The Hope Factory

by Lavanya Sankaran

  Thangam tucked the money into a handbag that had once belonged to Vidya-ma (cast away when the strap broke, rescued and repaired by Thangam), opened her accounts book, and entered a number neatly. The names were written in English, the numbers next to them stretching across the page.

  “Okay,” said Thangam, “that is settled. Next month, don’t be late.”

  “I won’t, sister,” said Kamala’s neighbor before vanishing into her room, her normal impudence quite subdued by Thangam’s efficiency.

  “So by next month this chit fund will be finished.” Thangam put her book aside, relaxing her official manner. “And I will have made ten thousand rupees profit.” She caught Kamala’s stare. “You should come in for the next one, akka.”

  “Oh, you are going to run one more?”

  “Of course. I am very good at this.” This was no idle boast; respectable people in the neighborhood trusted their money to Thangam, for, unlike Kamala, she was a ninth-class-pass with all the accompanying skills of being literate and able to do mathematical problems and, though a full eight years younger than Kamala herself, apparently privy to expertise in complicated financial matters. This was the third chit fund that Thangam had started and brought to a successful conclusion.

  “I have never participated in one….” Kamala understood the mechanics of a chit fund: a small group of people agreed to pay a certain amount each month into a common pool maintained by the person running the chit. Every month, one member of the chit fund got a chance to collect the entire pool. It was all well in theory; it forced a savings habit, and the ability to have a large lump sum available for emergencies was useful—but Kamala could not bring herself to trust anyone else with her hard-saved money. Her preferred method of savings was to collect money in an old envelope at the bottom of a locked steel trunk.

  “It is very useful. You should join. And this time,” said Thangam, “I plan to expand it. Thirty people, two thousand rupees from each of them. A total monthly chit of sixty thousand rupees. Imagine that, Kamala-akka!”

  “You also pay this monthly amount? Two thousand rupees?”

  Thangam smiled in satisfaction. “No, I do not. Because I am taking the responsibility of running it, I have to pay only half of what everyone else pays each month. That is where my profit comes from. For a chit of sixty thousand, my end profit is thirty thousand. Imagine that!”

  Kamala could not. For all her savings over the years, she had barely managed to accumulate ten thousand rupees.

  “And you know something else I do? Sometimes people don’t withdraw the full amount. Then I put what remains in a bank account—and the bank pays me interest. Five percent! And so I make even more.”

  Kamala knew that banks were fabled to dispense such charity, but she could not conceive of actually daring to enter one.

  “Thange, people don’t mind that you have to pay only half?”

  “Of course not!” said Thangam. “After all, if someone defaults on their monthly payment, I have to make good to the fund on their behalf, do I not? It is a great responsibility. But people have confidence in me—and quite rightly. I do a good job! You must join,” she said.

  For a fleeting moment, Kamala contemplated the joy of having sixty thousand rupees to draw upon, before reality intruded. “I cannot afford the monthly payment, Thangam,” she said. “After all my expenses, very little is left. Perhaps if in the future you run a smaller chit, I can join.”

  She ran her fingers through the water and the rice, quite forgetting to strain it out. “Will these two join your new chit fund, do you think?” She signaled her neighbors’ room with a jerk of her chin.

  “Yes, of course,” said Thangam. “He is working as a machine tool operator, a good, steady income. That little she-goat does nothing, of course …”

  “Does Shanta join?” Kamala asked.

  Thangam slapped her forehead with her fingers. “Ayo! She did once or twice. But this last time, she has never had any money to put into it…. You know her situation …”

  In the contemplative silence that fell between them, Thangam said: “Even last time he beat her … but not so bad …”

  Kamala clicked her tongue. However much one might dislike Shanta, this was not a fate to be wished on any woman. For how can one break away from husbands, unless they die? And who outside the family could help? Inconceivable to parade one’s family affairs—the whole world would laugh at such shameful behavior.

  “Do not worry,” she told Thangam consolingly, “not all husbands are like that …”

  “I am not worried, akka. I am not sure I wish to get married.” Thangam extended her foot and gazed at her toes, painted a bright, shiny pink. “I like to keep control of my money—and answer to no man.”

