The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,54

day with her: he would arrive on the night bus and proceed directly to the wedding location, finding his way to Kamala’s house only after the morning’s festivities and lunch were completed. He would eat his evening meal with them, spend the night, and be off the following morning on the seven-hour bus ride back home to the village.

On the day of the visit, Narayan, noting the militant air with which she cooked the evening meal, opened his mouth and wisely shut it without comment, washing dishes and meekly changing into the shirt his mother gave him (his second best) and not arguing when she told him not to wander off with his friends but to stay put in the courtyard until his uncle should arrive.

Her brother arrived in the early hours of Sunday afternoon in the smart polyester shirt and pants he had donned for the wedding, a slight smattering of gray in his hair the only visible marker of the years that had passed since their last meeting. His first comment was positive: he exclaimed over how tall Narayan had become: “Taller than me soon, I think.” He then looked Kamala up and down. “You look well,” he pronounced, as though making an important diagnosis. Kamala felt herself relax slightly. She showed him about her room and the courtyard; he made no comment.

Her years in Bangalore had immeasurably changed her view of her brother; he was no longer the vicious, terrorizing force of her girlhood. He looked tired and uncertain, removed from the comfort of his village and quietened by the overwhelming rhythm and thrum of the big city. She set aside her fears of battle and engaged instead to look after her guest. He changed into a cotton shirt and lungi folded to his knees and accepted her offer of coffee.

He had placed his formal wear in a large jute bag; from this he pulled out gifts from his wife: a blouse piece for Kamala and a plastic comb for Narayan. Kamala received the gifts with pleasure and felt relaxed enough to make a joke: “Perhaps now,” she said, “Narayan will actually comb his hair,” and was gratified to see her brother and son laugh along. She too had a gift to give: a box of North Indian–style sweets for him to take home; his wife would find them novel and enjoy sharing them with her children and neighbors.

The evening passed swiftly enough on wheels of punctilious civility. Narayan, thankfully, talked sensibly with his uncle, recounting none of his wilder stories. Her brother spoke briefly of his wife’s uncertain health and of their three children; he told Kamala little pieces of village gossip; he praised the food she had cooked. She in turn felt a degree of charity toward him that she had little expected. Who knew her brother could be so harmless? If this was the character-altering game the gods were playing, then—who knew?—perhaps tomorrow she would go to work and find Shanta flinging her arms about her with a smile and Thangam beavering away and Vidya-ma dispensing loans cheerfully.

Her brother seemed to be doing well; he talked about having purchased a share in a new village shop. “Soon, Sister,” he said, “I will bring my wife and children to visit you.”

Kamala nodded, her words preempted by Narayan’s excited “I can show them around! Everything!”

Despite the cordiality of their conversation, Kamala did not let her guard down. She told him briefly about her job, ready to deflect any question about her salary—but none came. Instead, her brother reserved his quizzing for Narayan. Here too Kamala refused to show weakness: Narayan, she told him, was doing well in school—and gods willing, would soon be shifting to a paid school with a fine future ahead of him.

“These are good prospects. Work hard,” her brother said, nodding and addressing his nephew, “and do well.”

The conversation slipped safely back to village news.

THE LANDLORD’S MOTHER JOINED them as soon as their evening meal was done; Kamala was wryly surprised at how long the old lady had waited, exercising, no doubt, the utmost tact and patience. She, like the others who lived in the courtyard, was brimming with curiosity at this unprecedented visitor from Kamala’s family—hitherto missing in action. For Kamala, so free with news of her present, tended to be frugal when discussing her past.

Kamala went to wash their dinner plates and throw away the little food that remained, for it would spoil overnight. She had overestimated the quantities they would