The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,117

could see his daughter and mother-in-law at the door. He asked Valmika, softly, “Where is Pingu?”

“School,” his daughter whispered. “I thought he should go.”

“Good girl,” he said. “Kutty, why don’t you take Avva downstairs and ask Shanta to make a cup of tea for her before she goes home. Ask Thangam to bring one for Mama as well. Also, ask her to bring a broom and sweep up this mess.”

Anand turned to Vidya. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t know what to say. His insides felt like rough gravel after the events of the previous day; he wished he could turn and walk out.

“The necklace went missing?” An obvious question, tentatively uttered, in lieu of all the other unresolved quarrels that lay between them.

“Fuck the necklace,” she said. Flat-voiced. “If she took it, let her keep it. Who gives a shit?”

He had spoken the truth two nights previously—and part of him still exulted, whooping rebelliously, in the freedom. Another part, which had supported this relationship for fifteen years, knew the hurt his words had inflicted.

“Ey,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you. I’m sorry.”

She met his eyes finally. “I’ve done my best by you, Anand.” But the sharp doubt was in her, he could see that, razor-edged, slicing through her self-respect, the rationale for her entire adult life.

“I know. I know…. We’ve built some good things together…. And you’re a good mother. Ey, don’t cry.” His inarticulate words tugged the tears out of her; she cried like a woman abandoned. He placed a hand on her back and rubbed gently, an old, comforting gesture he had not used in a long while.

HIS CHILDREN. HIS DAUGHTER, so caring, so worried, and his son, a laughing ball of trust. To regret his marriage was to regret his children, and he could not do that.

Anand had never thought of his emotional needs when he was younger; now, years too late, he was seeing the gaps in his existence, but it was knowledge he could not act upon. To walk away, to reach for his own personal happiness would be at the expense of theirs. His children. His silly mother-in-law. His father, resting downstairs.

That decision descended heavily upon him; he felt the squeezing pain of it and an instant corresponding doubt—would he be strong enough to shoulder it for the rest of his life?

“Don’t worry,” he said to Vidya. “Everything will be okay. And we will find that necklace. Don’t worry.”

Her sobs slowly settled into hiccups. Valmika brought a cup of tea and helped Thangam sweep up the pieces of the broken glass. Vidya drank her tea, Anand sitting on the bed next to her. After a while, she slept.

Anand joined his daughter for breakfast.

“Let Mama sleep for a while,” he said. “She’ll feel better.” He saw his daughter’s relieved acceptance of his words, her attention turning hungrily to the food on the table. He watched her eat. A bite of toast. Forkfuls of scrambled egg. “Oh, and, Appa,” she said, when she was done. “I helped Thatha organize stuff for his pooja.”

“Oh, great, kutty,” he said. “That’s a big help…. Now, shall I drop you to school?”

“No, I hate going late,” she said, heading up to the stairs. “And I won’t miss much; we’re spending most of our days rehearsing for the school play. I’ll stay here and do some maths revision for my test tomorrow.”

The day’s newspaper lay folded on the dining table.

EARLY THIS MORNING, HE had called Harry Chinappa from the factory.

Harry Chinappa had ignored the first phone call, made to his cellphone. Anand, full of a steady purpose, had dialed again. His house this time.

Ruby Chinappa had picked up the phone. “Anand!” she said, her voice full of false cheer. “I was just saying that we have not seen you in some time….”

“Is he there?” he asked. “Can I speak to him?”

He could hear the loud whispering in the background, Ruby Chinappa saying: “… you must talk to him! You cannot ignore him forever … so awkward…. No, I don’t think it is something to do with Vidya, he would have told me.” When she came back to the phone, her voice wobbled with effort: “Anand,” she said, “he is in the bathroom, can’t speak now…. Yes, of course, call back….”

Anand waited fifteen minutes, working on his resolution.

When he called for the third time, Harry Chinappa came on the line. Anand had vaguely rehearsed a speech in his mind, calm and