The Hope Factory A Novel

twelve





A LETTER WAS SUCH AN INFREQUENT occurrence in her life that Kamala did not at first recognize that the pale blue inland cover was meant for her. She squinted at it, until her neighbor’s voice demanded: “Well, are you going to take it or not?” Kamala received it gingerly from the young bride. “The old lady got it with the other mail and asked me to give it to you.”

“Thank you,” said Kamala, but she found the bride squatting down and, for a moment, leaving off her usual insolent manner. “Akka,” she whispered, “she is raising our rent again. So quickly! Is she asking more from you as well?”

Kamala was startled but did not show it. “Not yet,” she said.

“If she does, will you pay?” asked the bride.

Kamala was troubled by the young bride’s words but had no desire to discuss the matter with her, so she took refuge in rudeness. “What business is it of yours?” she said and was gratified to see the girl sniff and bang her way into her own room.

The thin, pale blue-green paper, written upon and folded possessively three times over its mysterious contents, was decorated on top with what Kamala knew to be her name and address and the sender’s identity. She studied the fat, curved squiggles marching across the paper like looped jelebis and tried to decipher their meaning like an astrologer attempting to predict the future course of life from the stars. From her sister-in-law perhaps? Possibly. But her sister-in-law was as illiterate as she was and usually preferred to communicate her news over the telephone.

She could, if she wished, knock on the young bride’s door or cross the courtyard to where the landlord’s mother lived and ask either of them to decipher the squiggles; both of them had that literary capability, but that would make them instantly privy to the contents of the letter. Instead, after studying it for a few minutes more, Kamala placed it away on a shelf and started her cooking preparations, fretting at the slow passage of time.

“There you are,” she said impatiently when she heard his footsteps. “I have been waiting.”

“Why?” Narayan asked and then, as she thrust the blue cover at him, “For us? Who is it from?”

“We will know all these things,” said his mother severely, “if you would but hurry.”

He slit the edge of the folded letter and spread it open. Its contents covered only two of the three sides; the sender did not seem compelled to get their money’s worth from the two-rupee cost of the inland letter.

“It is from Maama,” he said. “He is coming for a visit.”

“What?” she said. “My brother? Here? You lie! Now, Narayan, don’t play the fool or I will beat you. I really will. With that broom, I will beat you.”

“I’m not playing the fool,” he said. “Mother. What a thing to say. He is coming here…. For somebody’s wedding … Listen! I will read it to you…. ‘Dear little sister,’ ” he read, “ ‘My prayers that this letter finds you in good health. You will be pleased to hear that …’ ”

Kamala made him read it through twice. The formal written tone could not disguise the reality: for the first time in all these years, her brother would be visiting her in Bangalore. She sat still, processing this unprecedented event, until she heard Narayan ask her: “Amma? Are you not happy? This bothers you?”

“I am happy,” she said. “It is a good thing he is coming. Does he say when?”

“Next week. I told you. For one night.”

She nodded and, with effort, turned the conversation to other channels, distracting Narayan with some gossip about Shanta’s latest crosspatchery.

Later, when he had abandoned his evening studies to play cricket in the gully, she looked around her house with something akin to panic. In an instant, that letter had snatched away her sense of peace, her casual pride, her deep comfort in her home.

When Kamala had first started work as a domestic servant, she had lived with her baby son in the homes she worked in as a full-time, stay-in maid. If she was lucky, she was given a separate, tiny room (usually off the kitchen and just large enough to sleep herself and her son). If she was not so lucky, then under the stairs, or on the kitchen floor, her belongings stored in some unused cupboard.

But things changed as her son grew older. He was in every way a beautifully blossoming little boy: noisy, curious, and his feet began to wander. He was still too young to understand that the large residence they lived in was not their home; he was not free to run about at will, touching the things that caught his fancy, reaching his hand up for the fruit that gleamed on the table; it was not there for him. And though Kamala furiously, desperately corrected and hushed him, it was not long before she was being gently asked whether she could not make some other arrangement for her son. Could he not stay with grandparents in the village? Her employers were not bad people; Kamala realized that she would face the same questions wherever she worked.

It was time then to get a home of her own. But perhaps she was a very demanding type of person, for no matter how many places she saw, she could not be satisfied: a succession of single rooms, tiny and dingy from misuse—none of which she minded, for it was no more than she expected—but, all of them carrying with them the stench of other discomforts: potential landlords who inspected her body with disrespectful eyes; rooms that opened onto crowded, busy streets with doors that were lightweight and insecure, the surroundings so noisy that a voice raised in alarm would be swallowed up by the sounds of the street; or rooms that were so far removed from humanity that she could shout for help and go unheard. And so, like a nesting doe, Kamala had kept searching restlessly.

