The Hope Factory (21 page)

“Narayan? Our Narayan! What did he do? He did not shame us all by misbehaving, did he?”

“No, no,” said Kamala, her pride evident. “Quite the contrary.”

And as she spoke, her mind still echoed with her amazement of the night before—the sights and sounds of the party pasted bright and clear, and in the midst of that, wonder at her son’s daring.

ANAND-SAAR’S HOUSE LOOKED LIKE
a white, glowing pearl floating on the dark earth. Light was everywhere, fighting the night: small bulbs in wired lines limning the outlines of the building and the garden walls; clay-mud lamp holders patterned with peepholes; kuthivellaku lamps—tall brass ones, with strong, firm stems that held the five petals aloft, each with a burning wick at its tip. The lights were interspersed with
the flowers that Kamala and Thangam had spent the morning arranging: saffron-white-and-green garlands of marigold, jasmine, and mango leaves. And of course, like thunderous rainfall over it all, the brilliance and dazzle of fireworks, rending the night sky with noise, smoke, and color.

The thronging guests may have enjoyed the extravagance of it all, but the lights and flowers and beauty of the house held no mysteries for Kamala; she had worked at them all day. She, instead, found herself fascinated by the guests themselves—creatures of rare glamour, the lights of the house captured and glistening about their gilded persons. She had once, in a fit of profligacy, spent money on a pair of tickets for the Capricorn Circus when it came to the city. She had chastened herself for this indulgence, knowing that the images on the posters that appeared on the backs of buses all over the city were nothing but false drama, invention, to act as deceptive lures for the circus—the actual show was bound to be a disappointment and waste of money. No such thing; she and Narayan had sat mesmerized through the show, at the clowns, the animals, and those remarkable flying ladies, who shocked Kamala first by appearing in sequined clothes of extreme indecency—little more than a bra and panty set—and then, when she was wondering indignantly if she should cover Narayan’s young and innocent eyes, they proceeded to swarm up those ladders and fly through the air in a fashion that made her forget her son, their clothes, and everything else.

That same sense of unreality pervaded Kamala as the party unfolded. She gawked, amazed, as she once had at the ladies in golden chuddies who had tumbled from ring to ring and who had danced playfully around their pet tigers and bears like goddesses immune to the laws of the natural world.

Every now and then, Kamala and Thangam were required
to carry a tray of hot snacks into the crowd. Kamala held the heavy silver tray gingerly, like an alien thing, nervous lest she bump into one of the silk-encrusted guests, gorgeous and gregarious, laughing and chattering, and splatter them with chutney. She (as per her instructions) was to invade each cluster of guests, smile, and proffer the tray, but she could not bring herself to do that. Instead, she carried the tray stiffly and walked steadily around the drawing room and the garden, avoiding all the large clusters and definitely going nowhere near the men clinging boisterously to the bar. Her goal was to return to the safety of the kitchen as quickly as possible, all the snacks on her tray preserved intact if need be.

She kept a wary eye out for Vidya-ma but did not spot her in the crowds. In the distance, she could see Thangam in a colorful dress, holding out her tray of snacks quite nonchalantly and smiling at the visitors, in an act of daring that left Kamala awed and wondering.

If she was content to stand at the kitchen door with Shanta, who seemed to have lost her acrid bite and gazed, subdued, into the crowd, Thangam, next to them, compensated with a stream of excited commentary. “Look at that one!” she would say. “Does she not look like a queen?” That hair. That dress. “And see that one dance?” she said, gesturing toward a woman moving enthusiastically on the verandah. “She is doing the dance steps from that disco-dancing movie.” And Thangam’s own feet would move in rhythmic imitation, in steps she apparently knew quite well.

“Do you know,” she asked Kamala, “how much money they are gambling for on that table?”

The card tables had been placed in a relatively quiet corner of the drawing room, away from the bar and the dancing and the noise of the fireworks, to enable the players to concentrate
on their game and to hear one another’s bids. The tables were draped in white cloth, each with a large silver bowl placed in the center. All the action took place around this bowl: money flung in, cards dealt and displayed; the women, their gold-littered robes of silk and gauze sweeping to the floor, reaching for their cards with eager bejeweled hands; the men, balancing glasses of whiskey and cigarettes and cards; the rising tides of excitement that swept through them all as the silver bowls rapidly filled and then overflowed with money.

