A Suitable Boy

  ‘What can I do for you, Mukherji Shaib?’ he said, and took a gulp of whisky.

  ‘This young man, who has been working for us, is now looking for a job. He wanted to see if Praha could give him one. He has excellent academic qualifications in footwear technology, and I can vouch for him in all other respects.’

  Mr Khandelwal smiled benevolently and, looking now not at Mr Mukherji but at Haresh, exclaimed: ‘Why are you being so generous as to give me such a good man?’

  Mr Mukherji looked a little shamefaced. He said, quietly: ‘He has been hard done by, and I do not have the courage to talk to my brother-in-law about it. I fear, anyway, that it would do no good; his mind is entirely made up.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Mr Khandelwal of Haresh.

  ‘Sir, I have applied for a job with Praha several times, and have sent several letters, but have not had any proper reply at all. If you were to see that my application is at least considered, I’m sure that my qualifications and work experience will get me a job with the firm.’

  ‘Take his application,’ said Mr Khandelwal, and the dapper Czech took it and jotted something down on his pad.

  ‘So—’ said Mr Khandelwal, ‘you will hear from Praha in less than a week.’

  But Haresh, though he did indeed hear within a few days from Praha, was once again offered by the Personnel Office a job at Rs 28 a week: a pittance which succeeded in doing nothing but making him angry.

  However, it reassured Umesh Uncle. ‘I told you that you would not get a job if you left this one. But you never took my advice; you considered yourself so smart. Look at you now, sponging off others, rather than working, like a man should.’

  Haresh controlled himself before replying: ‘Thank you for your advice yet again, Umesh Uncle. It is as valuable as it has always been.’

  Umesh Uncle, faced by Haresh’s sudden meekness, felt that his spirit had been broken, and that he would be an easier recipient for his counsel from then on. ‘It’s good that you’ve seen sense at last,’ he told him. ‘A man should never have too high an opinion of himself.’

  Haresh nodded, his thoughts anything but meek.

  13.21

  When, some weeks previously, Lata had received Haresh’s first letter—three pages written in his small, forward-slanting hand on his blue writing pad—she had replied to it in a friendly way. Half of Haresh’s letter had been concerned with trying to get a contact at the Praha Shoe Company to present his application to. Mrs Rupa Mehra had mentioned when they had all met in Kanpur that she knew someone who knew someone who might be able to help. In fact, it had turned out to be more difficult than she had imagined, and nothing had come of it. Haresh could not have known at the time that a strange series of events and the sympathy of Mr Mukherji would have got him to meet Mr Khandelwal, the Chairman of Praha, himself.

  The other half of the letter had been personal. Lata had read it over a number of times. Unlike Kabir’s letter, it had made her smile:

  This business being over [Haresh had written], let me hope in the usual way that you had a comfortable journey home and that you were missed by all who met you after such a long absence from Brahmpur. I hope the town has recovered from the disaster at the Pul Mela.

  I must thank you for your visit to Cawnpore and the nice time we spent together. There was none of that bashfulness or undue modesty and I am convinced that we can be very friendly if nothing else. I quite appreciate your frankness and the way of putting things. I must admit that I have met few English girls who could speak English quite as well as you do. These qualities coupled with your way of dressing and personality make you a person far above the average. I think Kalpana was right in her praise of you. These may all seem flattering remarks but I write as I feel.

  I have just today sent your photograph to my foster-father along with my impressions of you formed during our brief hours together. I shall let you know what he has to say. . . .

  Lata tried to work out what exactly it was about this letter that she liked. Haresh’s English was slightly odd. ‘In the usual way’ and ‘the way of putting things’, to take just two out of about ten examples in those three short paragraphs, jarred against her sense of the language. And yet the whole was not unpleasing. It was pleasant to be praised by someone who did not seem practised at praising—and who, for all his own abundant self-confidence, clearly admired her.

