The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,65
gesturing toward a woman moving enthusiastically on the verandah. “She is doing the dance steps from that disco-dancing movie.” And Thangam’s own feet would move in rhythmic imitation, in steps she apparently knew quite well.
“Do you know,” she asked Kamala, “how much money they are gambling for on that table?”
The card tables had been placed in a relatively quiet corner of the drawing room, away from the bar and the dancing and the noise of the fireworks, to enable the players to concentrate on their game and to hear one another’s bids. The tables were draped in white cloth, each with a large silver bowl placed in the center. All the action took place around this bowl: money flung in, cards dealt and displayed; the women, their gold-littered robes of silk and gauze sweeping to the floor, reaching for their cards with eager bejeweled hands; the men, balancing glasses of whiskey and cigarettes and cards; the rising tides of excitement that swept through them all as the silver bowls rapidly filled and then overflowed with money.
“At that table,” said Thangam, “each game is for hundreds of rupees.” Really? said Kamala. That much? “And there, that table,” said Thangam, “they play for thousands.” Ignoring Kamala’s ignorant gasp, she pointed her to the table in the far corner, where the film star sat with his politician friend, Vidya-ma’s father standing by in close attendance, his daughter at his side, laughing and talking. “And in that table,” said Thangam, “they play each hand for a lakh.”
And thus it was that Kamala overcame her shyness and nervousness and made her way to that table with the next tray of snacks, to serve the film star and politician and others. She wanted to see what one lakh of rupees—two years’ salary—would look like all at one time.
BEFORE THE PARTY STARTED, Kamala had given her son some words of instruction:
“Keep yourself to the shadows. Do not show your face where it is not required. Stay in the kitchen with Shanta or, if you so wish, engage in conversation with the tandoori-oven man. Do not think to thrust yourself into the glare of Anand-saar’s party. Be not tempted by the snacks they will serve; I am sure our turn will come later—or so it is to be hoped. Step not on passing toes; speak respectfully to the catering company people; and, in general, keep yourself to the shadows.”
He had meekly agreed, and she was pleased.
But, at some point shortly thereafter, he slipped away from the kitchen. She saw him befriending the barman, assisting him by pulling out soft drink bottles from the ice basin where they lay submerged. Eventually the lure of the fireworks was too strong and he darted away, and when Anand-saar summoned her out to the fireworks, Kamala instantly suspected trouble. She rehearsed worried answers and scolds in her mind—she should have locked that mischievous boy in the storeroom. But instead, she was sent to fetch a shirt, a brand-new shirt, worth hundreds of rupees, for her son to wear.
He reappeared a whole hour later, his face bearing a satisfied grin and his hands the blackened evidence of much lighting of rockets and crackers. Vidya-ma’s father had instructed that they were to be burnt without cessation.
Kamala met him in the kitchen on her way out with a tray of snacks and paused long enough to say, “Where have you been? Have you filled yourself to the brim with fireworks? Your very body bears the trace. Go drink some water, but wash your hands well before you do.” He dutifully washed his hands but vanished before she could say more.
She was amused at his eagerness to return to the fireworks and thought no more of it, happy that he was getting such a fine reward for all his obedient work of the day—for Narayan had toiled fully as hard as a grown woman and earned a warm, fine reputation in the process. “He must have inherited his nature from his father,” said Shanta. No one begrudged him his joy at setting off the fireworks. Just as no one would begrudge him later when it came time for all of them to eat.
Her next sighting of him, therefore, almost caused her to drop the tray of snacks. She froze into position, hardly noticing the guests’ fingers that hovered greedily above the tray, like bees nursing at a nectar-filled flower.
She had a clear view of the card tables; she stared at the film star—memorizing his various aspects,