“At that table,” said Thangam, “each game is for hundreds of rupees.” Really? said Kamala. That much? “And there, that table,” said Thangam, “they play for thousands.” Ignoring Kamala’s ignorant gasp, she pointed her to the table in the far corner, where the film star sat with his politician friend, Vidya-ma’s father standing by in close attendance, his daughter at his side, laughing and talking. “And in that table,” said Thangam, “they play each hand for a lakh.”

And thus it was that Kamala overcame her shyness and nervousness and made her way to that table with the next tray of snacks, to serve the film star and politician and others. She wanted to see what one lakh of rupees—two years’ salary—would look like all at one time.

BEFORE THE PARTY STARTED
, Kamala had given her son some words of instruction:

“Keep yourself to the shadows. Do not show your face where it is not required. Stay in the kitchen with Shanta or, if you so wish, engage in conversation with the tandoori-oven man. Do not think to thrust yourself into the glare of Anand-saar’s party. Be not tempted by the snacks they will serve; I am sure our turn will come later—or so it is to be hoped. Step not
on passing toes; speak respectfully to the catering company people; and, in general, keep yourself to the shadows.”

He had meekly agreed, and she was pleased.

But, at some point shortly thereafter, he slipped away from the kitchen. She saw him befriending the barman, assisting him by pulling out soft drink bottles from the ice basin where they lay submerged. Eventually the lure of the fireworks was too strong and he darted away, and when Anand-saar summoned her out to the fireworks, Kamala instantly suspected trouble. She rehearsed worried answers and scolds in her mind—she should have locked that mischievous boy in the storeroom. But instead, she was sent to fetch a shirt, a brand-new shirt, worth hundreds of rupees, for her son to wear.

He reappeared a whole hour later, his face bearing a satisfied grin and his hands the blackened evidence of much lighting of rockets and crackers. Vidya-ma’s father had instructed that they were to be burnt without cessation.

Kamala met him in the kitchen on her way out with a tray of snacks and paused long enough to say, “Where have you been? Have you filled yourself to the brim with fireworks? Your very body bears the trace. Go drink some water, but wash your hands well before you do.” He dutifully washed his hands but vanished before she could say more.

She was amused at his eagerness to return to the fireworks and thought no more of it, happy that he was getting such a fine reward for all his obedient work of the day—for Narayan had toiled fully as hard as a grown woman and earned a warm, fine reputation in the process. “He must have inherited his nature from his father,” said Shanta. No one begrudged him his joy at setting off the fireworks. Just as no one would begrudge him later when it came time for all of them to eat.

Her next sighting of him, therefore, almost caused her to drop the tray of snacks. She froze into position, hardly noticing the guests’ fingers that hovered greedily above the tray, like bees nursing at a nectar-filled flower.

She had a clear view of the card tables; she stared at the film star—memorizing his various aspects, the manner of his sitting and the angle at which he held his head (so familiar, and yet so startling to see it in the flesh). Her eyes (having drunk their temporary fill) wandered indifferently past the others at the table—the women, the men, the politician dividing his scattered attention between the cards and the conversation, Vidya-ma’s father standing by in benign hospitality—when she saw him.

Mr. Little Boy in Big Shirt.

He stood not three feet away from the film star, so close, staring at that great man with such a fixed intensity of purpose that Kamala became truly frightened. What ailed the boy? Had he lost all his senses? Had he sent his brains up into the sky on one of those rockets?

The landlord’s mother leaned forward. “Rama-rama!” she said. “He must have wanted to get close to him…. That is understandable, I myself would be tempted, but he should have concealed himself behind something. Foolish child! You must have been very angry.”

No, not then, said Kamala. I was simply scared.

No one paid him any attention—but Kamala knew that was a short-lived state of affairs. At any moment, Vidya-ma, or her father, or Anand-saar would spot Narayan, and there would be the reckoning. Shoutings. Shame. Perhaps an instant firing of his mother. Sure enough, Vidya-ma’s father said something to the politician—and started to turn around. Run,
thought Kamala. Move. Go hide yourself. A great anger began in her, that Narayan should ruin all that day’s effort over a piece of foolishness.

