The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,44

from his own glass.

She stared about herself in wonder. In the course of her work she had been in homes far more lavish, but none that had affected her so personally—this home, with its mosaic floor and well-constructed aluminum windows with glass shutters and walls resplendent with paint and not whitewash. Furthermore, she was seated on an actual sofa, the back and sides protected by plastic lace antimacassars. There was a fat television on a stand against the wall. The windows, beautiful in themselves, with their glass and horizontal metal bars, were further dressed in curtains. There was a separate bedroom, the door to which was kept firmly closed. Through the kitchen door, she spied a fridge.

The engineers’ parents did not seem to mind her intent staring. Perhaps they were used to it from their curious, awestruck visitors. Perhaps they even liked it; after all, the joy of good fortune surely increases with the admiration of others.

“Would you like to see the bathroom?” the engineer’s mother said. “There is a geyser for hot water.” Kamala followed her and praised all she saw.

“Your good son,” she finally said, after she and Narayan had returned to the sofa and their Coca-Cola. “You must be very proud.”

The bedroom door opened and the engineer appeared, as though, like some eager-to-please, quick-gun-murugan of a deity, the very mention of his name was sufficient to produce a manifestation, though—if truth be told—he looked neither happy to see the visitors nor all that eager to please.

He was fresh from his bath, filling the air with the scent of hot soap and talcum powder and wearing, as Narayan was quick to note and lecture his mother on at length afterward, a T-shirt and jeans. He glanced at the visitors, glanced at his watch, and then glanced helplessly at his mother. “If I do not leave soon,” he said, “I will not even reach Mysore by nightfall.”

Next to her, Kamala felt Narayan stand up quickly and tug at her hand, treating this as a signal to leave immediately. Kamala too felt abashed at the engineer’s words but held her place. She had not wasted money on four expensive apples just to see their new hot-water geyser.

The engineer’s mother, prescient, and perhaps not immune to the maternal plea in Kamala’s heart, stepped in to save the day: “Yes, you must leave,” she said, “but at least please thank Kamala-ma for the apples she has so kindly brought to sustain you on the long drive.”

The engineer looked ashamed and sat down on the edge of the chair opposite.

“I once went to Mysore,” said the engineer’s father, agreeably. “By bus. It was a long time ago.”

“Yes, and last week, we went to Tirupathi,” said his wife. “To give thanks to Lord Venkateshwara.”

“We drove in the car,” said the engineer’s father. “After we came back, we went to the cinema to see that new multistarrer. It was very good,” he said. “Have you seen it?”

No, said Kamala.

Yes, said Narayan. Ignoring his mother’s sidelong, questioning glance and belated annoyed comprehension—that he had seen it on his own time with that rascal Raghavan—he continued: “It was very good.”

Kamala finished her cola to the last drop and decided to intervene. Such general talk about travels and cinema was no doubt important to fostering good relations, but she could see the engineer sipping his way impatiently through the tumbler of coffee his mother had placed in his hands. In a moment he would be done, and then he would be gone. She interrupted, cutting short the engineer’s father’s description, listened to raptly by Narayan, of the multiplex cinema hall they had seen the movie in, situated in one of those new, shiny shopping malls that Kamala had seen from the outside but had never entered.

“You have been very successful,” she said, directly to the engineer. “We have all been so proud of you…. I have been telling my son that he too must succeed as you have …” She glanced at Narayan and then at the engineer. “He is too shy to ask you, but I promised him I would do it…. What advice can you give for a young boy to become successful like you?” She skittered nervously to a halt, suddenly appalled at her own question. It was one thing to admire someone’s achievement, another to reach greedily for it, with an unseemly covetous desire to possess it for oneself.

But the engineer did not seem offended. He drank his coffee and said, “Aunty, I can