The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,29
kebabs and North Indian–style curries rich with ground masalas and nut butters and cream—Kamala, seated luxuriantly right where she wanted to, speculated lazily on Shanta’s whereabouts. “So strange of her to vanish like this …”
“She must have gone to see that husband of hers,” said Thangam.
“I did not know she is married! She has never said …”
Shanta had never been forthcoming on any topic, right from the start. Quite the contrary. Witness her first and only statement when Kamala, on her first day of work, paused thankfully in her labors to accept a glass of hot tea and a slice of white bread in the kitchen. Thangam settled down on the floor, and Kamala went to join her—innocent, one might say, of any wrongdoing—only to be stopped by a brusque “Not there. Do not sit there. That is my place.”
Kamala was startled at such unceremonious ways but quick-tongued in her own defense. “Why?” she said to Shanta. “Does your noble father own this entire floor?”
Shanta ignored the provocative comment; Thangam pulled Kamala to another side of the floor to drink her tea and talk of other things, urging her, later, simply to ignore Shanta, adding: “That is her nature. She is like that with everybody.”
Kamala soon discovered this to be true; Shanta extended her incivility to the world with great impartiality. When Vidya-ma entered the kitchen to make a third alteration to the dinner menu, Shanta abruptly said, “No. I cannot do that.”
“Why not?” said Vidya-ma. “Why do you say that?”
“Where is the time to prepare akki-rotis,” said Shanta. She turned her back on her mistress and began to wash dishes in the sink, noisily banging steel plates against vessels.
Vidya-ma’s face flushed. “Of course there is time.”
“No,” said Shanta and increased her banging.
Judging by Vidya-ma’s expression, her next words, Kamala felt sure, would be “pack up your things and instantly go.” Instead, her new mistress just glared at Shanta and left the kitchen, leaving a trail of angry words in her wake. “… so unhelpful. Why I put up with it, I don’t know …”
Kamala didn’t either—and had to wait until lunchtime to have that question answered. For Shanta Ruthie Ebenezer’s qualities were an unfortunate stew: of a miserly temper, a sharp tongue, an unforgiving mind, a capacity for small meannesses—and an unfair, semidivine ability to cook like a dream. Her Sunday prayers at the Roman Catholic church did not serve to sweeten her soul; instead, the Goddess Mary gifted her with swiftness of hand, so she could slice her way through entire trays of vegetables, reducing them to shreds and slivers in minutes; strength of muscle, so her arms could tirelessly stir the gravies on the stove and grind the raw, soaked rice and lentils into smooth batters in the old stone grinder that was cemented into the floor; and a litany of incantations that converted the spices that lay in everyone’s kitchen into magical tools of alchemy. A simple chunk of gingerroot, in Shanta’s hands, tugged at the senses in ways that one could never imagine possible.
If she were in a good mood, the meal she laid before them was elaborate and generous, sometimes exceeding the food she served to the family at the dining table. This was rare. But even if her mood was so sour that she could not bring herself to feed the other servants with anything other than a large vat of rice and another of lightly spiced sambar, it was still sambar so flavorful that it gently teased the mouth before settling delightfully in the stomach.
One day, during that first week, there was a stack of parathas next to the rice. Kamala took two and stopped in amazement after the first bite. She had never eaten a paratha like this before, with magical layers of spice and flavor and tenderness that Shanta’s harsh qualities could not possibly have been capable of producing. Kamala ate a second piece—and immediately thought of her son. How he would enjoy this … She eyed the rotis on her plate. Perhaps she could take them home with her at the end of the day? What difference did it make if she ate them now or later?
She pushed them to one side of her plate, contenting herself with rice, waiting until everyone else had finished before rolling them up. She was about to stuff them into her bag when a firm hand gripped her wrist.
“Put that back. I am not cooking for every grubby street brat whose mother is