The Hope Factory Page 5

  As though on cue, his cellphone rang.

  Anand hesitated before reluctantly touching his thumb to the screen of his iPhone.

  “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? I can’t hear you. Hello?” His father-in-law distrusted cellular technology and bellowed to compensate.

  “Hello,” said Anand.

  “It must be a bad line…. Right. You will be glad to know. I have organized it.” At Anand’s cautious silence, his father-in-law’s voice grew slightly more impatient. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

  “Organized it?” said Anand.

  “Yes. That is what I said…. The land you require for your factory…. I have set up some meetings. You come and meet me tomorrow—no, wait, I can’t tomorrow—fine, you meet me next week and I will brief you,” shouted his father-in-law before ringing off.

  The second window in his office faced the factory campus, and Anand frowned at the view. This two acres—bought so very proudly just four years before, two acres for which Anand had mortgaged all he owned (which admittedly had not been very much) and taken an additional bank loan—was now too small. Orders had flooded in; Anand and Ananthamurthy had built factory sheds to the very edges of the lot; there was no further room to grow unless one counted the flower beds, the watchman’s room, and the realms that existed between the earth and the holes in the ozone layer.

  “We are needing more land, sir,” Ananthamurthy had taken to saying on an almost daily basis, “especially if this Japan deal comes through and even,” he would say, “if not.”

  Buying industrial land outside the city was fraught with complications, very different from the relatively straightforward process of buying property within the city through real estate agents. This, instead, was a murky business, with dubious titles and complicated family ownership histories, influenced by different mafias and forever enmeshed with inscrutable political machinery and zoning laws.

  In the distance stood the neighboring property, with enormous warehouse walls, in disuse and covered with rusty metal sheets, built right up to the common compound wall, looming, entirely spoiling the vista. The factory gardener had planted an intervening hedge of bright pink bougainvillea, but this obscured only about three feet of the eyesore, which, if anything, seemed even uglier in contrast. Anand had approached his idiot neighbors, whose property stretched beyond the ugly warehouses for twenty acres, much of it in disuse and disrepair.

  He had heard that they were in trouble; a pair of quarreling brothers, one prone to drink and the other to whores; they might be willing to sell. They were—and proved their reputations as business failures by quoting a price so ridiculously high and greedy, even for this city, where escalating land prices seemed a way of life, that Anand glared in disgust at the rust on their encroaching warehouse walls. May it grow, bastards, this rust, until it filters and covers all parts of your life, from your dick to your drinking glass. Behenchuths.

  When Anand had bought his current two-acre site, the seller had been a friend of a friend, in financial trouble and eager to sell, with clear titles. That kind of serendipity couldn’t be counted upon—and this time, his requirements were larger. There were land brokers, of course, for this sort of purchase, but they did not advertise themselves or work without personal reference.

  He had mentioned some of this, in passing, to Vidya. She had apparently conveyed it almost immediately to her father, who, naturally, had taken it upon himself to get involved in the matter.

  His father-in-law’s phone call acted as a trigger. Anand mentally worked his way through a roster of friends and acquaintances who might be able to help him. His friend Vinayak claimed to know everything and everyone; he was the person to call. Anand fingered his way through the iPhone menu, forgiving its occasional telephonic inefficiency with the blind affection a parent reserves for a wayward but much-loved child.

  “Vinayak?” he said. “Listen, buddy, I need your help.”

  and, lest we forget …

  matru devo bhava

  mother is god

  pitru devo bhava

  father is god

  athiti devo bhava

  guest is god

  six

  IN THE LIGHT OF THE EARLY MORNING, Kamala was engaged in lecturing her son.

  “So will you hurry yourself? As quickly as you can manage? Do not delay, do not engage in useless conversations with your friends, do not be distracted by anything other than the desire to please your mother and present yourself to the house in good speed.”

  “I will, Mother,” said Narayan.

  “And dress well! I do not want to be shamed by the rags you are so fond of wearing.”

  “Mother,” said Narayan, “I am not the one who is going to be late. Weren’t you supposed to be there by now?”

