The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,43
going to make that visit,” she said, answering the question on his face with a rising exasperation. “Who do you suppose! How many people do you know who have won scholarships and work in Pune in fancy offices?”
THE APPLES, FOUR OF THEM in a thin plastic bag, looked disappointing, yellow-streaked, red-spotted, and not, in balance, worthy of the money that had been spent on them. Kamala had hesitated a long while at the fruit store—for this purchase, she had avoided the cheaper fruit carts—eyes flitting between the boxes in the front, their pink paper covers peeled back to reveal the jeweled treasures within. These were the most expensive, many from foreign lands, the apples, in particular, of a matched glowing hue like manufactured plastic balls, reds, yellows, greens, extravagantly priced, a mere kilo of fruit costing an entire week’s worth of vegetables.
Kamala had examined them with her eyes but made her final selection from the cheaper-but-still-expensive North Indian apples piled to one side in little pyramids, and now, back home, she inspected them dubiously.
“Supposing he does not like apples?” asked Narayan. Dodging his mother’s reflexive smack, he repeated: “Supposing? Supposing he hates apples?”
“He will not hate them,” said Kamala. They were simply too expensive for anyone to dislike. “Now, get ready.”
“Mother. I am ready,” Narayan said but with a certain futility. His mother grabbed him by the shoulder and proceeded to inspect him as she had not in years, sniffing at his breath, looking at his teeth, which, like hers, were strong and white and straight. She moistened her thumbs in her mouth and ran them quickly over his eyebrows before combing his hair herself, slicing a side part with military precision and slicking the oiled hair down on either side of it until it gleamed with a solid, metallic sheen, daring him with her stern gaze to touch it, even if his scalp itched.
She inspected him again when she was done and felt pleased. Unlike the apples, he made a very good impression. The dark blue polyester pants (slightly loose at the waist, true) and the full-sleeved, light blue cotton shirt with red patchwork looked very smart. She was glad that she had overridden Narayan’s foolish desire to wear a T-shirt. “I’ve seen Vyasa wear them, even Anand-saar,” he’d argued, appealing to his mother’s weakness. But she had been firm. “When you are as rich as them, then you can also afford to be negligent in your dress.” Which her employers were, indisputably: she was continually amazed by the careless dress of those children, wearing their favorite T-shirts until they developed holes and, last week, Valmika leaving the house in jeans ripped and torn through, fit for dustcloths and not the movie she was headed to.
Kamala glanced quickly at her own image in the mirror: she was dressed with neatness and propriety. She was going to ask for help, it was true, but did not at all wish to appear needy.
As they neared the bright pink building, its windows and sloping concrete roof highlighted in red trim, Kamala felt her breath catch. The shiny car was still parked outside, but there were ominous signs that it was being prepared for imminent departure: a suitcase, tied tight with tape, had been placed in the backseat. Kamala debated within herself and then decided that it was all right; if he was indeed on the verge of leaving, then she could claim that they had come to say goodbye, to wish him well on his long journey to distant Pune.
“Come, come, don’t delay,” she said impatiently to Narayan as they climbed the stairs, even though he was following close behind. “Here, you hold the apples. No,” she said, “perhaps I had better carry them. Yes, that is better. Remember, be respectful now.”
The front entrance of the house had a string of gold foil swastikas interspersed with red om symbols strung over it, as if to say, yes, this is indeed a house blessed, a people blessed. The door swung open at her quiet knock, and Kamala was instantly comforted by her reception. She needn’t have been so worried, so shy; she could have made this visit a long time ago.
“Kamala-akka! Come in, come in, sister,” said the engineer’s mother.
The engineer’s father said: “You have brought your son; how big he has grown.”
They received the apples with a gratifying pleasure, and Kamala soon found herself seated, with a glass tumbler full of Coca-Cola in her hand, Narayan unusually quiet by her side, sipping