The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,86

that was absent in her own relationships with either. It was nothing she would ever discuss with anyone else; it still raised odd feelings of discomfort within her when she thought of it. She had, for the most part, pushed it out of her mind.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, ANAND-SAAR summoned her to his study.

“Me?” said Kamala. “Why does he wish to see me? Why do you suppose?”

“I do not know,” said Thangam. “You might find out if you deign to go meet him.”

Kamala made her way to the study, a dozen guilty thoughts flying like scared crows through her mind. That shirt? Could he have found it already and known through some mysterious investigative process that it was her hand that had done the scorching? Or, worse, did he wish to speak to her about the computer?

If Thangam obsessed about Vidya-ma’s wardrobe and liked to play with her lotions and cosmetics when their mistress was away, Kamala had her own, very different set of fascinations about the house. Occasionally she might linger in Vyasa’s room, examining his things, wishing them for her son. But the true object of her secret fantasies was in the upstairs living room, on the table next to the window. This computer was used by the children and Vidya-ma, and here, every single day, Kamala felt herself grow greedy with desire.

This complicated gadget, with its little alphabet keys and shiny screen, the big box that rested under the desk and hummed—this was magic. Somehow, she would see to it that Narayan’s education would lead him to this, to mastery over the computer and the tapped incantations that allowed the screen to glow to life and hum under the fingertips. To master that knowledge would make his future soar. Sometimes when the family went out and in the hallowed silence of their absence, while Thangam drank tea in the kitchen and listened to Shanta’s diatribes, Kamala would give in to her urges and press down on the keys, in imitation of the movements she had seen the children make. Most of the time nothing happened; the screen lay black and blank. Only once had she gotten a response; she pressed a key, the screen sprang to cheerful life, and in the shock of it Kamala realized that the computer had not been switched off and kept ready for her play; it had been left on; the black screen had been deceptive. With trembling hasty fingers, she had turned the main power switch off and watched in agony as the screen pinged back into darkness like something killed.

Four hours passed on that dreary day before the family returned from their outing. She waited tensely for the first scream of discovery, for them to notice the meddling that had destroyed the computer, but nothing happened. When she ventured upstairs after a few minutes, Valmika was at the computer, typing. Her tampering had not been noted; the machine had somehow, like a compliant lover in a secret affair, managed to keep Kamala’s flirting concealed.

Now, she fretted. Had Anand-saar learned of her computer-meddling?

“Come in,” said Anand-saar. “Kamala, I am very happy with the care you are taking of my father. You are responsible and reliable.” He hesitated. “Are you facing any problems?”

“No, saar,” said Kamala. She did not say: Actually, sir, Vidya-ma is so angry and she directs all her anger big and small at whoever stands around at that moment; Shanta is Ravana’s progeny, a veritable she-demon; Thangam is consumed by her own problems right now; and I would indeed appreciate it if I could manage to leave work at the time I am supposed to each day. “No problems, saar,” she said.

“Good, good,” said Anand-saar. “But, I wanted to talk to you about Narayan.”

Kamala rushed into nervous speech. “I’m so sorry, saar. Pingu was the one that called him in…. I will tell him, saar, tell him to wait outside.”

“Kamala.” Anand-saar spoke patiently. “That is no problem. He is very smart. How old is he?”

“Twelve running, sir.”

“And is he working hard at school?”

Kamala told him truthfully that Narayan was the most clever boy imaginable and, mendaciously, that he was very diligent at his studies.

“Good,” said Anand-saar. “I am pleased to hear that. Education is the only way he will progress in life. Which school is he attending?”

“The government school, saar,” said Kamala and was not at all surprised when Anand-saar frowned.

“That is not good. He will learn nothing there,” he said. “Now, I feel that education is very important. It