  “What do your parents say?” Kamala was unable to hide her shock.

  “What are they to say? I pay all their bills, do I not? I tell you, they may scold, but they are truly happier if I do not ask to get married…. Tell me, sister, was your marriage such a great pleasure?”

  “Of course, I was happy,” said Kamala automatically, but this was a routine, polite response. She watched Thangam search in her handbag, pulling out a small bottle of cream salve and rubbing it into a patch of dry skin at her wrist. Kamala squinted; surely this was the same bottle she had seen on Vidya-ma’s dressing table? Thangam saw her glance and smiled, not without a certain pride. “See?” she said. “This is mine. I am able to buy it. You think I could if I were married? No, I would be working and he would be spending my earnings…. Here,” she said, reaching for Kamala’s arm and rubbing a bit of the lotion into the skin. “How soft it makes the skin. Feel it, akka! Feel how soft …”

  Thangam put her lotion bottle and accounts book away in her bag and stood up. “I had better go back quickly before Vidya-ma misses me and starts shouting…. No, no coffee, thanks, akka. I will depart and return,” she said in farewell, leaving Kamala to rinse out her long-soaking rice, the starch having leached the rice water to a paleness, using her fingers as a loose strain to prevent the escape of rice grains before refilling the steel utensil with clean water for a quick second rinse.

  SHE MIGHT NOT WISH to participate, but there was no denying that Thangam’s chit fund business was indirectly responsible for Kamala’s job. That was how they had met. Kamala had been seated, just as she was now, on her stoop after a long, unsuccessful day of seeking a suitable employment. She had been without work for a few difficult weeks, and though she had managed to fund herself and her son, the resultant dip in her precious savings had awakened an old fear that lingered, weeks later. Her previous employer had decided to move to Hyderabad and had omitted to tell Kamala so until the very last day. “No, not for a holiday,” she had been told. “We are moving. The furniture and so on will be moved later, but the house will be locked up, so goodbye.” Kamala’s subsequent comments had been addressed to a closed door and though she knew her hot-tempered mutterings were pointless, there had been little else to turn to for comfort.

  Thangam had been visiting the courtyard to collect a payment. They had fallen into the casual conversation of new acquaintances, and Thangam had looked thoughtful when Kamala asked her if she knew of a job.

  “Yes, I might,” Thangam said. “In the house where I work…. Look,” she said, “give me a day or two to work it out and I will come back.”

  Kamala had paid her no real attention; it sounded like the vague sort of thing that people say when they wish to be comforting.

  But sure enough, two days later, Thangam reappeared. “Come with me,” she said urgently. “Right now. Make haste!”

  Kamala had been waiting for Narayan to return from school, and he was already late. “Can we not do this later? Or tomorrow morning?”

  “Not if you want this job,” Thangam said, and Kamala, leaving word for her son, immediately followed her.

  At Vidya-ma’s house, Thangam slipped in through the back door with the stealth and secrecy of a mouse, taking Kamala with her. “Wait
here,” she said softly and went inside a room that Kamala later identified as Anand-saar’s study.

  Kamala edged closer to the door to listen to what was being said inside.

  Thangam was saying: “Saar, I have brought this woman. For the cleaning job.”

  “Thangam,” said a man’s voice. “I think Vidya-ma has clearly said no.”

  “Saar,” said Thangam. “The work is really too much for one person. And I know this woman. She is a really good worker. I have known her since I was a child. And everyone likes her very much. Good-tempered and hardworking.”

  There was a silence, and then the man spoke again. “You really feel that the work here is too much for one maid?”

  “Yes, saar,” said Thangam. “Every night I am so tired I feel like I am falling sick, saar. Not able to eat also.”

  Kamala, summoned into the room, stood quietly, trying to appear suitable, the ideal maidservant, under Anand-saar’s silent inspection. But he simply said, “Thangam, I must first speak to Vidya-ma.”

  “Yes, saar,” said Thangam.

  One day later, she poked her head through the courtyard door, bright-eyed with success, and said: “As I promised, sister, as I promised! He has agreed. Come tomorrow morning by nine o’clock, and assuredly, do not be late!”

