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.’