A Suitable Boy, Page 79

  Baoji still set upon his farming plans. I tried to dissuade him because he has no experience. But once he decides on something, his mind is difficult to change. I was glad to avoid meeting Umesh Uncle.

  Cawnpore

  Woke late, reached the factory half an hour late. There was quite a mess and much had to be done. Telegram from Praha, which was not very encouraging, in fact insulting: they offer me Rs. 28 a week—do they think I am a fool? A letter from Simran, one from Jean, and one from Kalpana. Kalpana’s letter was rather strange, suggesting engagement with Mrs Mehra’s daughter Lata. Jean’s letter the usual. Deferred dealing with labour till Monday in order to ascertain the exact position. At least labour knows I am not trying to play anyone off against anyone else. No one else talks to them properly: typical babu attitude. In the evening came home and slept quietly.

  There is no place here to spread my wings. What is to be done?

  cycle oil Re. 1/4

  rent and board etc. to Mrs Mason Rs. 185/-

  stamps Re. 1/-

  9.8

  Before dropping off to sleep, he reread Kalpana’s letter, which he looked around for before remembering that he had tucked it in at the back of the diary.

  My dear Haresh,

  I do not know what sort of reception this letter will get from you. I am writing to you after a very long time, even though we have just met once again. It was so good to see you, and to feel that you have not forgotten me and that my bonds in thee are not entirely determinate. I was not at my best, and I was not prepared for your arrival. But when you left I felt invigorated once again, and in fact mentioned that to my good-looking aunt.

  In fact it is at her behest that I am writing this letter—but not only at her behest. I shall be businesslike and precise in whatever I have to say, and I shall expect you to be equally frank in your reply.

  The point is that Mrs Mehra has a young daughter Lata—and she was so impressed by you that she wanted to know if there was any possibility of anything being arranged between Lata and you by way of matrimony. Don’t be surprised at my writing all this, but I think Lata’s marriage is also our responsibility. Her late father and my father were very close friends and thought of each other almost like brothers, so it was natural for my aunt to turn to us for help when she wanted to find a suitable match for her daughters. (The elder one is now happily married.) I showed my aunt all my eligible khatri friends, but because I had lost contact with you and also because you were not in Delhi I did not think of you as a possibility. There may also have been other reservations. But she saw you that evening and was extremely impressed. She thinks it would be a boy of your type who would have made Lata’s late father happy.

  As for Lata—she is nineteen years old, brilliant at her studies, came first in her Senior Cambridge exams from Sophia Convent, did her Intermediate Arts from Brahmpur University, and has just finished (with excellent marks) her first year B.A. exams in English, also from Brahmpur University. Once she finishes her B.A. next year she is keen to find some work. Her elder brother is working at Bentsen Pryce in Calcutta, her second brother has just finished at Calcutta University and is studying for the IAS. Her elder sister is, as I mentioned, married. Their father died in 1942, and was working with the Railways. He would certainly have been on the Railway Board by now if he had been alive.

  She is 5 ft. 5 in. tall, not very fair, but attractive and smart in an Indian sort of way. She looks forward, I think, to a quiet, sober life in the future. I have played with her as a child—she is like my own little sister, and has gone so far as to say: ‘If Kalpana thinks well of someone I’m pretty sure I will too.’

  I have given you all the particulars. As Byron says, ‘Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.’ You may hold that view. All I can say is, even if you do not, you are not bound to say ‘yes’ just because I am saying it. Think it over; if you are interested, just let me know. Of course you must see her and she must see you—and then your reactions and her reactions will count. If you (1) are thinking of getting married (2) have no previous commitments, and (3) are interested in this particular individual, you can come over to Delhi. (I tried to get in touch with you before you left Delhi but was unsuccessful.) If you are not comfortable about staying with your family at Neel Darvaza you can stay with us if you like; your family need not know the purpose of your visit or even that you are here. Lata’s mother will be in Delhi for several more days, and tells me that Lata is planning to join her soon. She is a decent girl (if you are interested) and deserves a steady, honest and sincere type like her late father was.

