The Hope Factory by Lavanya Sankaran Page A

whatever rubbish I make. Here,” she said, picking up a few kebabs, “put these in a dabba … take them home when you leave.”
    “Are you certain? Would you not like them for yourself?” Kamala said for ceremony’s sake, before delightedly packing them away. Narayan would savor them with his evening meal.
    Vidya-ma and her friend went out in the afternoon. Thangam vanished upstairs to clean the master bedroom, and Kamala finished washing the lunch dishes. The kitchen was still imbued with quiet and peace. The dhobi-man had returned the children’s clothes freshly ironed; she carried them upstairs to place inside their respective cupboards.
    When she returned, she saw a shadow in the kitchen—and knew that Shanta was back. Urgent curiosity warred with the superior urge to slice through the cook’s pretensions.
    “So, sister,” Kamala called out, very much on her dignity, “who is it, then, who goes out to enjoy herself and leaves the work to others?”
    Shanta was standing over the sink, her back to Kamala. She did not turn around, and Kamala, annoyed at being ignored in her moment of triumph, went up to her, repeating: Who is it then who leaves the work to others?
    Oh, sister, she said. Oh.
    The side of Shanta’s face was bruised; angry marks, as though drawn by a crazed lipstick, slithered down her skin to vanish behind her saree pallu and reemerge on her arm. She leaned against the sink, her arms and legs trembling. She would not look at Kamala; she would not ask for help, but Kamala was not deterred; she gently held her, bearing the weight ofthe beaten woman upon her own body. At Shanta’s usual place against the wall, Kamala helped her sit, crooning to her, nonsense words as she might to a child. “Sit, sister, sit,” she murmured. “You are safe now, safe. All will be well.”
    She soaked a cloth in cool water and touched it gently to Shanta’s bruises, loosening her blouse and tracking the passage of the husband’s hand down her body. He had held her by her hair, pulling some out in the process, slapped her, fattening her eye, and left the impress of his fingers on her skin as an enduring gift.
    Kamala rooted about inside her woven plastic bag for a moment. “Here,” she said to Shanta, pulling out a Crocin tablet, white in its blue wrapping. “Take this, it will ease the pain.”
    Shanta sipped at the hot, sweet tea from the steel tumbler that Kamala soon held to her lips, wiping tears that flowed from a swollen eye. “He needed money,” she said. “I gave him all I had, but that was not enough.” She swallowed the pill and closed her eyes, her head lolling against the wall. Her hand, holding tight to Kamala’s, would not let go.
    Thangam dropped her bucket and brooms in a noisy clatter when she saw the scene in the kitchen. “Oh, that sinner!” she said. “That rakshasa-spawn!”
    At that moment, the front doorbell pealed. “That must be Vidya-ma! Quick,” said Thangam. “Hurry yourself, Kamala sister; you answer the door and I will help Shanta into the back room; Vidya-ma must not see this …”
    Kamala pushed the brooms that Thangam had dropped to one side and hastened to the door. Vidya-ma looked displeased. “What is the meaning of this delay?” she said. “I wondered if my entire household had vanished along with Shanta.”
    Kamala was relieved to hear Thangam’s voice behind her. “She has returned, amma.”
    “Oh, is it? Well, where is she? … Resting? Why is that? First, she takes a holiday without permission, then … what, is this a dharamshala?”
    “She has had an accident, ma,” said Thangam. “On the road … She meant to absent herself for just ten minutes to purchase some medicine, then met with an accident. A scooter banged into her, she fainted, went to the hospital, and now she is back.”
    “Let her rest, then,” said Vidya-ma. “You will have to cook until she is better, Thangam … though hopefully she will be well enough to cook for the