The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,82

was immediately evident that he was angry, a state that was rarely directed at them.

“The work in this house is too much for you, it seems,” he said, addressing Thangam.

“Saar, no … that is …”

“If so,” said Anand-saar, “perhaps I need to look for someone new, Thangam.”

“Oh, no, saar,” said Thangam, hastily and with undue fervency. “I can manage quite well.”

“Good,” said Anand-saar. “I am happy to hear it. What are your responsibilities?” he asked Kamala and listened, frowning, as she enumerated her daily tasks. “Well, Thangam,” he said. “You will be happy to hear that you no longer have to wash my father’s clothes or clean his room. Instead you will manage the upstairs by yourself, for Kamala can no longer help you with that; she will attend to his room and his clothes before her other duties.”

Thangam dared not complain. “Okay, saar,” she said meekly enough and was dismissed, shutting the door behind her. Kamala waited alone. Anand-saar said: “Vidya-ma tells me that Shanta has plenty to do with her regular work…. Can you cook?”

Kamala said, in some alarm: “Very simple food, saar,” but Anand-saar did not seem concerned. “That will suit him well. A little anna-soru, without garlic or too much spice. Some curd rice. Dosa in the afternoon for his tiffin…. You can manage?” Kamala nodded. Such dishes were well within her capability.

Anand-saar had more to say: “Vidya-ma is also very busy, so if there is any problem or anything else, will you please come directly to me? Do not bother her.” He smiled. “I rely on you to keep my father comfortable.”

Kamala nodded dutifully, though she was far from comprehending.

Beyond the paying of their monthly salaries, Anand-saar had never directed household activities before. Certainly, beyond his occasional interactions with Narayan, Anand-saar did not intrude into Kamala’s daily consciousness beyond the detritus of his existence, the socks and underwear she washed, the clothes she ironed, matters that did not bring her into any direct contact with him. Occasionally, he returned from the office before she left for her house; in such a case, she might bring him a glass of water or the tea that Shanta made, spilling not more than a few drops in the process.

Mostly, what she knew of him was derived from the truisms that Thangam offered with her superior knowledge of the workings of the household. “One must never approach Vidya-ma for money. Speak to Anand-saar. He is the one who fixes and pays our salaries.” Kamala would listen to such statements with half an ear, for how did it matter who fixed the salary as long as it was paid regularly?

And now here he was, asking her to report directly to him, in a manner most unprecedented.

THE DUTIES WERE SIMPLE ENOUGH, easily accomplished but for the complications thrown in her path by the rest of the household. It started that very day, when Kamala entered the kitchen and approached the storeroom.

Ey, said Shanta. What do you think you are doing?

“Anand-saar’s bidding,” said Kamala, facing her foe and not attempting to hide a slight smugness. “Since you are too busy to cook for the grandfather, he has asked me to. If you have a problem with that, my dear sister, please go tell him yourself.”

It was a temporary victory. Shanta did not dare complain to Anand-saar, but Kamala quickly discovered that her daily task of entering the kitchen and emerging with meals for the grandfather was not to be a straightforward process. She had recently seen a movie with Narayan where the hero, armed (like all heroes) with little more than good looks and excellent musculature, had to penetrate a chamber of villains and extract a precious jewel, dodging (in the process) flying bullets, well-aimed knives, and a villainess who kicked in high-heeled shoes. Her task, Kamala considered, was no easier than his.

She could reach for no knife without Shanta grabbing it first, the cutting board was always busy, all four burners on the stove occupied and Shanta not above pushing her rudely out of the way. Every half hour’s job doubled in time. Worst, when Kamala’s cooking was done, Shanta would make a great show of smelling the food and gagging. “Poor old man,” she would say, addressing Thangam if she happened to be around, or the refrigerator otherwise, “his aging digestion is sure to suffer. I hear,” she would say, “that you were raised like a royal princess in your village. Perhaps that is why no one taught you how