The Hope Factory by Lavanya Sankaran

she could slice her way through entire trays of vegetables, reducing them to shreds and slivers in minutes; strength of muscle, so her arms could tirelessly stir the gravies on the stove and grind the raw, soaked rice and lentils into smooth batters in the old stone grinder that was cemented into the floor; and a litany of incantations thatconverted the spices that lay in everyone’s kitchen into magical tools of alchemy. A simple chunk of gingerroot, in Shanta’s hands, tugged at the senses in ways that one could never imagine possible.
    If she were in a good mood, the meal she laid before them was elaborate and generous, sometimes exceeding the food she served to the family at the dining table. This was rare. But even if her mood was so sour that she could not bring herself to feed the other servants with anything other than a large vat of rice and another of lightly spiced sambar, it was still sambar so flavorful that it gently teased the mouth before settling delightfully in the stomach.
    One day, during that first week, there was a stack of parathas next to the rice. Kamala took two and stopped in amazement after the first bite. She had never eaten a paratha like this before, with magical layers of spice and flavor and tenderness that Shanta’s harsh qualities could not possibly have been capable of producing. Kamala ate a second piece—and immediately thought of her son. How he would enjoy this … She eyed the rotis on her plate. Perhaps she could take them home with her at the end of the day? What difference did it make if she ate them now or later?
    She pushed them to one side of her plate, contenting herself with rice, waiting until everyone else had finished before rolling them up. She was about to stuff them into her bag when a firm hand gripped her wrist.
    “Put that back. I am not cooking for every grubby street brat whose mother is too lazy to cook for her own child.”
    Kamala felt herself tremble in rage and embarrassment, her fingers dropping the rotis. The silent malevolence of Shanta’s gaze made it clear that she would take great pleasure in thwarting Kamala.
    They had existed in a state of uneasy quick-to-fire truculence ever since then, Kamala’s passages through the kitchen marked by Shanta’s comments and her own rebuttals. There was no question of a pleasant exchange of personal information.
    “Yes, she is married, but naturally, as the second wife, she does not speak freely about it.” Thangam seemed to know all the details. “It is not the sort of thing one can speak of with pride, is it? The truth of the matter is he spends most of his time with the first wife—Shanta sees him only when he requires money.”
    “Has she children?”
    “One, but there were two,” said Thangam. “Both young men in their twenties. The elder died three years ago in a road accident. He was walking home in the rains—you remember those bad floods?—and he fell into an open manhole in the road. The government promised Shanta twenty thousand rupees as reparation and gave her twelve—which her husband immediately took from her …”
    “And the other?”
    “Oh, he is in every way his father’s son. He does no work; he spends his life as an alcoholic and runs after his mother, like an unweaned baby, for food, for money, for whatever she can give.”
    “Poor thing,” said Kamala. “That is trouble indeed …”
    “Yes,” said Thangam, “but tell me, sister, who does not have troubles? The rest of us manage to smile occasionally, do we not?”
    Kamala, at her ease in the kitchen for the first time, said, “It would be nice—would it not?—if she would stay away a few days…. Then we could feast like this every day …”
    “Akka, which film have you been watching?” said Thangam,with some asperity. “We would eat like this only if Vidya-ma’s friend also lived here. Such leftovers wouldn’t come our way normally. They would be put into the fridge—and you would be resigned to eating