  The following day, Kamala was subjected to an unhappy inspection by Vidya-ma. Her future employer was dressed in jeans and a pretty blouse, her long hair flowing, her lips and fingertips tinted pink, beautiful like a woman in a movie or magazine. Vidya-ma did not seem equally impressed by Kamala, glancing at her and saying to Anand-saar in what was apparently an ongoing discussion: “I really don’t know why we need her … that Thangam is really lazy … I don’t want to become a charity house. Oh, okay, fine,” and addressing Kamala, “You must do a really good job if you wish to retain this job.”

  I will, amma, said Kamala.

  “And you must be punctual. The other two stay here, but I don’t want you to come late…. What does your husband do?”

  I have none, amma, said Kamala. I am a widow. I have just one son.

  “How old? Twelve, is it? That is not so bad…. Old enough … It will not matter so much if you have to stay late now and then.”

  And though Kamala had begged to differ, she did not do so. Not then, and not later. She and Narayan needed this job.

  If Narayan was surprised, the evening after Thangam’s recent visit, by the odd quality of the oversoaked rice during dinner, Kamala brushed his comments aside to discuss matters of far greater moment. “Tomorrow we are going to make that visit,” she said, answering the question on his face with a rising exasperation. “Who do you suppose! How many people do you know who have won scholarships and work in Pune in fancy offices?”

  THE APPLES, FOUR OF THEM in a thin plastic bag, looked disappointing, yellow-streaked, red-spotted, and not, in balance, worthy of the money that had been spent on them. Kamala had hesitated a long while at the fruit store—for this purchase, she had avoided the cheaper fruit carts—eyes flitting between the boxes in the front, their pink paper covers peeled back to reveal the jeweled treasures within. These were the most expensive, many from foreign lands, the apples, in particular, of a matched glowing hue like manufactured plastic balls, reds, yellows, greens, extravagantly priced, a mere kilo of fruit costing an entire week’s worth of vegetables.

  Kamala had examined them with her eyes but made her final selection from the cheaper-but-still-expensive North Indian apples piled to one side in little pyramids, and now, back home, she inspected them dubiously.

  “Supposing he does not like apples?” asked Narayan. Dodging his mother’s reflexive smack, he repeated: “Supposing? Supposing he hates apples?”

  “He will not hate them,” said Kamala. They were simply too expensive for anyone to dislike. “Now, get ready.”

  “Mother. I am ready,” Narayan said but with a certain futility. His mother grabbed him by the shoulder and proceeded to inspect him as she had not in years, sniffing at his breath, looking at his teeth, which, like hers, were strong and white and straight. She moistened her thumbs in her mouth and ran them quickly over his eyebrows before combing his hair herself, slicing a side part with military precision and slicking the oiled hair down on either side of it until it gleamed with a solid, metallic sheen, daring him with her stern gaze to touch it, even if his scalp itched.

  She inspected him again when she was done and felt pleased. Unlike the apples, he made a very good impression. The dark blue polyester pants (slightly loose at the waist, true) and the full-sleeved, light blue cotton shirt with red patchwork looked very smart. She was glad that she had overridden Narayan’s foolish desire to wear a T-shirt. “I’ve seen Vyasa wear them, even Anand-saar,” he’d argued, appealing to his mother’s weakness. But she had been firm. “When you are as rich as them, then you can also afford to be negligent in your dress.” Which her employers were, indisputably: she was continually amazed by the careless dress of those children, wearing their favorite T-shirts until they developed holes and, last week, Valmika leaving the house in jeans ripped and torn through, fit for dustcloths and not the movie she was headed to.

  Kamala glanced quickly at her own image in the mirror: she was dressed with neatness and propriety. She was going to ask for help, it was true, but did not at all wish to appear needy.

  As they neared the bright pink building, its windows and sloping concrete roof highlighted in red trim, Kamala felt her breath catch. The shiny car was still parked outside, but there were ominous signs that it was being prepared for imminent departure: a suitcase, tied tight with tape, had been placed in the backseat. Kamala debated within herself and then decided that it was all right; if he was indeed on the verge of leaving, then she could claim that they had come to say goodbye, to wish him well on his long journey to distant Pune.

