The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,20
happy with you, Son.” His answering smile eased the pain within her a little. “Keep at your work a few minutes more,” she said. “I must visit the bathroom.”
From the other end of the room, Thangam stared at them both suspiciously; it had not escaped her notice that Kamala’s pace of work had slowed considerably. Her frown deepened as Kamala left the room. “Come here, boy,” she called to Narayan. “Come and help here.”
Kamala visited the bathroom and then collapsed on the kitchen stoop that led to the small backyard. The ceaseless actions of the day had increased the flow of blood; she could feel it settling between her legs, the stickiness mingling with the sweat that ran in rivulets down her back and to the tops of her thighs. The pain in her groin had extended to her lower back, in a tight band that stretched across her tailbone, and the dullness of her soul now had an overlay of temper, an irritability so acute and so devoid of respite that even the bright blue afternoon sky made her cross.
Behind her, she could hear cooking vessels being banged about, the noise seeming to increase in volume. The sink was filled with dirty plates and dishes, and Shanta wandered between them and the pot of sambar simmering on the stove for the servants’ lunch.
“It’s nice to see,” Shanta addressed the kitchen stoop, “that some people have the time to relax.” Silence, then the slamming of a cupboard door, a rising catechism of complaint.
“I hope,” she said, “that the driver’s wife is proving herself useful upstairs?
“She must be very grateful to you,” she said, “for your suggestion, and the chance to polish brass with uplifted mortals like yourself, instead of assisting a simple soul like me.
“There is no need,” she said, “to suppose for one moment that I am not capable of attending to my duties in the kitchen. I have fed and cleaned after this family for so many years now, I can do all this and more, sister! All this and more! But then,” said Shanta, banging stainless-steel cooking vessels down, “hard work is something that only few of us understand! Not all of us feel free to put down our work and stretch our feet and relax while all others toil about us.”
Kamala felt her own blood heat, her temper begin to flash and sparkle. She did not look around. “You mind your own business, sister,” she said.
“If only I could!” said Shanta. “But it seems, even that is not allowed to me. I am forced to mind everyone else’s business as well. Vidya-ma seems to be in a very generous mood, in her desire to employ people and disburse rations to all and sundry. Is it my job, then, to press food into the mouths of all the young rabble of the neighboring slum? Am I to slave myself to the bones, till my very fingers collapse with arthritis, just to feed the son of every woman too lazy to prepare food for her own family?”
“Guard your mouth, sister!” said Kamala, her control snapping at this reference to her son. “You speak as though the weight of preparing the food for the entire party rests on your shoulders. But that is being done by others. You are here to feed us, who are working around the house till our very bones dissolve into puddles of fatigue. And if you choose not to, akka, I am very happy, I assure you, to let Vidya-ma know that on your behalf. Allow me to provide you with that small service. I am happy to oblige!”
Shanta did not reply. Kamala rested her head against the wall and wondered if a drink of hot water would help. Behind her the kitchen grew silent. The back courtyard too seemed wrapped in sympathetic quiet. It was usually a scene of constant noise and activity—clothes were washed and hung to dry, the door to the servants’ bathroom always opening and closing, the whole area moist and wet—but today, all the staff were busy inside, the square granite clothes-washing stone stood idle, the drying lines were light and free of their normal burden. The only noise the soft buzz of flies that hovered ceaselessly and excitedly over the large bin that held the kitchen garbage. Vidya-ma insisted that they keep the garbage bin well covered, but Shanta never really bothered.
The cramps struck again, and Kamala doubled over, resting her head on her knees.