The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,119
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.