The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,84
home later and later each evening, until Narayan’s face started appearing worriedly at the gate, waiting patiently for her until he was discovered there one day by Vyasa and dragged in to meet the grandfather.
The first Kamala learned of this was when she entered the grandfather’s bedroom, carrying his evening palaharam meal of fruit and hot, unsweetened milk and saw her son there. Valmika was on the bed, engrossed in her grandfather’s stories about his own childhood in Mysore, so different from hers. Vyasa, having quickly lost interest in what was to him a bland and unheroic narrative, was absorbed instead in the activities of Narayan, who was carefully mending a bedside light.
Kamala did not know what to say, but she was saved from the effort by Anand-saar himself, who had entered the room behind her.
“Ah, very good, you have fixed it,” he said. “Clever boy. I was planning to call an electrician for that.”
Narayan grinned shyly. “It was just a loose wire, sir,” he said and proceeded to screw the fixture firmly back in place.
The grandfather seemed pleased as well. “He has done a good job,” he pronounced. “Yes. Is he studying hard in school? That is very important.” Kamala did not know if she was expected to answer this question, but once again, Anand-saar spoke: “Yes, it is very important…. Pingu, I hope you are listening to your grandfather?”
Kamala was thrilled at Anand-saar’s praise of her son and hugged her pride to herself. She was careful not to mention it to anyone, but nevertheless, that simple moment of excessive pride was enough to invite jealous mischance—for the very next evening, she proceeded to burn Anand-saar’s shirt.
She was busy ironing, but her attention was focused on ignoring the steady, poisonous drip of Shanta’s grumbles. Kamala concentrated so hard and with such a sense of victory that when she finally looked down, the shirt was burnt. Shanta had her back to her; she hadn’t seen. Quickly, Kamala folded the shirt and thrust it to the bottom of the pile of ironed clothes.
Upstairs she scurried, before anyone could notice, and buried the burnt shirt right at the back of Anand-saar’s clothes cupboard, praying it would not be discovered until weeks later, when everyone had forgotten who had done the ironing on that particular day.
But when she heard Vidya-ma’s voice raised in anger, Kamala knew her plan had failed. The three of them in the kitchen eyed one another.
“Go,” said Shanta to Thangam.
“No,” said Thangam. “What does she want this time? You go,” she said to Kamala, who vigorously shook her head. Thangam sighed. “Coming, amma!” she called, but she had barely hidden her accounts books away when Vidya-ma burst into the kitchen. “Have I lost my voice, or have you all lost your hearing?” she cried. “I’ve been shouting and shouting! What is wrong with you all?”
Kamala expected to see the burnt shirt flying like a wartime military banner, but no, fortunately Vidya-ma’s hands were empty; she was upset about something else. Kamala lowered her eyes prudently to the curd rice she was mixing for the grandfather.
“I simply cannot find my dupatta,” Vidya-ma said. “I have looked and looked. Where is it? Peacock blue with gold weave. Where is it?”
Kamala did not open her mouth. She had seen that dupatta just the previous day, in the ironing pile. Shanta had pulled it out and could not resist fingering it, her harsh face softened by an unusual yearning. “So pretty. This must be very expensive, no? Very expensive.” By rights, that dupatta should have gone upstairs with the other ironed clothes. It was not in the current pile of laundry either; its glorious colors were too bright to miss. Could Shanta have been tempted? She too seemed frozen where she stood, next to the stove.
“Don’t worry, amma,” said Thangam. “We will find it.”
“You’d better,” said Vidya-ma. “I’m not having my things missing, on top of everything. Find it right away!”
Kamala put the curd rice, lime pickle, and a plate on a tray and left the room; by the time she returned with the empty dishes, Thangam had smoothly produced the dupatta. “Where did you find it?” Kamala whispered, but Thangam, instead of implicating Shanta, merely said: “Under that pile of laundry, where else?” and would say no more.
Kamala knew it was useless to pursue the question. Her mind traveled, unbidden, to the Diwali party, to the end of that strange and glorious night.