But she was once again surprised. Vidya-ma’s father glanced at Narayan, who, as though waiting for a signal, stepped forward alertly. Vidya-ma’s father gave him some instruction, and Narayan hurried to the bar and returned bearing a drink on a tray. Vidya-ma’s father handed the drink to the politician. Narayan returned to his watchful post, three feet away.

“Ah, so Vidya-ma must have placed him there,” said the landlord’s mother approvingly. “That is good. Very good. He surely would not have been given such a magnificent responsibility if he had not behaved with the utmost credit to us all.”

“Yes,” said Kamala. “Vidya-ma asked him to be there.”

And in so saying, she knew she was not articulating the entire truth of the story. This business of waiting on the film star; of being positioned exclusively where none but he would have the pleasure of serving him; of having the film star wink at him and smile and call him by name, Narayan, as though they were childhood friends; of being treated to jocular exclamations of “good boy!”—was, in fact, a situation that Narayan had brought about himself, with a temerity that none of the older employees—no, not even Thangam—would have dared to muster.

Narayan had hung around his friend the barman until he saw the film star raise his head, as though seeking a waiter. Vidya-ma and her father had stepped away to look after some other guests, and Narayan, sensing opportunity, had wasted no time. He had simply precipitated himself in front of the film star.

“Sir,” he said, a little shyly, “what is your pleasure? How may I serve you?”

The film star, if a little amused by his underaged servitor,
had not hesitated in asking for a glass of beer. After Narayan (ignoring the amused jibes of the barman) carried it to him, he did not return to his former place next to the soft drink bottles. He simply waited, three feet away from the film star, who, in no time at all it seemed, needed other things—a napkin, an ashtray, matches—and Narayan quickly provided all of these to him and to the politician and to the other players at that table.

And so, Vidya-ma returned from her hostessing rounds to find her most important guests being well looked after by the temporary-and-most-junior member of her staff. If she was startled by this, she did not show it. It had not occurred to her to provide a personal attendant to these guests, but the idea had merit. The film star was pleased. The politician was pleased. Her father was pleased. That was all that mattered.

“He is a good lad,” said the landlord’s mother. “So smart! Our Narayan.”

Her praise made it easier for Kamala to speak her burning desire. “He is smart, mother, and I would so much like him to go and study in a paid school … he would do so well … but the money they charge is so high!”

“Child,” said the landlord’s mother, after a moment of silence. “You fully well know what the answer is to your problem.”

“What is it?” asked Kamala, surprised.

“Speak to Narayan’s father’s family. Speak to your brother,” said the landlord’s mother. “They will help you.”

Mother, said Kamala, and fell silent.

The landlord’s mother shook her head. “There is such a thing as too much pride, Kamala-daughter. There is such a thing as being too obstinate. And you should not let your son suffer for it.”

Kamala kept silent, not knowing what further to say.

She slept deeply in the afternoon and so found herself awake late at night, the memories of the party returning, reconfigured as worries, blowing through her mind, rising and falling to the rhythm of Narayan’s sleeping breath. So bright, her child. So determined. How was she to provide him with a suitable education? With proper guidance for his life?

The landlord’s mother’s advice intruded, abrasive, grating like rough concrete against skin. If one had a duty to one’s family to be loyal, then surely family too had a reverse duty to make the task an easy one.

Let her brother help, indeed. As though he were full of the caring, charitable impulses he pretended to. There was no prosperity waiting for her in the village. There never had been. Her brother knew that as well as she did.

She picked up an onion from a basket. It was a little past its prime, with skin lying pale and dry and brittle on the pink flesh beneath, slipping and tearing easily under the pressure of her fingers. The taste of it, strong and pungent, would be quieted only by fire, which soothed its acrid bite and allowed the mellow inner sweetness to emerge. An onion had a special magic; unbidden, it could take her back to her village and childhood, where her mother supplemented their variable income with a few onions and chiles grown in the dirt behind their hut.