  Kamala glared at such impertinence and continued to scold: “And do not forget, while you are there, to keep a civil tongue in your head, to speak respectfully, to work hard, and …”

  “I will, Mother,” said Narayan. “Calm yourself. I will do just as you have said.”

  “Yes,” said Kamala. “I know that. I know that.”

  THE DAY WAS BARELY birthed when she walked with quick, urgent steps to her employer’s house. She had promised to be there early—for there was seven days’ work to be completed in one.

  “Even the gods”—Thangam seemed barely able to open her irritable, sleep-encrusted eyes—“could not commence work on such a day without something first to eat and drink. Have you broken your fast this morning, sister?” She banged the bucket on the floor. “And when does your son arrive?”

  “He will be here very soon,” said Kamala. “He was awake when I left and he is not one to tarry.”

  Narayan appeared when they were drinking their tea. There was a crowd in the kitchen that early morning. In addition to Kamala and Thangam and Shanta, there was the driver, the driver’s wife, and two watchmen, none of whom were normally encouraged to visit the kitchen, but exceptions were being made.

  Kamala saw immediately and with approval that her son had followed all her instructions. His face was washed, his hair was neatly parted and combed, and he was dressed in his best shirt and pants. She had readied them for him the previous Sunday, washing them and then plucking them off the drying line when they were still warm from the sun, folding and pressing them with her hands. The result was almost wrinkle-free. She thought he looked very smart. His eyes were bright and eager, and a little shy.

  “What is it, boy? What is it you want?” Shanta the cook spoke first, her voice sharp.

  “Vidya-ma has summoned him here today,” said Kamala. “To help us.”

  “Oh, it’s good you have arrived, young one!” said Thangam, in a mixture of friendliness and relief. “Come in, come in, lad. Have something to eat—your insides must be as empty and parched as the wells in summer.”

  Kamala was grateful for Thangam’s kindness in making Narayan feel welcome. Shanta looked sulky but did not hesitate to put a tumbler of hot tea in front of him, a slice of bread placed over it like a lid, saying: “After you are done, boy, be sure to rinse your tumbler and place it behind the sink. I have too much to do to clean up after every tousle-headed urchin who wanders through my kitchen.”

  Narayan’s cheeks worked quickly at his food, his eyes meeting Kamala’s in a glimmer of amusement, as though he recognized in the cook’s rudeness all the truth of the gossip his mother brought home each evening.

  KAMALA AND THANGAM, WITH Narayan’s help, concentrated on cleaning the ground floor of the house well ahead of their normal schedule. They were barely done when the family upstairs awoke—and on the heels of their rising came an endless array of other chores: of carrying the tea trays up and the water jugs down, of beds to be made and breakfast to be served. None of the jobs were difficult to do, all of them were routine, but between them they engaged all the women until it was time to break for their own meal.

  They collected in the kitchen, their faces sharp with hunger. The driver’s wif
e was washing up the family’s breakfast plates, Shanta was wreathed in enticing-smelling steam, and with a little bounce of pleasure, Kamala realized that this would, after all, be one of those good days.

  The long central platform in the kitchen was laden with semia upma and a plate of hot dosas, with chutney and sambar on the side. Kamala helped Narayan to a plateful before getting her own, suspending the feeding of her own appetite in the enjoyment of sating his, watching his eyes close in happy disbelief and his mouth open again and again in greed and hunger. Everyone ate quickly, saving their conversation. Narayan washed his plate and tumbler out and was careful to thank Shanta: “Please forgive my impudence in saying so, aunty,” he said, “but your cooking is the finest I have ever tasted.”

  Shanta’s mouth twitched into a reluctant half smile, she said: “Your good mother surely does not say so.”

  “Indeed, she is the first to praise your cooking, always.”

  “Indeed, Shanta, we all are,” said Thangam, eagerly reaching for a last dosa. But before she could lift it up and place it on her plate, a voice rang out from the dining room.

  “Oh, my god! So little has been done! And there’s simply no time left for anything!” Vidya-ma appeared at the kitchen door, and her face was set in scolding, panicked lines. “Come along, everybody, do not linger. So much to be done! This is not the time for relaxing!”

