The Hope Factory (18 page)

Her years in Bangalore had immeasurably changed her view of her brother; he was no longer the vicious, terrorizing force of her girlhood. He looked tired and uncertain, removed from the comfort of his village and quietened by the overwhelming rhythm and thrum of the big city. She set aside her fears of battle and engaged instead to look after her guest. He changed into a cotton shirt and lungi folded to his knees and accepted her offer of coffee.

He had placed his formal wear in a large jute bag; from this
he pulled out gifts from his wife: a blouse piece for Kamala and a plastic comb for Narayan. Kamala received the gifts with pleasure and felt relaxed enough to make a joke: “Perhaps now,” she said, “Narayan will actually comb his hair,” and was gratified to see her brother and son laugh along. She too had a gift to give: a box of North Indian–style sweets for him to take home; his wife would find them novel and enjoy sharing them with her children and neighbors.

The evening passed swiftly enough on wheels of punctilious civility. Narayan, thankfully, talked sensibly with his uncle, recounting none of his wilder stories. Her brother spoke briefly of his wife’s uncertain health and of their three children; he told Kamala little pieces of village gossip; he praised the food she had cooked. She in turn felt a degree of charity toward him that she had little expected. Who knew her brother could be so harmless? If this was the character-altering game the gods were playing, then—who knew?—perhaps tomorrow she would go to work and find Shanta flinging her arms about her with a smile and Thangam beavering away and Vidya-ma dispensing loans cheerfully.

Her brother seemed to be doing well; he talked about having purchased a share in a new village shop. “Soon, Sister,” he said, “I will bring my wife and children to visit you.”

Kamala nodded, her words preempted by Narayan’s excited “I can show them around! Everything!”

Despite the cordiality of their conversation, Kamala did not let her guard down. She told him briefly about her job, ready to deflect any question about her salary—but none came. Instead, her brother reserved his quizzing for Narayan. Here too Kamala refused to show weakness: Narayan, she told him, was doing well in school—and gods willing, would soon be shifting to a paid school with a fine future ahead of him.

“These are good prospects. Work hard,” her brother said, nodding and addressing his nephew, “and do well.”

The conversation slipped safely back to village news.

THE LANDLORD’S MOTHER JOINED
them as soon as their evening meal was done; Kamala was wryly surprised at how long the old lady had waited, exercising, no doubt, the utmost tact and patience. She, like the others who lived in the courtyard, was brimming with curiosity at this unprecedented visitor from Kamala’s family—hitherto missing in action. For Kamala, so free with news of her present, tended to be frugal when discussing her past.

Kamala went to wash their dinner plates and throw away the little food that remained, for it would spoil overnight. She had overestimated the quantities they would eat, or, to be precise, she had not wanted to appear parsimonious. Squatting at the tap, she could hear the old lady questioning her brother like an unsparing schoolteacher.

Kamala’s landlord was a simple man, fundamentally unsuited to the business of landlording, treating his tenants with a courtesy usually reserved for guests. He was unable to deny any request made to him, especially if it was phrased in polite terms and after due inquiries about his health and the well-being of his family. Since his wife suffered, like him, from an excess of sensibility, any difficult decision that needed to be conveyed to his tenants was delivered by his mother, who did not.

The landlord’s mother was always ready to concede her son’s superior knowledge of the ways of the world and, certainly, his right to manage his own affairs. If she voiced her opinion in his hearing, it was only to provide him with an alternate point of view (humble and fault-ridden though it may
be). And if by the magic of osmosis, her opinions somehow managed to become his, that was the will of the gods. It was a process she handled deftly, bringing to it an expertise garnered through years of managing the landlord’s late father; in short, the old lady was the unofficial regent of the courtyard.

Please, she prayed, she is very important to me. Please let my brother not be provoked into being rude to her. I could not bear the shame. I could not repair the damage.

Kamala had misplaced her worry.

Her brother appeared keen to make a good impression. She returned with plates clean and dripping wet to hear him holding forth to an interested audience. The landlord’s mother had been joined within minutes by her daughter-in-law and by the young bride. “… many guntas of land,” he was saying. “Yes, we are lucky to be living so comfortably …

“And yes, the shop is also doing well. The second one also.”

