The Hope Factory A Novel

thirty





“AMMA!” SAID NARAYAN, WHEN he saw his mother step into the courtyard. “Back so quickly! She has given it to you, then?”

Her demeanor alone should have told him it was not the case. Still in a towering rage, she could barely recount what had happened. “There is a necklace missing,” she said. “They thought …” she faltered; the branding shame of it. “Vidya-ma thought I was absent because I was disposing of it.”

Her anger was instantly reflected in him. “What! How can they! How can they think that about you, Amma!” He stood up, shaking. “I hate her! That Vidya-ma. How could she say such a thing! It is just as Raghavan says. Those people! I hate them all. Just see what I will do to them. Raghavan says—” And he stopped, for his mother slapped him hard across the face.

“Raghavan!” She slapped him again. “You stupid boy. I was not accused. You were. And do you know why? It is because of your stupid friendship with that evil fellow. Because of that, they think you are also a rogue!”

He was shocked into silence.

“I had to stand there and defend you. I told them you would never steal. I told Vidya-ma so. I shouted. They would not believe me. And now,” she said, “I have no job. You have no school. She will send the police after us. We have lost everything.”

And Kamala, who never cried, sat down and wailed as though all was dead.

Her anger was at all things: at Vidya-ma, for her careless, life-destroying assumptions; at the thief who had created this mess; at herself, for losing her temper and her job in a quick, thunderous flash; and, finally, at her son, for his bad judgment in friendships.

In the corner, collapsed, Narayan sat silent.

Tears drying on his burning cheeks, his eyes flickering for a brief instant up to his mother’s and instantly reverting to the ground.


THE COLD DESCENDED UPON them that evening. Suddenly, as was its wont at this time of year. A warm morning, a brief afternoon cloudburst, and in its wake, the arrival of winter.

In a dark corner of her little house where the shadows gathered, there was a bag that held a dusty roll of clothes: a few stored, a few outgrown and destined for the old-rags man, and a few, Kamala was ashamed to admit, so full of memories that she could never bring herself to get rid of them. She dug through this bag and pulled out two sweaters. She put Narayan’s sweater to one side, worrying, as a mother will, about the chill winds that must be surrounding him even as they embraced the city; knowing, as a mother should, that even if he was feeling cold there was little she could do about it until he returned home. He had left the courtyard in the middle of the morning and she had not seen him since.

With the donning of her own cardigan, her mind seemed to absorb a measure of calm. She closed her eyes in prayer, but the futility of her morning’s worship at the Hanuman temple remained with her. She searched her mind for other gods; they seemed elusive, slipping away, hiding behind the branches of distant trees.

She busied herself with preparing a small meal for Narayan; there was a measure of comfort at the thought of feeding him. The anger she had seen in his eyes worried her. He was at that age when he was prey to adult emotions without the corresponding wisdom that led to their resolution. Where was he? Where could he have gone for all this time? His new school bag lay in a corner; he had not gone to school. She thought of Raghavan; her heart clenched.

It was well past dinnertime when he appeared, stepping through the shadows of the courtyard, a shape, a shadow, scarcely more defined than the shadows around him. Where have you been? she wanted to ask, but when he stepped into the circle of her Petromax lamp, she saw that the darkness still remained on his face. She silently placed his food on a plate; equally silently, he ate.

He rolled himself into a sheet and fell asleep, her son, turning as elusive as the gods hiding behind the leaves of the trees. Restless herself, Kamala could hear him shifting through the night. At one point, she thought she heard a stifled sob. Who knew what fears chased themselves through the dreams in his mind? Once, she put out her hand, placing it on his shoulder—and felt an instant easing of tension within him. She longed to be able to enclose him in her arms and soothe away his fears easily and naturally, as she could when he was younger.

Both of them were quiet the following morning, Kamala rising first and preparing rotis for breakfast; Narayan visiting the bathroom before wrapping some sugar in a roti and stuffing it quickly into his mouth. He dusted his hands and came over to her, wrapping his arms around her fiercely in a hug that almost extinguished the breath from her, a hug so stern, so full of purpose, so full of love.

He slipped out of the courtyard without saying anything.

“He is a good boy,” said the landlord’s mother, materializing at the door. “Yesterday. Did you see what he did yesterday?” Apparently, Narayan had spent the entire day outselling every other man and boy at the street corner, working at such a furious pace, even the policeman said he had seen nothing like it. “Surely he must have handed the money to you,” the old woman said.

“No,” said Kamala, listening with a fierce, tender pride, “not yet,” understanding all at once his seriousness of purpose, that adult intent to do what he could to help. Such a boy he was.


THE COURTYARD GATE CREAKED OPEN. There was no mistaking who stood there; that precise arrangement of bells and tinkles, of bangles and anklets had accompanied her work for over a year.

“Thangam,” she said. “Come in, my little sister. Come. What is it?”

Thangam sat down hesitantly on the stoop, her expression a mixture of sorrow, coyness, nervousness, and numerous other things, like a hungry peddler of dubious wares. She whispered, not to Kamala but to the ground in front of her: “The necklace has been found.”

The news imprisoned Kamala; she could not move.

“The necklace was lying behind Vidya-ma’s dressing table.” Thangam’s words tumbled and spilled, urgently, full of a hidden pleading. “Everyone realizes that Narayan could not have done it, sister. Everyone! He is a good boy. And Anand-saar would like to see you…. I spoke to him about you myself, akka, and I asked him if I could run here and tell you the news, I know what it must mean to you, that is what I did, Kamala-sister.” And so saying, Thangam bent her head in abasement.

“Who found it?” Whoever had “found” the necklace was most likely the thief who had abstracted it in the first place. And who else could it be but Shanta? Who else would allow Kamala to suffer as she had done? Who else would rejoice to see her lose her job?

“I did,” said Thangam and burst into tears.

A great, sharp anger mingled with a vast, comforting relief. Kamala found it in herself to hug the girl close and pat her gently on the back until she got up to leave.

Alone, Kamala felt her fury rise once more, against foolish, greedy Thangam and Shanta the rutting bitch, who had not hid her savage enjoyment of Kamala’s plight. She knew, without having to ask, that her display of anger against Vidya-ma the previous day, however righteous, had surely cost her the job.

Anand-saar had told Thangam that he would see Kamala the following week. This would be to settle the salary she had due. She, in turn, could thank him then for supporting Narayan’s education for a few short weeks.

She thought of her old hopes and stopped herself. That was foolish. She had to look for another job. She had to find another home. She had to find some other method of educating Narayan. She sat silent upon her haunches, lacking the strength to move, utterly exhausted, drained of hope and will.