  Every now and then, Vidya-ma and Anand-saar liked to invite guests to their home, in intimate gatherings of ten to large crowds of a hundred, and the staff work varied accordingly. “I thought twenty couples,” she had said to Anand-saar over breakfast one morning. “It will give Kavika a chance to meet some people …”

  “Great,” he had replied. “That sounds nice.”

  “Should we not finish the upstairs first, Vidya-ma?” Thangam’s query was waved aside. Vidya commandeered all the staff—the maids, Narayan, the driver, the driver’s wife, the watchmen, and even, briefly, the transient gardener—to roll the carpets out of the way, push the sofas to the walls, and shift the coffee tables from the center of the room to the edges. She walked about, talking aloud to herself.

  “The caterers will set up there, and the bar will be here; this area should be kept free for people to stand and mingle, the tall lamps here …”

  But it appeared that arranging the main ground-floor rooms for the evening was neither a quick nor a simple process. “Oh yes,” Vidya-ma would say as the sofas and tables and potted plants settled in place and, two minutes later, “No, that really doesn’t work, does it?”

  She did not expect agreement from them, so they kept silent as she devised anew. The telephone, never silent, seemed to ring today with a great energy and tenacity. Vidya-ma refused no telephone calls, and as she talked—“Oh, I’m so glad. Looking forward to seeing you then,” or “Oh, no special occasion, extremely casual evening, just throwing together some food and friends, making no effort at all, really”—she continued to direct them in their dance; waving them about, sending them staggering this way and that, and shaking her head. Occasionally, she would scold: “Be careful!” and “Please, do as I say! Do you not understand me?” and “Careful, you fool!”

  Kamala did not mind the scoldings, but she wondered anxiously if her son would be able to follow Vidya-ma’s complicated instructions. She need not have worried: in the swirl of words—move this, shift that, no, not so much, a little more this side—Narayan seemed to grasp the end result Vidya-ma was looking for before it actually happened. And right toward the end, he spoke up.

  “Shall I place it there, amma?” he asked softly, as his mother’s employer contemplated an exasperating side table, which was always out of place and never at home. Kamala tensed. Vidya-ma looked cross and irritable. “Where?” she said, her irritation undiminished. Narayan pointed to the far side of the room, and her face magically relaxed into smiles. “Why, the very place!” she said. “Clever boy. Yes, do so.” As Narayan scurried over to move the side table into position, Vidya-ma said to Kamala, “Your son, no? Smart boy.” Kamala quickly controlled the untoward display of happiness on her face for fear of provoking the jealousies of the others.

  She had worried so much and, it appeared, so needlessly. The night before, she had hardly slept, envisioning all the things that might go wrong: Narayan accidentally breaking the best crystal; or his choosing this day of all days to play some mischievous trick; or having his friends appear at the gate of the house in boisterous, upsetting fashion. Now, in her pleasure, she pulled at his ear gently. “You little rascal,” she whispered, and he grinned.

  But pleasure was soon offset by a growing fatigue: the day was not yet half over, there was still so much to be done, and Kamala could sense herself faltering. Finally, long after Thangam’s face had turned sour and sulky, and the gardener had absconded, and the driver’s wife had conquered her shyness to start a slow muttering under her breath, Vidya-ma sighed. “Yes, I think this will do….” she said. “And now you must start on the brass polishing…. And I want someone to help me with the garden chairs….”

  “But, amma!” said Thangam, voicing a query that was growing in Kamala’s mind as well, “is the upstairs not to be cleaned?”

  It appeared that Vidya-ma had forgotten. “Oh my god!” she said. “The full upstairs? And now look at the time!”

  “Don’t worry, amma,” said Kamala hastily, “we can do it quickly.”

  “But the full upstairs!” said Vidya-ma. “If you all go upstairs now, I will not see you again before the evening, and that will be too late! Why on earth could you not have reminded me earlier?”

  Thangam opened her mouth and said, unthinkingly: “But, Vidya-ma, I did! I did remind you!”

  And as their mistress’s wrath broke over Thangam, Kamala caught her eye sympathetically, but some part of her could not help thinking that there was a virtue in knowing when to speak and when to keep silent.