In a frozen, startled silence, Kamala listened to descriptions of the acres of land her brother owned, his thriving shops. And then, not content with talking so freely about himself, he proceeded determinedly to establish the worth of Kamala’s late husband’s family as well: “… even more land,” he said. “Cows producing the finest milk. Very nice house.”

Kamala saw the open mouths, the heated rise in speculation; even Narayan listening to this in astonishment. She had no idea how to stem the flow of her brother’s sudden loquacity. She could feel eyes sliding speculatively from him to her and back again. It was the bride, naturally presumptuous, who chose to ask the big unanswered question:

“Aiyo, uncle,” she said, “if Kamala-aunty can stay like such a queen at home, why is she living and working like this?”

“Hush, child,” said the landlord’s mother. “What a question to ask.”

Her brother did not seem offended by the bride’s impertinence. “It is a good question,” he said, with a kindly solicitude that made Kamala want to bang her wet plates on his head, “but you good ladies know Kamala … she can be very obstinate. How many times we have all told her to come and live with us—but she will not listen.”

“Yes, Kamala-aunty can be quite obstinate,” agreed the bride, with an unbecoming haste.

“Amma”—her brother addressed the landlord’s mother—“it is good that you have looked after her so well; she is very lucky. But why should she clean houses here when she can live in comfort at home? Her husband’s family too would welcome her—our family is held in such respect in the village.”

“We are happy to have her with us,” said the old lady, “and I thank you for your words. We have cherished her like a daughter. But she is luckier still to have a brother like you, of strong character and so caring. Lucky for her and so good for Narayan—he needs a man’s hand to control his mischief.”

Narayan’s protest was quelled by his mother’s stern glare; she herself said nothing.

Her brother, encouraged by the old lady’s words, caught Narayan by the ear and twisted it until the boy winced. “Mischief, is it?” he said, genially. “I see that next time, I shall have to bring my cane with me.”

WHEN ALL WAS QUIET
and everyone asleep, Kamala lay awake, irritated and baffled by her brother’s conduct, the careless stories that she could not, in good grace, contradict. In the space of half a day, he had spoiled her hard-won reputation of eight years. She could see it in the landlord’s mother’s eyes:
from being regarded as a hardworking woman worthy of support and pity to being seen as a willful, obstinate fool.

The landlord’s mother had been present when Kamala first met the landlord, and if Kamala had not realized, then, the significance of the little gray-haired woman in the corner with a grandchild on her lap, she soon did and never failed to pay her respects. Perhaps it was this, or perhaps the old woman just liked Kamala’s company, for though Kamala led a morally impeccable life (apart from an occasional loss of temper), she was not too proud to sit in the moonlight of an evening and engage in a gentle gossip about others, listening with pleasure and interested commentary. Whatever the reason, for a long time now, Kamala had been shielded from the old lady’s business instincts and from the knocks on doors, every now and then, around the courtyard, with requests for increased rent.

But now, thanks to her brother, Kamala worried that her status as the old lady’s pet tenant might soon cease. The bride’s words of the previous week rang louder in the night. If the rent increased—biting into a larger chunk of her monthly income—how would she be able to save for Narayan’s schooling?

THE CESSATION OF THE MACHINES
signaled the end of the second shift on the factory floor, but the sounds of debate and disagreement swirled unabated around Anand’s office.

“It is the correct thing,” said the HR man obstinately. “The workers are happy. It gives us a good reputation with the unions.”

“It is too much,” said Ananthamurthy. “What is the need? Mrs. Padmavati, do you not agree with me? Such a big increment this time—they will expect the same next time. Too much! We cannot afford this.”

“As to that,” said Mrs. Padmavati with her usual precision, “it is financially viable in the current scenario.”

Anand listened and did not interrupt. He was quite clear in his own mind: the wage increase was a good thing, especially when the company stood on the verge of gaining international contracts. It represented a vote of confidence in the workers. If he’d had any doubt, the meeting with the union leader that morning had settled it. For the union leader—face beaming,
brimming over with goodwill and fervent promises of continued keenness—it was a political coup; he could take personal credit for it. Anand had always tried to maintain good relations with the workers, but he could see, in the union leader’s pleasure, that their relationship had shifted to a new level of mutual commitment.