  “Come, come, don’t delay,” she said impatiently to Narayan as they climbed the stairs, even though he was following close behind. “Here, you hold the apples. No,” she said, “perhaps I had better carry them. Yes, that is better. Remember, be respectful now.”

  The front entrance of the house had a string of gold foil swastikas interspersed with red om symbols strung over it, as if to say, yes, this is indeed a house blessed, a people blessed. The door swung open at her quiet knock, and Kamala was instantly comforted by her reception. She needn’t have been so worried, so shy; she could have made this visit a long time ago.

  “Kamala-akka! Come in, come in, sister,” said the engineer’s mother.

  The engineer’s father said: “You have brought your son; how big he has grown.”

  They received the apples with a gratifying pleasure, and Kamala soon found herself seated, with a glass tumbler full of Coca-Cola in her hand, Narayan unusually quiet by her side, sipping from his own glass.

  She stared about herself in wonder. In the course of her work she had been in homes far more lavish, but none that had affected her so personally—this home, with its mosaic floor and well-constructed aluminum windows with glass shutters and walls resplendent with paint and not whitewash. Furthermore, she was seated on an actual sofa, the back and sides protected by plastic lace antimacassars. There was a fat television on a stand against the wall. The windows, beautiful in themselves, with their glass and horizontal metal bars, were further dressed in curtains. There was a separate bedroom, the door to which was kept firmly closed. Through the kitchen door, she spied a fridge.

  The engineers’ parents did not seem to mind her intent staring. Perhaps they were used to it from their curious, awestruck visitors. Perhaps they even liked it; after all, the joy of good fortune surely increases with the admiration of others.

  “Would you like to see the bathroom?” the engineer’s mother said. “There is a geyser for hot water.” Kamala followed her and praised all she saw.

  “Your good son,” she finally said, after she and Narayan had returned to the sofa and their Coca-Cola. “You must be very proud.”

 
; The bedroom door opened and the engineer appeared, as though, like some eager-to-please, quick-gun-murugan of a deity, the very mention of his name was sufficient to produce a manifestation, though—if truth be told—he looked neither happy to see the visitors nor all that eager to please.

  He was fresh from his bath, filling the air with the scent of hot soap and talcum powder and wearing, as Narayan was quick to note and lecture his mother on at length afterward, a T-shirt and jeans. He glanced at the visitors, glanced at his watch, and then glanced helplessly at his mother. “If I do not leave soon,” he said, “I will not even reach Mysore by nightfall.”

  Next to her, Kamala felt Narayan stand up quickly and tug at her hand, treating this as a signal to leave immediately. Kamala too felt abashed at the engineer’s words but held her place. She had not wasted money on four expensive apples just to see their new hot-water geyser.

  The engineer’s mother, prescient, and perhaps not immune to the maternal plea in Kamala’s heart, stepped in to save the day: “Yes, you must leave,” she said, “but at least please thank Kamala-ma for the apples she has so kindly brought to sustain you on the long drive.”

  The engineer looked ashamed and sat down on the edge of the chair opposite.

  “I once went to Mysore,” said the engineer’s father, agreeably. “By bus. It was a long time ago.”

  “Yes, and last week, we went to Tirupathi,” said his wife. “To give thanks to Lord Venkateshwara.”

  “We drove in the car,” said the engineer’s father. “After we came back, we went to the cinema to see that new multistarrer. It was very good,” he said. “Have you seen it?”

  No, said Kamala.

  Yes, said Narayan. Ignoring his mother’s sidelong, questioning glance and belated annoyed comprehension—that he had seen it on his own time with that rascal Raghavan—he continued: “It was very good.”

  Kamala finished her cola to the last drop and decided to intervene. Such general talk about travels and cinema was no doubt important to fostering good relations, but she could see the engineer sipping his way impatiently through the tumbler of coffee his mother had placed in his hands. In a moment he would be done, and then he would be gone. She interrupted, cutting short the engineer’s father’s description, listened to raptly by Narayan, of the multiplex cinema hall they had seen the movie in, situated in one of those new, shiny shopping malls that Kamala had seen from the outside but had never entered.