  So: the business being over, I should tell you that I am not at all well. I have been confined to bed since yesterday and the doctor does not know what is wrong. I yawn all the time and feel hot spots on the soles of my feet! I’m not allowed to move or talk very much. I’m writing this from bed, hence this terrible writing. I hope I get well soon, especially since Father’s leg is also giving him trouble. He is much troubled by the heat as well. He hates ill health and June with an equal passion. All of us are praying that the monsoon is not delayed.

  Lastly—if you think I’ve done anything wrong in writing so frankly to you, you must forgive me. I have presumed upon our friendship in writing to you in this way. If I ought not to have, let’s just drop the matter and forget all about it.

  I hope to hear from you soon or to see you. A telegram or letter—either would be fine.

  Best wishes and everything,

  Kalpana

  Haresh’s eyes closed once or twice as he read through the letter. It would be interesting to meet this girl, he thought. If the mother was anything to go by, she ought to be attractive too. But before he could give the matter his complete consideration, he yawned, and yawned again, and all thoughts whatsoever were displaced by exhaustion. He was asleep in five minutes; it was a pleasant and dreamless sleep.

  9.9

  ‘A call for you, Mr Khanna.’

  ‘Just coming, Mrs Mason.’

  ‘It’s a lady’s voice,’ added Mrs Mason helpfully.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Mason.’ Haresh went to the drawing room that her three lodgers used in common. No one else was down, but Mrs Mason was engaged in looking from various angles at a flower vase filled with orange cosmos. She was an Anglo-Indian woman of seventy-five, a widow who lived with her middle-aged, unmarried daughter. She liked to keep tabs on her lodgers.

  ‘Hello. Haresh Khanna.’

  ‘Hello, Haresh, this is Mrs Mehra, you remember, we met at Kalpana’s in Delhi—Kalpana Gaur’s—and—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Haresh with a glance at Mrs Mason, who was standing by the vase in a meditative manner, a finger on her lower lip.

  ‘Do you—er, has Kalpana—’

  ‘Yes, indeed, welcome to Cawnpore. Kalpana telegrammed. I was expecting you. Both of you—’

  Mrs Mason cocked her head to one side.

  Haresh passed his hand over his forehead.

  ‘I cannot talk right now,’ said Haresh. ‘I’m a little late for work. When may I come over? I have the address. I’m so sorry I couldn’t come to the station to meet you, but I didn’t know which train you’d be on.’

  ‘We were on different trains,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘Can you come at eleven o’clock? I am very much looking forward to seeing you again. And so is Lata.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Haresh. ‘The time suits me very well. I have to buy some sheep—and then I’ll come over.’ Mrs Mason shifted the vase to another table, then decided that the first one was better.

  ‘Goodbye, Haresh. So we’ll see you soon?’

  ‘Yes. Goodbye.’

  At the other end of the line Mrs Rupa Mehra turned to Lata and said: ‘He sounded very brusque. He didn’t even address me by name. And Kalpana says he called me Mrs Mehrotra in his letter to her.’ She paused. ‘And he wants to buy some sheep. I’m not sure I heard him right.’ She paused again. ‘But, believe me, he is a very nice boy.’

  Haresh kept his bicycle,
like his shoes and his comb and his clothes, in excellent condition, but he could not very well cycle down to meet Mrs and Miss Mehra at Mr Kakkar’s house. He stopped by the factory and persuaded the factory manager, Mr Mukherji, to lend him one of the two factory cars. There was a big limousine with a grand and impressive driver and a small, rather rickety car with a driver who talked to all his passengers. He liked Haresh because he had no hierarchical airs, and always chatted to him in a friendly way.

  Haresh tried for the beauty but ended up with the beast. Well, it’s a car anyway, he said to himself.

  He bought the sheepskin for the lining, and asked the supplier to ensure that it got to the factory. Then he stopped for a paan, which was something he always enjoyed. He combed his hair once again in the mirror of the car. And he gave the driver strict instructions that he was not to speak to anyone travelling in the car that day (including Haresh) unless he was spoken to.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra was waiting for him with increasing nervousness. She had persuaded Mr Kakkar to join them in order to relieve the awkwardness of a first meeting. Mr Kakkar, both as a man and as an accountant, had been held in great respect by the late Raghubir Mehra, and it reassured Mrs Rupa Mehra that he, not she, would be playing nominal host.

