The Hope Factory A Novel

twenty-eight





KAMALA PLACED BREAKFAST BEFORE HER SON, her mind full of a strong determination: today, for Narayan’s sake, she would set aside her pride further.

She would speak to Anand-saar; she would ask him for money. She would throw herself at his feet; she would do as she had seen others do before her and as she had never done in her life: plead, cry, hug his ankles, pledge her labor for all eternity if necessary. She would hand over her entire salary to him to repay her loan. And—in order that they might eat—she would take an additional job. The canteen up the road might hire her in the early mornings to cook and clean—they were always busy. She could work an early morning shift there before reporting to Vidya-ma’s. She would seek an additional, third, late-night job somewhere else, cooking or minding a baby. Somehow she would save her son’s future, and shield him from the likes of Raghavan.

Before leaving for work, she whispered her plans to Narayan: “I am going to speak to Anand-saar. I may be home a little late.”

“I might come there in the evening,” said Narayan. “Pingu wanted me to play with that train set.”

Kamala hesitated, remembering Vidya-ma’s expression from the last time. She did not want anything to jeopardize her loan. “Better not today,” she said. “Wait for me here.”

To ensure her success, to give her voice strength and eloquence, Kamala stopped a moment to pray at the corner Hanuman temple: as Hanuman had transported mountains across the oceans, as he ferried the life-giving sanjeevini herb to Lakshmana, so too may he guide her steps, to move mountains, to find fresh life, to protect her son, whom she surely loved and cherished and served no less than did Hanuman, Lakshmana.


SHE HURRIED TO WORK. She would be nice and early, a necessary atonement for the previous day’s unauthorized absence. She would first apologize for her absence to Vidya-ma, meekly accepting whatever scoldings her mistress saw fit to throw at her. Then she would look after the grandfather and do all her chores to the best of her capability. And then, in the evening, no matter what, she would corner Anand-saar and launch into her petition.

Oh, Narayan. Oh, Narayan. In her mind, the sky grew dark, and once again, a cigarette butt went flying through the air, launched by a disreputable, corrupt hand that waited to clutch at her son.

When she reached the house, her unusually serious demeanor kept even the watchman from the casual remarks he was wont to make as he unlocked the gate for her. The kitchen was preternaturally quiet. Both Thangam and Shanta reacted differently to her arrival. Thangam, folding clothes, glanced at her and looked quickly away; Shanta narrowed her eyes. “You have come back.”

“I told you,” said Kamala shortly. “I was not feeling well.”

“I think everybody”—Shanta spoke with a curious triumphant aggression that Kamala couldn’t comprehend—“knows that is not true.”

“I do not lie, sister. Where is Vidya-ma?”

“She was asking after you,” said Shanta. “Perhaps you should go and see her.” As Kamala left the room, she heard the cook say: “After this, just let her try and act big with me in my own kitchen! Just let her try!”


VIDYA-MA WAS IN THE BEDROOM. Kamala paused at the door. Her mistress lay prostrate upon the unmade bed, her eyes reddened, the room darkened, as though she might be sick. She did not look happy to see Kamala.

Of all possible receptions, this was the worst, but Kamala launched quickly into her apology. “Vidya-ma, forgive me,” she said, “I was unwell. I am so sorry.”

Vidya-ma eyed her contemptuously. “Lies!” she said. “I sent the watchman to your house to check. You were not sick. You were not there!”

Kamala had planned to say that she had gone to see a doctor when the watchman visited, but instead, on the spur of the moment, she decided to tell Vidya-ma the truth. It might awaken her sympathy. “I’m so sorry, amma,” she said. “The truth is I had need of a large sum of money and went to the pawnbroker in Chickpet to sell some jewelry…. I need fifty thousand rupees, ma.”

The look of intense anger on Vidya-ma’s face shocked Kamala. It was more than anger, it was rage. She sat up and flung her tissue to the floor. “How dare you!” she said. “You speak of it so brazenly? Sell some jewelry—as though it were yours to sell!”

All Kamala could say in her bewilderment was: “Vidya-ma?”

“Do you think your need excuses what your son has done?” Vidya-ma’s voice began to escalate to a shout. “For him to steal? Could you not have asked me for the money? Would I not have given it to you? Am I not generous? Why should he steal? Oh, don’t look so innocent! Don’t think I do not know! Your son. I saw him come up the stairs that day. That very day that my necklace was lying on the table. Fool that I was! I assumed I could trust everyone in this house. But he was very clever. For a moment of carelessness, this is how I am repaid. Do you know how much that necklace is worth? Much, much more than fifty thousand rupees! Could you not have just asked me for that money?”

“Amma,” said Kamala, truly frightened. “Narayan has not taken any necklace. I went to sell my own jewelry. I promise you. He is a good boy. Amma, everyone knows that!”

“Good? Rubbish! He might be able to fool Anand-sir, but I have been told about his character! He may look innocent, but he hangs about with all manner of ruffians. I was told this!

“No, do not tell me you know nothing of this. How dare you! After all my care and concern. Do not tell me this!

“Shanta tells me you often lie.

“Now, you go and you bring that necklace back to me. Get it back from the pawnbroker! And if you don’t, I will tell the police and they will put your son straight in jail. Oh, god, that little thief. How freely I have allowed him in this house!

“Oh, god.” Vidya-ma began to weep again. “Who knows what else he is planning to steal? Awful, wicked boy.”

Kamala stared at the sobbing, raving woman, and an old hidden anger emerged, like a serpent, coiled, taut, ready to attack.

Stop it! she shouted, the volume of her voice easily competing with Vidya-ma’s.

Stop it. My son is not a thief and he never will be. Do you hear me?

She could hear the thudding of feet, the hasty collection of an astonished audience: Valmika, Thangam, Shanta.

Kamala, awash with a glittering, righteous anger, did not care.