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.’