  The more she read the letter, the more she liked it. But she waited a while before replying:

  Dear Haresh,

  I was very glad to get your letter, as you had indicated at the station that you wanted to write to me. I believe that this is a good way of getting to know each other.

  We have not had much luck with the Praha Shoe Company, but the reason for that is that we are not at present in Calcutta and, apart from it being the Head Office of the company, Ma’s acquaintance lives there. But Ma has written to him, and let’s see what happens. She has also mentioned the matter to Arun, my brother, who lives in Calcutta, and he may be able to help. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.

  It would be good if you were in Prahapore, for then when I am in Calcutta over the New Year holidays, we could see much more of each other in the ordinary course of things. It was good to meet you in Kanpur. I am very glad I broke journey there. I must thank you again for the trouble you took at Lucknow Station to see us safely into a compartment and to install our luggage there. We had a very comfortable journey back, and Pran—my brother-in-law—was there to greet us at the other end.

  I am glad to know that you have written to your foster-father. I shall be keen to know what he thinks and says.

  I must admit that it was interesting going around the tannery. I liked your Chinese designer. The way he spoke Hindi was delightful.

  I like to see men with ambition like you—you should make good. It is also refreshing to meet a man who doesn’t smoke—I can assure you I admire it—because I think it requires a lot of character. I liked you because you were so frank and clear in all your statements—so different from the young men one generally meets in Calcutta, but not only in Calcutta—so polished, so charming, yet so insincere. Your sincerity is refreshing.

  You did mention when we met that you had been in Brahmpur very briefly earlier this year, but we got on to other subjects and did not follow this one up. So Ma (and not only Ma, I should admit) was astonished to find that you already know at least two members of our family. Pran mentioned he had met you at a party. In case you don’t remember him, he is a thin, tall lecturer in the English Department. It is his address that you have just written to. And then there is Kedarnath Tandon—who is Pran’s jijaji—which makes him my jijaji’s jijaji, but that is (in the Brahmpur context, and perhaps in your Delhi context too) a fairly close relation. His son Bhaskar has apparently just had a letter from you as well, even shorter than the one you sent me. You will be sorry to hear that he was slightly injured in the Pul Mela stampede, but now appears to be almost fully recovered. Veena mentioned how happy he was to get the postcard and the information it contained.

  Brahmpur is unpleasantly hot these days and I am a little concerned for my sister Savita, who is expecting a baby very soon. But Ma is here to take care of things, and there could not be a better or more solicitous husband than Pran.

  I have not quite settled back into my studies, but have decided, a little against my wishes but on the advice of a friend, to take a part in Twelfth Night, which is our Annual Day play this year. I have the part of Olivia, and am busy learning my lines, which takes up a lot of my time. My friend came to the audition to lend me moral support, but ended up with the part of Maria, which in a way serves her right. Ma, being of the old school, has very mixed feelings about my acting. What do you think?

  I look forward to your next letter—do write about yourself. I shall be interested in whatever you have to say.

  I’d better say goodbye, for already this letter has grown considerably and I presume you must be yawning by now.

/>   Ma sends you her best wishes, and I wish you all the best,

  Lata

  There was no mention in Lata’s letter of Haresh’s opinionatedness, his pronunciation of Kanpur as ‘Cawnpore’, the stench of the tannery, paan, co-respondent shoes, or the photograph of Simran on his desk. It was not that Lata had forgotten them, but rather that the memory of some of them had grown dimmer, some of them no longer appeared to her in quite such a negative light, and one of them was not something she felt she would ever want to mention—unless it became necessary to do so.

