The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,77
that clung to Kamala, the washing and bathing and donning of scrupulously clean clothing. And, in the serious intensity of her face, the job broker finally registered a fleeting contrasting memory of the same face: younger, fresher, sparkling with a look of eager anticipation. “Why, I remember you,” she said, her face incredulous. “You came from that village, I remember, and with the baby.”
Yes, said Kamala. And now, as promised, I would like that job.
The job broker opened her mouth to indignantly repudiate this claim of old promises—for surely such statements were implicitly accompanied by expiry-dates and a time-bar?—but instead she said nothing and stood pondering.
Perhaps she was troubled by the weight of professional demands caused by the errant Saroja and her urgent need for a hirable maid. Or perhaps it was simply that Kamala’s sudden and desperate appearance triggered some latent sympathy within the job broker, jostling her, for a minute, by the recollection of chances she had received in her own life that had allowed her to prosper. For, in spite of her brusque, businesslike exterior and her capacity for holding the hearts and dreams of others in her hand, the job broker was not, by nature, a bad woman.
“Fine,” she said. “I will keep my promise.”
AND SO IT WAS that Kamala had at last slipped upward into the ranks of the domestically employed, where she had remained for the past decade, working hard to raise her son respectably. She was proud of what she had achieved, alone, unaided. Prouder, perhaps, than her brother was of anything he had done.
But it was the unacknowledged truth of her life, celebrated by no one but herself. She had kept those years of her past secret, when she lived in a roadside tent and toiled amidst cement and stone; speaking about that time to no one, not even her son, for everyone she knew would find it shameful and degrading, not recognizing the strength she had discovered within herself because of it, or the fears of destitution that haunted her even today of waking up to find herself living by the side of the road in a tent, white-haired, drunk.
and, of course …
satyameva jayate
truth conquers all
seventeen
MR. ANANTHAMURTHY WAS FOND of discoursing on the auspicious nature of Deepavali—and as though to prove him right, Anand received a surprising phone call.
“Happy Deepavali, saar,” said the Landbroker. “I have good news for you…. I have arranged some land for you to see.”
“Really?” He had not believed that the Landbroker would ever deliver on his vague promises. “That’s great.”
Early the next morning, Anand passed the biscuit factory and parked his car next to the bicycle repair shop opposite the Mariamma temple. The Landbroker was waiting for him, emerging from his nondescript car into the brilliant sunshine, wearing his oversize, gold-rimmed dark glasses and a tight pink polyester shirt.
“Namaskara, saar,” he said as he clambered into the passenger seat next to Anand and pulled a large satellite photograph out of a file. “Gugalarth,” he said, and Anand blinked uncomprehendingly for a moment before he realized he was looking at an image downloaded from Google Earth. On this, the Landbroker had drawn the outline of a spread of land that enclosed several contiguous farms, his stained finger stabbing at the paper while he spoke at length and with some intimacy about the land, twelve acres, saar, and the price per acre. On paper, the land looked small and somehow false, as the earth does when seen from a plane, a piece of a strange planet that cannot possibly translate into human concerns.
In a manner that invested the proceedings with a pleasing frisson of secrecy, they left Anand’s car tucked into a side road and drove across to the farmland in the broker’s nondescript car, inconspicuous and incapable of alerting anyone to their presence or their interest in the property, fluffing the golden dust of the sandy road about them.
The Landbroker explained that acquiring this land was not going to be a straightforward process. The land was owned by different farming families. But no problem, he could and he would bring them to the table—that was his job, after all—and he was very good at it. “I know them, saar,” he said. “And they know me. Most importantly, they trust me. They know I will not cheat them; promise them one thing, give them another. Trust is very important, saar.”
They stopped down a narrow, bumpy road. Night rains had washed the countryside; in the morning sun, the burnished