The Japanese deal had moved ahead remarkably well. The short list had now narrowed to just two companies: theirs and one other from Delhi. That was it. He and Ananthamurthy had researched all they could about their competitors and cautiously come to the opinion that they did not have that much to fear. The Delhi company was owned by a prominent businessman with a flair for getting his name in the papers. That did not necessarily make them better. In fact, according to Ananthamurthy, who had methods of unearthing strange bits of gossip from unlikely sources, they were disliked by their suppliers for their delays in payment and their habit of rewarding themselves with expensive cars before paying anyone else. Surely the Japanese would be able to sense such bad practices? Surely the very rectitude of Cauvery Auto, with its quiet offices and efficient shop floor, would speak for them?

Anand drove home, pondering if there was anything else they could do to tip things in their favor.

“
OH, THANK YOU SO MUCH
. That’s lovely! Yes, see you tomorrow. Okay, then. Bye!” Vidya arrived home a few minutes after he did, her face still flushed and animated from her phone conversation, narrow, orange-rimmed dark glasses resting like a hair band on her head. She looked up at Anand, and the animation faded.

There was no question about it. His wife was molting again.
Shedding her old feathers and growing ones anew. He had seen this happen before—a vivid reengineering of her entire being after time spent on the drawing board and in vacuum-sealed laboratories, the birth of a new avatar complete with new dress, new hairstyle, new speech, new concerns.

It was usually triggered by her current friends and obsessions; over the years, Anand had witnessed the birth of the outdoorsy, sporty wife, who trekked determinedly in the nature she loved, eventually killed and re-interpreted as the Bollywood princess decked in long, salon-straightened hair and sequins, shaking her hips to persistent Hindi film music, who, in turn, gave way to the artsy interior-decorating aesthete who wore bright green glasses and patronized art shows and plays that questioned the meaning of life in modern India.

It had never bothered him until now—now, it bothered him intensely. The previous week, she had returned home with a haircut. The hair that had swung down to her waist and been straightened religiously each week at the beauty parlor was cut short to her ears. He had gazed at her, startled.

“Well?” she said, and there had been a challenge in the question.

It’s different, he said. When he hastily added, “It’s nice,” she said with a particular satisfaction, “I
knew
you wouldn’t like it.”

Now she was wearing a Fabindia kurta, the block-printed tunic reminding him, appallingly, of another woman: his wife had chosen, this time, to turn herself into a horrifying, inadequate facsimile of Kavika.

He wanted to weep.

THAT VIDYA WAS EXPERIENCING
her own difficulties with this particular transmogrification was evident when she came to the study to discuss the annual Diwali party with him. This itself was unusual.

She settled herself on the sofa, placing an ankle over her opposite knee, a masculine pose that he at once recognized as belonging to another woman.

“I would so much prefer to keep the whole thing simple,” she said. “A return to simple values. A simple, quiet affair.”

He refused to help her. “Why don’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course…. The thing is, my father …”

Anand knew precisely what the thing was. Harry Chinappa was not a subscriber to his daughter’s current transformation. Especially now, in the face of Diwali. Over the years, what had commenced as a gentle, mocking advisory to his daughter’s annual Diwali party, received by Vidya as a happy counterpoint to Anand’s own perennial indifference to such matters, had escalated into a complete takeover, with Harry Chinappa orchestrating both the party arrangements and the guest list, filling it, much to his daughter’s starstruck gratitude, with many of his own acquaintances. Anand, with a certain resignation, had confined his own involvement to matters of budget alone, a tail meekly attached to a kite as his wife swirled along on myriad social winds, the string that held her aloft amidst her buffeting firmly guided by the authoritarian hands of her father. The previous year, a hundred people had infested the house for the Diwali party; Anand had thought that about ninety people too many—a view apparently shared by no one else, least of all his wife, until a few days previously, when Kavika had leaned her elbows against the table in a restaurant
and started talking animatedly about the Diwalis of her childhood.