  “Now,” said Vidya-ma, when she had calmed down. “I’ll tell you what we shall do. Kamala, you and your boy shall start on brass polishing. The driver and watchmen shall help me set up the garden. Shanta needs the driver’s wife in the kitchen. And you, Thangam, shall go upstairs to clean.”

  “Vidya-ma!” said Thangam. “Am I to clean the full upstairs by myself? I cannot manage!”

  “Oh,” said Vidya-ma, her irritation evident. Her eyes wandered. “Kamala, perhaps your son can go and help her?”

  “That is a good idea, Vidya-ma,” said Thangam, ingratiatingly.

  Oh, never, thought Kamala. Never would she allow Narayan to work under Thangam, who would surely see that he did all the work while she stood idly by. She did not like to contradict Vidya-ma, who was looking flushed, unhappy, and cross, but she had to say something. “Let me go help her, Vidya-ma,” she said. “I can do it quicker.”

  “But the brass? And who will do the flowers? … Oh,” said Vidya-ma. “You are all so unhelpful. At a time like this, you are all so unhelpful.”

  The words in Kamala’s mind popped out of her mouth: “Let the driver’s wife start the polishing, Vidya-ma. My son can help her…. Shanta is such a clever woman, she is sure to be able to manage in the kitchen by herself. After all, she is not cooking for the function.”

  “OH, A SOW’S TEAT,” Kamala said. “A braying donkey curse this house and all those who labor in it. Even a dog’s fart would smell better than this place.”

  The pain had settled deep within her groin. It was right on schedule; it should not have taken her by surprise. She had known since the previous day, when her monthly cycle had started, in coy red drops that settled in the cloth between her legs and welled to a majestic flow by this morning. Her son found her squatting on the floor, one hand pressed to her belly, her head resting on her knees, eyes closed tight to prevent tears escaping, mouth moving silently in a hundred nameless curses. Her broom and bucket lay idle next to her.

  “Mother? Are you not well? What ails you?” The worry in his voice roused her, but, naturally, she could not m
eet the concern and alarm in his eyes with the truth.

  “It is a back pain, child,” she said. “And a little bit in the stomach. But do not worry, it will soon be better. Have you finished the jobs you were given?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, “all done, but, Mother! Can’t you rest yourself awhile? Isn’t there some medicine that you can take?”

  She forced a smile. “Do not worry, child. It will soon be better. I will drink some water, and it will go away.”

  Her normal practice, at such times, was to speak to Vidya-ma before her pains became unbearable—all the females in the house did—and they would receive a special pain pill that Vidya-ma kept for her own use and that was not available at the neighborhood medicine shop. Like magic, within a half hour, the pulsing pain in the groin would be stemmed. But Kamala could not think of approaching Vidya-ma today. And she cursed her own foul judgment, that on a day like this, amid all her other preparations—the readying of her son’s clothes, the earnest lectures to him, the this, the that—in not taking care to provide herself with a little pill of her own. As she slowly straightened, her legs trembled—in reaction to the work already done, and in anticipation of the work to come.

  When the clock showed half past three, she could bear it no longer. “I will be back,” she whispered to her son, who had loyally spent the past few minutes trying to swab the floor for her. “You have done well. I am happy with you, Son.” His answering smile eased the pain within her a little. “Keep at your work a few minutes more,” she said. “I must visit the bathroom.”

  From the other end of the room, Thangam stared at them both suspiciously; it had not escaped her notice that Kamala’s pace of work had slowed considerably. Her frown deepened as Kamala left the room. “Come here, boy,” she called to Narayan. “Come and help here.”

  Kamala visited the bathroom and then collapsed on the kitchen stoop that led to the small backyard. The ceaseless actions of the day had increased the flow of blood; she could feel it settling between her legs, the stickiness mingling with the sweat that ran in rivulets down her back and to the tops of her thighs. The pain in her groin had extended to her lower back, in a tight band that stretched across her tailbone, and the dullness of her soul now had an overlay of temper, an irritability so acute and so devoid of respite that even the bright blue afternoon sky made her cross.