  She greeted Haresh warmly. Haresh was wearing almost the same clothes as when she had first met him at Kalpana’s house in Delhi: a silk shirt and fawn cotton gaberdine trousers. He also had on a pair of brown-and-white co-respondent shoes, which he considered exceptionally smart.

  He smiled when he saw Lata seated on the sofa. A nice, quiet girl, he thought.

  Lata was wearing a pale pink cotton sari with chikan embroidery from Lucknow. Her hair was in a bun. She wore no jewellery except a pair of plain pearl ear-tops. The first thing Haresh said to her was:

  ‘We’ve met before, Miss Mehra, haven’t we?’

  Lata frowned. Her first impression of him was that he was shorter than she had expected. The next—when he opened his mouth to speak—was that he had been chewing paan. This was far from appealing. Perhaps, if he had been wearing kurta-pyjamas, a red-stained mouth would have been appropriate—if not acceptable. Paan did not go at all well with fawn gaberdine and a silk shirt. In fact paan did not go at all well with her idea of a husband. His whole mode of dressing struck her as being flashy. And flashiest of all were the co-respondent shoes. Whom was he trying to impress?

  ‘I don’t believe we have, Mr Khanna,’ she replied politely. ‘But I’m glad we’ve got the chance to meet.’

  Lata had made an immediately favourable impression on Haresh by the simplicity and good taste of her dress. She didn’t have any make-up on, yet looked attractive and self-possessed, and her accent was not a heavy Indian accent, he was pleased to note, but light, almost British, because of her convent-school background.

  Haresh, on the other hand, had surprised Lata by his accent, which bore traces both of Hindi and of the local Midlands dialect which he had been exposed to in England. Why, both her brothers spoke English better than he did. She could imagine what fun Kakoli and Meenakshi Chatterji might have mocking Haresh’s manner of speaking.

  Haresh passed his hand over his forehead. Surely he couldn’t be mistaken. The same large, beautiful eyes, the same oval face—the eyebrows, the nose, the lips, the same expression of intensity. Well, perhaps he had dreamed it, after all.

  Mr Kakkar, a little nervous because of his undefined position as a host, asked him to sit down and offered him tea. For a while no one knew what to talk about, especially since it was quite obvious what the purpose of their meeting was. Politics? No. The weather? No. The morning’s news? Haresh had not had time to glance at the papers.

  ‘Did you have a comfortable journey?’ he asked.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at Lata, and Lata at Mrs Rupa Mehra. Each deferred to the other. Then Mrs Rupa Mehra said:

  ‘Well, go on, Lata, answer the question.’

  ‘I thought Mr Khanna was talking to you, Ma. Yes, thank you, I had a comfortable journey. Perhaps it was a little tiring.’

  ‘Where were you travelling from?’

  ‘From Calcutta.’

  ‘But you must be very tired then. The train arrives very early in the morning.’

  ‘No, I came by the day train, so I’ve slept in a proper bed and woken up at a reasonable hour,’ said Lata. ‘Is your tea all right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Miss Mehra,’ said Haresh, his eyes disappearing in a smile.

  The smile was so warm and friendly that despite herself Lata could not help smiling too.

  ‘You should call each other Lata and Haresh,’ prompted Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘Perhaps we should leave the young people to talk by themselves,’ suggested Mr Kakkar, who had an appointment.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra firmly. ‘They will be very happy to have our company. It is not often that one gets the chance to meet such a fine boy as Haresh.’

  Lata winced inwardly at this remark, but Haresh did not seem at all uncomfortable to be thus described.

  ‘Have you ever been to Cawnpore, Miss Mehra?’ he asked.

  ‘Lata,’ corrected Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘Lata.’

  ‘Just once. Usually I meet Kakkar Phupha when he comes to Brahmpur or Calcutta on work.’

  There was a long pause. Much tea was stirred, much tea was sipped.