  But Haresh brought it up himself in his next letter. He mentioned that one of the things that he had most liked about Lata was her own directness, and that this emboldened him to speak freely, especially since she had asked him to tell her about himself. He talked at some length about how important Simran had been in his life, how he had despaired of finding anyone who could mean anything to him after he had realized that there was no hope for him there, and how she—Lata—had appeared at what was a crucial time for him. He now suggested that she write a note to Simran so that the two of them could get better acquainted. He had already written to Simran about his meeting with her, but because the only photograph that he had of her had been with his foster-father at the time, he was unable to enclose it in his letter to Simran. He wrote:

  . . . I hope you will forgive me for talking about Simran so much but she is a wonderful girl and you two are likely to be good friends. If you should like to write to her, here is her address. You cannot write directly to her as her people might intercept the letter, so address the letter to Miss Pritam Kaura, at the address at the bottom of this letter. I should like you to know me well, specially my past life before you make up your mind, and Simran is part and parcel of it.

  Sometimes it seems to me that meeting you is too good to be true. I was at a dead end, I knew not what to do and where to look for company. Poor Simran, she is so placed that she cannot express her feelings, her people are the conservative type—nothing like your mother, even if she has mixed feelings about plays. You came into my life like a brightening influence, like someone for whom I have the desire to become better.

  You have used very many compliments with regard to my sincerity—given the circumstances I have lived in, one could not afford to be otherwise. Along with sincerity and frankness there is the worse side of it—just because one cannot hurt someone else one postpones a decision to remove someone’s illusions—in the long run one has to suffer for it. When we know each other better and can forgive and forget I shall explain this statement fully. I will give you a hint—perhaps I had better not. Because there are some parts of my life that are far from perfect, and for which you might find it hard to forgive me. Perhaps I have said too much already.

  Anyway, I have to thank Kalpana for our chance meeting. But for her we would never have known each other.

  Please send me the impression of your foot, because I wish to design something for you—maybe the Chinese man, Mr Lee, can help! Would you like a low sandal for the summer or do you wear the usual High Heels?

  Also, I hardly ever see the photograph you gave me because it does the postal rounds. Please do send me another photograph of yourself, recently taken. I will not send that one around. Today I tried to get a frame for your photograph but failed to get it. I am therefore waiting for your next photograph before I expend the money for a good frame. Do you mind if I keep your photograph on my table? It may tend to keep me more ambitious. As I look at your photograph, just back from my father, I find that smile on the brink very attractive. You certainly have a poise which makes you very attractive to me, but then you must, I am sure, be knowing it yourself—others will have told you all that before me.

  My father appears to be in favour of a match.

  Remember me to your mother and to Pran, Kedarnath and his wife, and Bhaskar. I find it very hard to think of that boy being hurt in that stampede. I trust he is all right by now.

  Affectionately,

  Haresh

  Lata was unsettled by this letter. Everything from the photograph to the foot impression worried her, and the hints about his past life troubled her too. She could not understand how he could expect her to write to Simran. But because she liked him, she replied as kindly as she could. With Pran’s hospitalization, Savita’s imminent baby, and the daily rehearsals with Kabir all weighing on her heart, she could manage no more than a couple of pages, and when she reread the letter it appeared to her to be nothing but a linked chain of refusals. She did not encourage him to spill out whatever he was hinting at; indeed she did not mention it at all. She did say that she could not write to Simran until she felt more confident about her feelings (though she was pleased that he had trusted her enough to confide in her about so many things). She was shy about her feet, which she did not think looked very attractive. And as for the photograph:

  To tell you the truth, it is real agony for me, being photographed in a studio or by people from a studio. I know it’s very silly of me, but I feel dreadful. I think the last photograph that Ma got taken of me—before the one that I gave you—was taken about six years ago, and it wasn’t at all good. The one you have was taken in Calcutta this year under compulsion. For the last three years I have been promising to send one in for my old school magazine; really I felt quite ashamed of myself when, just before coming to Kanpur, I met one of my old nuns and she confronted me again about it. At least now I have been able to send her one. But I can’t go through that ordeal again. As for the ‘smile on the brink’ among other things—altogether, I think you flatter me. This is paradoxical, because I think of you as a very sincere and frank sort of person, and surely sincerity and flattery don’t go together! Anyway, anything that’s ever told me, I have learned to take with a large pinch of salt.

