The Hope Factory (26 page)

Vidya, in some consternation, suggested to her father-in-law that on unseasonably warm days he might, in his son’s house, consider donning a shirt and (if he so wished) turning on the air conditioner, but Anand’s father dismissed such artificial measures with scorn. “I am quite comfortable,” he said austerely, returning to his daily solution of the sudoku puzzle printed in the newspaper, which exercise, in its wake, left the paper littered with pencil markings and creases where it had been folded down to a small square, the size of the puzzle. Anand was in the habit of reading his newspapers with his morning coffee; his father rose betimes and got to them first, subsequently regaling anyone who passed with a précis of the daily news that he considered important. “The blighters,” he would say, “have increased the price of the rail tickets again. Is this how they practice socialism? Will this help the poor?”

His conversation with his son revolved around the news. He evinced no interest in visiting Cauvery Auto, evidently not hearing the question when it was asked.

VIDYA BROUGHT ANAND A
message from her father, sandwiched between the stress his father’s orthodox lifestyle was placing
on the house. “Shanta is really grumbling; she is having to cook two separate meals: one veg, one nonveg—using separate dishes. By the way, my father called. For you.”

“Why?”

“Because your father won’t eat from any dish that has been previously touched by meat. You know that. And now she may quit.”

“I’ll speak to Shanta,” said Anand. “Why did your father call for me?”

“Call him back, no?” she said.

But he did not need to. Harry Chinappa, after waiting impatiently for his message via his daughter to take effect, called him directly, the phone buzzing relentlessly at Anand like a highly strung mosquito. “My dear boy,” Harry Chinappa said, “I believe your father is in town. Excellent! Must plan a visit. Or perhaps you can bring him by one day with you after work? We can have a whiskey and catch up.” This was his father-in-law’s number two method of dealing with him: orchestrated cordiality when he needed something done. “By the way, I’ve had a word with Sankleshwar. It’s a good idea if you come and meet him with me anyway.”

“Why?” said Anand. “You’ve told him, no? That I am not interested.”

“It doesn’t pay to be shortsighted about this, m’boy. I am not at all convinced about this Landbroker of yours.”

“Why?” said Anand. “He’s okay. I think. I am moving ahead with that.”

“Well, come for this meeting anyway. Mr. Sankleshwar is an important, successful man, and it behooves you to at least say thank you to him personally.”

“Fine,” said Anand. “Fine. Fine. I’ll come.”

IF HER OPINION WERE SOLICITED
, Kamala might have said otherwise—instead, it was generally accepted that an old man of particular habits placed fully as much burden upon the household as a demanding new baby.

Shanta, naturally, was the first to complain. “Separate vessels,” she said. “Separate menu. Who is to cook? Who is to clean all those extra vessels?” But this was Shanta’s normal mien, usually ignored by everyone else. Except this time, when she won an unusual sponsor: Vidya-ma herself, who, instead of rebutting each of Shanta’s complaints with one of her own, only said: “You are right. It is too much. You are right.”

Shanta was unused to such easy victory and received it with open-mouthed befuddlement, but it quickly spurred on Thangam, who, nose twitching, complained to Vidya-ma dolefully about her own workload. “Extra clothes to wash, ma,” and Vidya-ma listened again, though perhaps not with the same sympathy she had displayed to Shanta (for everyone
knew that it was technically impossible to increase Thangam’s workload: work added in one area yielded an instant scrimping in another).

Thangam and Kamala were summoned to Anand-saar’s study that evening. It 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 to cook.”

“If it is so terrible,” said Kamala, “do it yourself then.”

“I most certainly cannot,” said Shanta. “Vidya-ma has forbidden me. Poor old man!”

Kamala managed with quiet grumbles—until Vidya-ma summoned her irritably one day. “Kamala, what is this nonsense? Shanta says that all our food is getting delayed because of the time you take over some simple dishes. Why is this?”
Vidya-ma was seated at the computer, her fingers clicking on the keys in time to her speech. “And you must clean the utensils as soon as you are done. She has to reuse them, doesn’t she? You cannot behave as though the kitchen is only for your use. You must learn to adjust with others….”

Yes, Vidya-ma, said Kamala and went in search of Thangam. This was intolerable.

But Thangam was full of her own woes and was not of a mind to listen patiently to Kamala’s bitter grumbles. “At least you don’t have to clean the full upstairs, as I have to,” she said. “I tell you, sister, by the time I get through my day, I am so exhausted, my very bones hurt. By the way,” she said, her face full of a recent worry, “what has happened to your neighbor?”

“Neighbor?” said Kamala. “Which one? That drunken Chikkagangamma? Such a sad story! Her children are still working and sleeping in that canteen.”

Thangam interrupted. “No, no. That young girl! Married to the machine tool operator. Your direct neighbor!”

“Oh, that one. So disrespectful! Yes, she was saying something,” said Kamala, trying to recall. “Aanh. Yes. Her husband has lost his job. Perhaps now she will learn some humility. Why do you ask?”

Thangam was looking horrified. “Lost his job? And you could not tell me this? You keep silent!”

Kamala eyed her in genuine confusion. “Thange? Why does it matter to you?”

Thangam flung her duster down. “Because she has missed her last two payments for the chit fund, that’s why! If she cannot pay, I have to pay! How can you ask this! I tell you, Kamala-sister, not all of us are propertied as you are. No, do not deny it. That girl told me—she heard it directly from your brother himself. You have all the luck—so do not come here and complain.
How on earth am I to find the money she owes for the chit fund? And what about the months that remain? Tell me that!”

“Do you not have savings, Thange?” Kamala asked tentatively. She knew that Thangam liked to spend and also supported her family every month, but still …

“Whatever I have will be wiped out in a couple of months if she doesn’t pay, akka,” said Thangam, wretchedly. “All of it will go…. This chit fund is so large…. Cursed thing!”

Kamala put her arm around the crying Thangam. “I am sure she will pay, sister,” she said. “Do not worry. Do not cry. Come now! And,” she said, when Thangam eventually wiped her eyes on the edge of her khameez, “I do not know what you have heard, but I am not propertied. That is not true. I have to work for every paisa just like every other human on this earth.”

Thangam sighed and involuntarily ran her hand over the glittering silk dupatta lying tossed on the bed. “Except Vidya-ma,” she said. “She does not have to work for her paisa.”

APART FROM THE SKIRMISHES
with Shanta, Kamala very quickly settled into her new duties. Anand-saar’s father was very different from his son. Old-school in his manner and behavior, his needs simple, disciplined, and meticulous, reminding Kamala of the schoolteacher in the village, who had combined an interest in furthering the education of the village children with a strict brahminical aversion to letting them within two feet of him. When he asked something of Kamala, his voice was peremptory: “Girl!” he would call, and Kamala would go running, to fetch the flowers for his pooja that she procured each morning on her way to work; to ready his bath, placing
the stool in front of a steaming bucket of water and the mug in readiness; to fetch his food, freshly cooked and piping hot. After this flurry of morning activity, she cleaned his room and washed his clothes, and only when that was done could she turn her attention to all her other chores: the cleaning of the downstairs, which Thangam, on principle, now refused to help her with, and the myriad other duties that Vidya-ma—who seemed unaware of Anand-saar’s strictures to the contrary—kept adding, daily, to her list.

Kamala returned 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.