The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,52

seemed entirely absorbed with that idiot Kabir.

Now, in the safe embrace of his study, the music lifted his mind from that bar to the sunlight of his garden and to the entirely different creature who had discussed politics with him on the lawn; that arching connection between them, one that surely didn’t exist in his imagination alone?

His mind moved fleetingly to Amir’s political meeting. He entered a note on his iPhone calendar, making sure nothing else conflicted with that time.

twelve

A LETTER WAS SUCH AN INFREQUENT occurrence in her life that Kamala did not at first recognize that the pale blue inland cover was meant for her. She squinted at it, until her neighbor’s voice demanded: “Well, are you going to take it or not?” Kamala received it gingerly from the young bride. “The old lady got it with the other mail and asked me to give it to you.”

“Thank you,” said Kamala, but she found the bride squatting down and, for a moment, leaving off her usual insolent manner. “Akka,” she whispered, “she is raising our rent again. So quickly! Is she asking more from you as well?”

Kamala was startled but did not show it. “Not yet,” she said.

“If she does, will you pay?” asked the bride.

Kamala was troubled by the young bride’s words but had no desire to discuss the matter with her, so she took refuge in rudeness. “What business is it of yours?” she said and was gratified to see the girl sniff and bang her way into her own room.

The thin, pale blue-green paper, written upon and folded possessively three times over its mysterious contents, was decorated on top with what Kamala knew to be her name and address and the sender’s identity. She studied the fat, curved squiggles marching across the paper like looped jelebis and tried to decipher their meaning like an astrologer attempting to predict the future course of life from the stars. From her sister-in-law perhaps? Possibly. But her sister-in-law was as illiterate as she was and usually preferred to communicate her news over the telephone.

She could, if she wished, knock on the young bride’s door or cross the courtyard to where the landlord’s mother lived and ask either of them to decipher the squiggles; both of them had that literary capability, but that would make them instantly privy to the contents of the letter. Instead, after studying it for a few minutes more, Kamala placed it away on a shelf and started her cooking preparations, fretting at the slow passage of time.

“There you are,” she said impatiently when she heard his footsteps. “I have been waiting.”

“Why?” Narayan asked and then, as she thrust the blue cover at him, “For us? Who is it from?”

“We will know all these things,” said his mother severely, “if you would but hurry.”

He slit the edge of the folded letter and spread it open. Its contents covered only two of the three sides; the sender did not seem compelled to get their money’s worth from the two-rupee cost of the inland letter.

“It is from Maama,” he said. “He is coming for a visit.”

“What?” she said. “My brother? Here? You lie! Now, Narayan, don’t play the fool or I will beat you. I really will. With that broom, I will beat you.”

“I’m not playing the fool,” he said. “Mother. What a thing to say. He is coming here…. For somebody’s wedding … Listen! I will read it to you…. ‘Dear little sister,’ ” he read, “ ‘My prayers that this letter finds you in good health. You will be pleased to hear that …’ ”

Kamala made him read it through twice. The formal written tone could not disguise the reality: for the first time in all these years, her brother would be visiting her in Bangalore. She sat still, processing this unprecedented event, until she heard Narayan ask her: “Amma? Are you not happy? This bothers you?”

“I am happy,” she said. “It is a good thing he is coming. Does he say when?”

“Next week. I told you. For one night.”

She nodded and, with effort, turned the conversation to other channels, distracting Narayan with some gossip about Shanta’s latest crosspatchery.

Later, when he had abandoned his evening studies to play cricket in the gully, she looked around her house with something akin to panic. In an instant, that letter had snatched away her sense of peace, her casual pride, her deep comfort in her home.

When Kamala had first started work as a domestic servant, she had lived with her