  There was a long pause between this letter and Haresh’s next one, and Lata felt that her triple refusal must have hurt him too much. She discussed with Malati the question of which of the three refusals had upset Haresh the most, and their discussion of this helped her make light of the matter.

  13.22

  One day, when Kabir had acted particularly well, Lata told Malati: ‘I’m going to tell him afterwards how good I thought his acting was. It’s the only way to break the ice.’

  Malati said: ‘Lata, don’t be foolish, it won’t be breaking the ice, it’ll be releasing the steam. Just leave well enough alone.’

  But after the rehearsal was over, when the three of them, among others, were milling around outside the auditorium, Kabir came up to Lata and said: ‘Could you give this to Bhaskar? My father thought he might find it interesting.’ It was a kite with an unusual shape: a sort of lozenge with streamers behind it.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Lata, a little uneasily. ‘But you know he’s no longer at Prem Nivas. He’s gone back to his parents’ house in Misri Mandi.’

  ‘I hope it’s not too much trouble—’

  ‘No, it isn’t, Kabir—it isn’t at all—we can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for him.’

  Both of them were silent. Malati hung around for a while, thinking that Lata might be grateful if she interposed herself into any intense conversation that Kabir might start. But after a glance or two at Lata, she judged that Lata would be happier if she could talk to him by herself. So she took her leave of both of them—though Kabir had not, in fact, greeted her.

  ‘Why have you been avoiding me?’ said Kabir to Lata in a low voice the moment Malati had gone.

  Lata shook her head, unable to look at his face. But there was no avoiding a conversation that would not be in the least casual.

  ‘What do you expect?’ she said.

  ‘Are you still angry with me—about that?’

  ‘No—I’m getting used to it. Today you acted very well.’

  ‘I don’t mean the play,’ said Kabir. ‘I meant our last real meeting.’

  ‘Oh, that—’

  ‘Yes, that.’ He was determined to have it out, it seemed
.

  ‘I don’t know—so much has happened since then.’

  ‘Nothing has happened except a vacation.’

  ‘I meant, I’ve thought so much about things—’

  ‘Do you think I haven’t?’ he said.

  ‘Kabir, please—what I meant was that I’ve thought about us as well.’

  ‘And no doubt you still think I was unreasonable.’ Kabir sounded slightly amused.

  Lata looked at his face, then turned away. She didn’t say anything.

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ said Kabir. ‘At least it’ll give us something to do in our silences.’

  ‘All right,’ said Lata, shaking her head.

  They walked along the path that led from the auditorium to the centre of the campus—towards the jacaranda grove, and beyond that, to the cricket nets.

  ‘Do I deserve an answer?’ asked Kabir.

  ‘It was I who was unreasonable,’ said Lata after a while.

  This took the wind out of Kabir’s sails. He looked at her in astonishment as she continued:

  ‘You were quite right. I was being unfair and unreasonable and everything else you said. It’s not possible—it never was—but not because of time and careers and studies and other practical things.’

  ‘Why then?’ said Kabir.

  ‘Because of my family,’ said Lata. ‘However much they irritate me and constrain me, I can’t give them up. I know that now. So much has happened. I can’t give up my mother—’

  Lata halted, thinking of what effect this last remark might have on Kabir, but decided that she had to explain herself now or never.

  ‘I just see how much she cares about everything and how she would be affected by this,’ she said.

  ‘By this!’ said Kabir. ‘You mean, by you and me.’

  ‘Kabir, do you know of any mixed marriages that have worked out?’ said Lata. But even as she said it she thought that perhaps she had gone too far. Kabir had never explicitly mentioned marriage—he wanted to be with her, to be close to her—but marriage? Perhaps he had implied it when he had asked her to wait for a year or two—when he had mentioned his plans for future study, for the Foreign Service, for Cambridge. But now he didn’t retreat from the word.