  ‘How is Kalpana?’ asked Haresh finally. ‘She didn’t seem in the best of health when I saw her, and her letters talk about strange symptoms. I hope the poor girl is all right. She’s been through such a lot these last few years.’

  It was the right subject to choose. Mrs Rupa Mehra was off and running now. She described Kalpana’s symptoms in detail, both from what she had seen, and from what she had read in the letter to Lata. She also talked about the unsuitable boy whom Kalpana had once got herself involved with. He had turned out not to be sincere. She wanted Kalpana to meet a sincere man, a sincere man with good prospects. She valued sincerity as a quality in men. And in women too of course. Didn’t Haresh agree?

  Haresh agreed. Being a frank and open-hearted fellow, he was about to talk about Simran, but stopped himself.

  ‘Do you have those wonderful certificates with you?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra suddenly.

  ‘No,’ said Haresh, surprised.

  ‘It would be so nice if Lata could read them. Don’t you think so, Lata?’

  ‘Yes, Ma,’ said Lata, thinking the opposite.

  ‘Tell me, why did you run away from home at fifteen?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, dropping an extra tablet of saccharine in her tea.

  Haresh was startled that Kalpana had mentioned this fact. At his meeting with Lata’s mother in Delhi, Kalpana, it seemed to him, had gone out of her way to show him in as favourable a light as possible.

  ‘Mrs Mehra,’ said Haresh, ‘I believe that a time can come when a young man may have to part company even with those who love him and whom he loves.’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra looked rather doubtful, but Lata a little interested. She nodded by way of encouragement, and Haresh continued.

  ‘In this case an engagement was being forced upon me against my will by my father—well, my foster-father—and I could not accept it. I ran away. I had no money. In Mussourie I got a job cleaning a Praha shoe shop—it was my first experience of the shoe business, and not a pleasant one. Eventually I graduated to shop boy. I starved and I froze but I was determined not to go back.’

  ‘Didn’t you even write a letter home?’ asked Lata.

  ‘No, Miss Mehra, I did not. I was very stubborn.’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra frowned at his retreat into the surname.

  ‘What happened in the end?’ Lata asked.

  ‘One of my foster-brothers from Neel Darvaza, the one whom I loved most of all, came to Mussourie for a holiday. He saw me in the shop. I pretended I was a customer, but the manager asked me quite sharply why I was gossiping when there was work to do. When my foster-brother realized the truth of the matter, he
refused to go back home unless I came with him. You see, his mother had nursed me when my own mother died.’

  This last sentence was not exactly an explanation of anything, but made sense to everyone.

  ‘But now I am neither starving nor freezing,’ continued Haresh proudly. ‘In fact, could I invite you all to my place for lunch, perhaps?’ He turned to Mrs Rupa Mehra: ‘Kalpana mentioned in her telegram that you are vegetarian.’

  Mr Kakkar asked to be excused, but Mrs Rupa Mehra accepted with alacrity on behalf of Lata and herself.

  9.10

  On the way to Elm Villa, the driver was unusually quiet. The rickety car too behaved well.

  ‘How do you enjoy your job?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘I enjoy it,’ said Haresh. ‘You know the department I was telling you about in Delhi? Well, the machinery has all been moved in, and I should begin next week with the new order that I’ve managed to procure. I’ll take you around this afternoon. It’s very well organized now that I’ve taken things in hand.’

  ‘So you plan to live in Kanpur?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Haresh. ‘I can’t advance to the top in CLFC, and I don’t want to spend my life in a company where I can’t get to the top. I’ve been trying Bata and James Hawley and Praha and Flex and Cooper Allen and even a job or two in government enterprises. Let’s see what happens. I need a godfather to help me get a foot in the door. After that I can stand on my own abilities.’

  ‘My son too thinks the same,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘My elder son, Arun. He is with Bentsen Pryce—and well, Bentsen Pryce is Bentsen Pryce! Sooner or later he is bound to become a director. Maybe even the first Indian director.’ She savoured the vision for a few moments. ‘His late father would have been so proud of him,’ she added. ‘He, of course, would have been on the Railway Board by now. Possibly even the Chairman. We would always travel in saloons when he was alive.’