The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,76
proceeded to use the soap that she had purchased along with the oil the previous day. She used it once to get rid of the oil and dirt, washing it away, and then, without mercy, used it once more until it bubbled and frothed under her fingers, rejoicing in the sweet smell that rose from his skin. When he was washed clean, she unraveled the top half of her saree and used it to dry him. The bath, or rather its earnestly awaited conclusion, revived him, and clad in nothing he capered about the lawn while Kamala attended to herself.
The sky was still dark, but the blue bloom of predawn was upon them. She had to hurry. She kept her underskirt on but removed everything else, unmindful of the depravity of the act in her desperate desire to feel the rush of water on her body. The oil gleamed against the darkness of her skin, burnishing it, and the cold water cascading through her hair seemed to wash away two and a half years of construction site dust. She raised her skirts to wash between her thighs and down the oiled length of her legs, and then, finally, she was clean.
As with her son, she dried herself with the saree she had just removed, and then reached inside the jute bag for a change of clothes, pulling out a clean cotton saree that she had carried with her for two years and rarely worn, saving it blindly for just such an occasion. For her son too, she dressed him in a new shirt and combed his locks. The kajal stick for both of them, to line their eyes. And for herself, as a finishing touch, a dot of kajal as a bindi on her forehead. Her hair ran wet and loose down her back; when it dried, she would tie it into a braid, and decorate it with a bunch of jasmine flowers behind her neck.
She wore no jewelry around her neck, wrists, or on her ears except for a black amulet thread that she wore like a necklace, but that did not matter. She was dressed and prepared as a bride might be, ready for a momentous change in her life. In the early morning light that began to glisten off the house windows, she caught sight of their reflection and rejoiced. The baby at her hip was clean and glowing and well dressed; if the contractor were to see him now, he would not hesitate to pick him up and hold him tight. And the calm, respectable woman in the plate of glass showed no sign of the desperate life she had led for over two years. True, her face was thin and dry and her body a little scrawny, but that could not be helped. And perhaps, if she handled the day with due attention, she might eventually have a chance to reverse some of that damage.
And thus, washed and attired, she turned her attention to the next step.
WHEN THE JOB BROKER emerged from her house, she was met by Kamala, who had arrived an hour earlier and squatted down on the dry earth in front of the building, waiting for her quarry to appear. She had moved only once in that hour, to peel and feed her son a banana. Now she rose and folded her hands respectfully.
“Namaste, aunty,” she said.
The job broker returned her greeting with some reservation. She was good at quickly sizing up people; there was an air of implacable determination about this girl that might signal trouble.
“You asked me to come and see you, aunty,” said Kamala.
“Oh,” said the job broker. “It is you. Yes, yes. Finally …” she said. “You must be Saroja, and you, wretched girl, are a whole two days late.”
I am not Saroja, said Kamala. And I am right on time.
Seeing the job broker’s confusion grow, she explained. “You asked me to come and see you when my baby was older,” she said. “He is now two and a half years old, and I can perform any household job you want me to.”
The job broker stared at her in some astonishment and curiosity, as though hoping to penetrate this shroud of confusing statement. She seemed to notice everything, the job broker, from the happy toddler, clinging to his mother’s saree and smiling up at her with a full-fed, sunny chubbiness in odd and telling contrast to the hollowness of his mother’s cheeks, to the awe-inspiring aura of cleanliness