The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,85
in much of the house; Anand-saar and Vidya-ma had retired for the night. The messy aftermath of the party had been tidied. The kitchen was the only area that was still brightly lit. Kamala was spending the night and was to sleep alongside Shanta and Thangam on a bedroll. Their work was finally done; Narayan lay fast asleep in the darkened storeroom; in a couple of hours, Kamala would rouse him and send him home. She herself would follow as soon as she could.
Kamala felt her face fold downward with fatigue, her ears buzzing, a rush of relief through her body. Thangam was inspecting the almost empty bottles of soft drinks and alcohol that lay on the kitchen table.
“Did you see him, sisters?” Thangam asked, referring to the film star. “Did you see how splendid he looked? What do you fancy, sister?” She glanced at Kamala.
“Is it permitted?” Kamala asked, eyeing the bottles on the table.
“Why not?” Thangam shrugged carelessly. “We were asked to throw these away, were we not? What difference does it make if we dispose of them in our stomachs or in the dustbin outside?”
Kamala made her way over to the table and, after some hesitation, chose the dark brown cola that was usually advertised by a pretty actress who always seemed to be enjoying herself when she drank it. She poured herself a glass and, on impulse, added two ice cubes to it from the bag that lay melting in the sink. She sipped it gratefully; her budget rarely left room for such luxuries.
“Are you not having any yourself, sister?” she asked Thangam.
“I will,” said Thangam. She poured a little of the soft drink into a glass. Then she picked up a bottle of whiskey and poured the leavings into the same glass. “Ah,” she said. “What a man he was.”
Kamala glanced uncertainly at Shanta. But the cook was leaning against a counter and did not meet her gaze. Thangam filled a second tumbler with a similar concoction and handed it to Shanta.
Kamala hastily took a sip of her own drink in an effort to hide her shock. To drink alcohol as a female meant that you were very rich or very poor—in either case beyond the confines of ordinary respectability and dignity.
Thangam swallowed her whiskey and cola, and switched on the kitchen television. The screen was very small and the remote control had long since stopped working, but none of them cared. By a strange coincidence, their own personal film star, the hero of the party just finished, appeared on the screen, in a song and dance they had seen him perform a hundred times before. Thangam watched mesmerized, her empty glass in her hand. She set it down and began to move along with the actor, her steps in perfect timing, her arms raised, her breasts and hips thrusting forward in a manner that grew increasingly provocative.
“Come, sister.” Thangam waved a hand, but Shanta merely emptied her own glass and walked over to the drinks, collecting Thangam’s glass en route. This time, she filled them both with only alcohol.
After finishing a third drink, Shanta joined in Thangam’s dancing, her face transformed, their bodies moving in full enjoyment, oblivious to their audience. “Will you not join us, sister?” Thangam asked Kamala at one point.
“Nay, I thank you,” said Kamala, scrupulously polite, careful to display neither bemusement or disgust. “My back hurts too much.”
Shanta turned to Kamala—but with none of her usual hostility. “He is a good lad, your son,” she said, smiling, leaning close, her words smelling of the sour-sharp whiff of alcohol. “Yes,” said Kamala, not knowing if she should feel repelled or happy. She would have said more, but Thangam was already making a lewd comment about the film star that caused Shanta to double up in laughter. When they had finally lain down, the three of them, to sleep, Kamala realized that this was not the first time they had done this, these two. None of this was new to either. Not the late-night drinking, not Thangam’s lewd dancing and comments, and not the manner in which Shanta too began to unravel before her very eyes, giggling foolishly, her hair unwinding, her laughter turning coarse and free.
And on the heels of that awareness came another—that this, then, was the inexplicable liaison that existed between these two women, which Kamala had sensed but never before understood. This was what kept them united despite all the daytime bickering, this unseemly core of secretive understanding