She had known instantly that this room was made for her. She could see her future in it: the gate at the entrance to the courtyard would keep her doubly secure; the families who lived in the dwellings within would provide her with community and security; the landlord seemed like a respectable man, and he and his family would doubtless be there for advice and assistance should she ever choose to seek it. Quickly, before the landlord could change his mind or before someone else could leap in and grab the room, she paid the advance requested (not too high, because of the unseemly location so far from the city) and arranged to move in the very next day.

If Kamala had had one wish, in those early years, it was for a shorter commute to her work, which still took her an hour and a half each day. But, perhaps because she accepted the routine without complaint, the gods took pity upon her and, with their palms raised in benediction and gentle smiles upon their faces, they addressed themselves to the blisters on her feet and moved the city closer.

She had lived here for eight years.

He would come, her brother, and he would not see the nest that had kept her safe and cherished all these years; he would notice the peeling paint on the walls and the small size of the room and disparage her and all that she held dear, for that was what he had always done—and why should the intervening years have changed his character?

He was to attend the wedding of his wife’s connection, a cousin; Kamala wished that it was his wife attending instead of him. They, at least, had maintained a steady, affectionate communication over the years, with brief phone calls, first made from the STD phone booth at the corner and, later, from her newly acquired cellphone, which was cheaper.

She wondered, all of a fidget, whether she should buy a can of paint and put Narayan to work. Should she buy new clothes for both of them? The relentless profusion of such thoughts eventually annoyed her. What nonsense, she thought. Why should she do any of these things? Let him come. Let him say what he will. Let him poke his nose in the air and click his tongue and shake his head and make his hurtful comments. Let him.

Nevertheless, she found herself approaching the visit with an air of going into battle. Her brother would actually be spending less than a day with her: he would arrive on the night bus and proceed directly to the wedding location, finding his way to Kamala’s house only after the morning’s festivities and lunch were completed. He would eat his evening meal with them, spend the night, and be off the following morning on the seven-hour bus ride back home to the village.

On the day of the visit, Narayan, noting the militant air with which she cooked the evening meal, opened his mouth and wisely shut it without comment, washing dishes and meekly changing into the shirt his mother gave him (his second best) and not arguing when she told him not to wander off with his friends but to stay put in the courtyard until his uncle should arrive.

Her brother arrived in the early hours of Sunday afternoon in the smart polyester shirt and pants he had donned for the wedding, a slight smattering of gray in his hair the only visible marker of the years that had passed since their last meeting. His first comment was positive: he exclaimed over how tall Narayan had become: “Taller than me soon, I think.” He then looked Kamala up and down. “You look well,” he pronounced, as though making an important diagnosis. Kamala felt herself relax slightly. She showed him about her room and the courtyard; he made no comment.

Her years in Bangalore had immeasurably changed her view of her brother; he was no longer the vicious, terrorizing force of her girlhood. He looked tired and uncertain, removed from the comfort of his village and quietened by the overwhelming rhythm and thrum of the big city. She set aside her fears of battle and engaged instead to look after her guest. He changed into a cotton shirt and lungi folded to his knees and accepted her offer of coffee.

He had placed his formal wear in a large jute bag; from this he pulled out gifts from his wife: a blouse piece for Kamala and a plastic comb for Narayan. Kamala received the gifts with pleasure and felt relaxed enough to make a joke: “Perhaps now,” she said, “Narayan will actually comb his hair,” and was gratified to see her brother and son laugh along. She too had a gift to give: a box of North Indian–style sweets for him to take home; his wife would find them novel and enjoy sharing them with her children and neighbors.

The evening passed swiftly enough on wheels of punctilious civility. Narayan, thankfully, talked sensibly with his uncle, recounting none of his wilder stories. Her brother spoke briefly of his wife’s uncertain health and of their three children; he told Kamala little pieces of village gossip; he praised the food she had cooked. She in turn felt a degree of charity toward him that she had little expected. Who knew her brother could be so harmless? If this was the character-altering game the gods were playing, then—who knew?—perhaps tomorrow she would go to work and find Shanta flinging her arms about her with a smile and Thangam beavering away and Vidya-ma dispensing loans cheerfully.

Her brother seemed to be doing well; he talked about having purchased a share in a new village shop. “Soon, Sister,” he said, “I will bring my wife and children to visit you.”

Kamala nodded, her words preempted by Narayan’s excited “I can show them around! Everything!”

Despite the cordiality of their conversation, Kamala did not let her guard down. She told him briefly about her job, ready to deflect any question about her salary—but none came. Instead, her brother reserved his quizzing for Narayan. Here too Kamala refused to show weakness: Narayan, she told him, was doing well in school—and gods willing, would soon be shifting to a paid school with a fine future ahead of him.

“These are good prospects. Work hard,” her brother said, nodding and addressing his nephew, “and do well.”

The conversation slipped safely back to village news.


THE LANDLORD’S MOTHER JOINED them as soon as their evening meal was done; Kamala was wryly surprised at how long the old lady had waited, exercising, no doubt, the utmost tact and patience. She, like the others who lived in the courtyard, was brimming with curiosity at this unprecedented visitor from Kamala’s family—hitherto missing in action. For Kamala, so free with news of her present, tended to be frugal when discussing her past.

