulent disease that made working in India akin to racing a car in low gear: a sense of strain and impending doom.
    His mind went to the foreign team who had visited the factory…. What must they have thought? Would they confuse the apathy of poor governance with the quality of Indian people themselves? Or were they able to see through the noise and the dust to the will of the people and their desire for better circumstance? Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn’t government be a support? To build what they build well, to maintain it, to work hard, to think sensibly. To ask of themselves, in short, what the citizens asked of each other. Inviting visitors to the country was like bringing friends to a home where alcoholic parents rampaged out of control. One could apologize once or twice for the inconvenience rendered, but,beyond that, simply bury one’s face in one’s hands in embarrassment.
    THE PHONE ON HIS table buzzed the following day.
    One landbroker, Kamath said, had arrived. Did Anand want to see him? The austerity in Kamath’s voice suggested otherwise.
    The Landbroker walked in, and Anand could immediately comprehend Mr. Kamath’s disapproval. A bright red polyester shirt molded his lean torso, gold chains rested on a hairy, partially exposed chest, sunglasses (tinted gold) sat on his hair, a luxuriant mustache above his mouth. The Landbroker was like a peacock amidst the sober plumage of the factory employees. Through the open door, Anand could see others stopped in their tracks, staring curiously after this apparition, Mrs. Padmavati craning her neck for a better look.
    Without even stepping outside, Anand knew that the Landbroker’s car would be big and expensive and flashy.
    “Namaskara,” said Anand, after a pause. “Bani, bani.”
    “Aanh,” said the Landbroker. “Namaskara.”
    He did not sit down when Anand offered him a chair. He spent a few moments wandering around the office, inspecting the furnishings, staring at the files on the table, coming to a halt before the production bay window. He leaned one hand against the glass, staring intently at the workers, at the lines of machinery, absorbed in an intense process of internal computation and evaluation, as a callused, yellow-nailed toe in a black Bata sandal scratched the back of his calf through the shiny gray material of his pant. The Landbroker radiated a restlessness that carried the scent of him over to Anand, a musk