The Hope Factory A Novel

twenty-four





THE POSSIBILITY OF NARAYAN BEING influenced by Raghavan so troubled Kamala, it pushed her into making a plan. She would speak to Vidya-ma as soon as she could. No, not for money, for that was futile. Instead, she would ask for leave. For a day or two. That should be sufficient. Since she had not taken even a half day’s leave so far, not for sickness or festival, hopefully Vidya-ma would not think badly of the request.

Her sister-in-law’s letter went through her mind. It was cheerful; scribed by her sister-in-law’s neighbor and read aloud by Narayan, but the important part had stayed clear in Kamala’s memory: that the small store in which her brother had acquired a share seemed to be prospering.

Over the years, she had received numerous offers of help from her sister-in-law, and had been steadfast in refusing it all. Now was the time to relax her pride on this. Narayan, in a smart pant and shirt uniform, a bag of books hoisted like a proud banner upon his shoulder, was enjoying school for the first time.

After all, what had she asked of her brother since she had left his house twelve years ago? Nothing. And he had repaid that favor with his foolish, proud words to the landlord’s mother. Perhaps he did indeed, after all these years, feel a brother’s duty to her. She would ask him for help.


THAT THIS WAS NOT a fortuitous day for requests was evident the minute she entered the kitchen; Vidya-ma was in full spate, not discouraged by Thangam’s sulky silence or Shanta’s grimness. “You do nothing but ask me for things! And in return you are so careless with your work! It’s ridiculous! I ask for a cup of tea, it comes cold. My clothes are not ironed. And when they are, they are burned!” She brandished Anand-saar’s shirt in one hand. “Who did this! Tell me that! No, utter silence from you lot. And then, on top of that, you come running to me for loans. No, no more! I will not give another loan to anyone. You seem to think … Kamala, you are late!” Kamala glanced at the clock; she had stopped to buy the grandfather’s pooja flowers, but the sight of them in her hand seemed to aggravate Vidya-ma all the more. “You’re wasting your time on all kinds of useless jobs, and when I need you, you are not available!” She marched out of the kitchen; they heard the front door slam.

They were working these days in a house strangely divided: the grandfather stayed downstairs on the drawing room verandah in the day hours, returning to his bedroom in the late evening, his retreat almost acting as a signal for Vidya-ma’s own descent for her dinner. Otherwise, when she was home, she stayed upstairs, watching television or on the computer.

Vidya-ma had lost her happiness.

Thangam was unsympathetic when Kamala tried discussing this with her. “Aiyo, who has time to worry about her. She is constantly crying over problems that do not exist.”

When the doorbell rang hours later, Kamala ran to open the door; she still had her request to make and hoped to catch Vidya-ma in a better temper. Kamala collected the various shopping bags from the car and followed her mistress to the bedroom.

“I know,” Vidya-ma said into the phone, “I swear I wake up exhausted. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve tried talking to him, but seriously, it’s just not worth the f*cking effort.” She dropped the shopping bags carelessly on the bed, the contents sliding out. Blouses, pants, a handbag whose price tag rippled seductively over the bedspread: Rs 10,000/—“Kamala, a glass of water please,” she said, and by the time Kamala returned, her conversation had shifted. “… I was thinking of wearing an embroidered chiffon saree, but I’m planning a traditional maanga necklace with it.” She pulled a jewelry case out of her handbag and removed a necklace from it, her fingers playing over the ripe gold and pomegranate beauty of the ruby paisley pendants strung along its roped length. “It’s my mother’s. Belonged to my great-grandmother, actually. A gift from the Mysore maharaja.”


ALL DAY LONG, KAMALA waited to ask for permission—and by late afternoon, she knew she would not get it. Vidya-ma remained closeted in her room. Having made up her mind to ask her brother for help, Kamala wanted to do it before her resolve faltered. She would have to absent herself without leave and claim that she had been sick, meekly swallowing the scolding that would follow.

In preparation, she said to the other servants while they were seated at lunch, “Oh, I am not feeling very well.”

No one seemed particularly inclined to comment or sympathize. Thangam was brooding, and Shanta just stared at her sharply.

“My head,” said Kamala, “it hurts. My legs also.”

That she was not very successful at dissimulation was clear; Shanta snorted and said, “You look well enough.”

Kamala’s temper unfortunately chose this moment to flare. “Are you saying that I lie?”

“I’m saying,” said Shanta, with an annoying acuity, “that you are pretending to be sick just to take some leave.”

“Have I ever done that?” said Kamala, outraged by the accusation (which her past behavior had certainly not merited) and by the truth of it in the present instance.

“How am I to know what you have done or not done? Why should I care about such a topic? Of what slightest interest is it to me?”

“Oh, for the sake of the gods!” said Thangam, entering the fray. “Is it not possible to eat a meal here in silence and peace? And, if I were you,” she told Kamala, “I would worry less about my health and more about my son’s companions.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kamala.

“I saw him yesterday. Hanging around with that lout Raghavan and his friends. I went to collect a payment, and he was loitering with them. I am surprised to see him in such company. They are not good men, Kamala,” said Thangam. “You should tell him that. I am surprised you have not already done so. You take such pride in him.”

Kamala put away her plate in silence, upset to hear her own thoughts echoed by Thangam. Was this what everyone thought? That because Narayan hung about with Raghavan and his crowd, he was like them in character?

When her son arrived at the kitchen door that evening, Kamala was happy to see that Thangam’s attitude to him remained cordial. She welcomed him, and when Vyasa discovered him and wanted to take him upstairs to his bedroom to show him something, she was the first to encourage him.

“Let him go up,” she said, when Kamala hesitated. Narayan had never been allowed upstairs in the house. “Pingu cannot bring that huge train set down.”

Kamala followed her son and Pingu up the stairs with a pile of ironed clothes but could not help feeling uncomfortable at the expression in Vidya-ma’s eyes when they encountered Narayan on the landing. Her mistress did not look at all pleased at the intrusion.