Kamala went to wash their dinner plates and throw away the little food that remained, for it would spoil overnight. She had overestimated the quantities they would eat, or, to be precise, she had not wanted to appear parsimonious. Squatting at the tap, she could hear the old lady questioning her brother like an unsparing schoolteacher.

Kamala’s landlord was a simple man, fundamentally unsuited to the business of landlording, treating his tenants with a courtesy usually reserved for guests. He was unable to deny any request made to him, especially if it was phrased in polite terms and after due inquiries about his health and the well-being of his family. Since his wife suffered, like him, from an excess of sensibility, any difficult decision that needed to be conveyed to his tenants was delivered by his mother, who did not.

The landlord’s mother was always ready to concede her son’s superior knowledge of the ways of the world and, certainly, his right to manage his own affairs. If she voiced her opinion in his hearing, it was only to provide him with an alternate point of view (humble and fault-ridden though it may be). And if by the magic of osmosis, her opinions somehow managed to become his, that was the will of the gods. It was a process she handled deftly, bringing to it an expertise garnered through years of managing the landlord’s late father; in short, the old lady was the unofficial regent of the courtyard.

Please, she prayed, she is very important to me. Please let my brother not be provoked into being rude to her. I could not bear the shame. I could not repair the damage.

Kamala had misplaced her worry.

Her brother appeared keen to make a good impression. She returned with plates clean and dripping wet to hear him holding forth to an interested audience. The landlord’s mother had been joined within minutes by her daughter-in-law and by the young bride. “… many guntas of land,” he was saying. “Yes, we are lucky to be living so comfortably …

“And yes, the shop is also doing well. The second one also.”

In a frozen, startled silence, Kamala listened to descriptions of the acres of land her brother owned, his thriving shops. And then, not content with talking so freely about himself, he proceeded determinedly to establish the worth of Kamala’s late husband’s family as well: “… even more land,” he said. “Cows producing the finest milk. Very nice house.”

Kamala saw the open mouths, the heated rise in speculation; even Narayan listening to this in astonishment. She had no idea how to stem the flow of her brother’s sudden loquacity. She could feel eyes sliding speculatively from him to her and back again. It was the bride, naturally presumptuous, who chose to ask the big unanswered question:

“Aiyo, uncle,” she said, “if Kamala-aunty can stay like such a queen at home, why is she living and working like this?”

“Hush, child,” said the landlord’s mother. “What a question to ask.”

Her brother did not seem offended by the bride’s impertinence. “It is a good question,” he said, with a kindly solicitude that made Kamala want to bang her wet plates on his head, “but you good ladies know Kamala … she can be very obstinate. How many times we have all told her to come and live with us—but she will not listen.”

“Yes, Kamala-aunty can be quite obstinate,” agreed the bride, with an unbecoming haste.

“Amma”—her brother addressed the landlord’s mother—“it is good that you have looked after her so well; she is very lucky. But why should she clean houses here when she can live in comfort at home? Her husband’s family too would welcome her—our family is held in such respect in the village.”

“We are happy to have her with us,” said the old lady, “and I thank you for your words. We have cherished her like a daughter. But she is luckier still to have a brother like you, of strong character and so caring. Lucky for her and so good for Narayan—he needs a man’s hand to control his mischief.”

Narayan’s protest was quelled by his mother’s stern glare; she herself said nothing.

Her brother, encouraged by the old lady’s words, caught Narayan by the ear and twisted it until the boy winced. “Mischief, is it?” he said, genially. “I see that next time, I shall have to bring my cane with me.”


WHEN ALL WAS QUIET and everyone asleep, Kamala lay awake, irritated and baffled by her brother’s conduct, the careless stories that she could not, in good grace, contradict. In the space of half a day, he had spoiled her hard-won reputation of eight years. She could see it in the landlord’s mother’s eyes: from being regarded as a hardworking woman worthy of support and pity to being seen as a willful, obstinate fool.

The landlord’s mother had been present when Kamala first met the landlord, and if Kamala had not realized, then, the significance of the little gray-haired woman in the corner with a grandchild on her lap, she soon did and never failed to pay her respects. Perhaps it was this, or perhaps the old woman just liked Kamala’s company, for though Kamala led a morally impeccable life (apart from an occasional loss of temper), she was not too proud to sit in the moonlight of an evening and engage in a gentle gossip about others, listening with pleasure and interested commentary. Whatever the reason, for a long time now, Kamala had been shielded from the old lady’s business instincts and from the knocks on doors, every now and then, around the courtyard, with requests for increased rent.

But now, thanks to her brother, Kamala worried that her status as the old lady’s pet tenant might soon cease. The bride’s words of the previous week rang louder in the night. If the rent increased—biting into a larger chunk of her monthly income—how would she be able to save for Narayan’s schooling?