They got to the station a little early and sat in the railway cafe. Lata and Mrs Rupa Mehra bought first-class tickets to Lucknow — the journey was a short one and tickets did not need to be reserved in advance. Haresh pressed a cup of Pheasant’s cold chocolate — a Dutch concoction — on them. It was delicious, and Lata’s face expressed her pleasure. Haresh was so delighted at her innocent enjoyment that he suddenly said, ‘May I accompany you to Lucknow? I could stay there with Simran’s sister, and come back tomorrow after seeing you off on the train to Brahmpur.’ What he had almost said was: I would like to spend a few more hours with you today, even if it means that someone else has to purchase the sheepskin.
Mrs Rupa Mehra did not succeed in dissuading Haresh; he bought a ticket to Lucknow for himself. He made sure that their luggage was loaded safely on and below the berths, that the porter did not swindle them, that they were comfortably seated, that each of them was provided with a magazine, that all was well with them in every way. Throughout the two-hour journey he hardly said a word. He was thinking that contentment consisted of just such moments as these.
Lata on the other hand was thinking that it was very odd that he should have mentioned — as part of his reason for accompanying them to Lucknow — that he planned to stay with Simran’s sister. For all the method to his books and brushes, he was an unaccountable man.
When the train steamed into Lucknow Station, Haresh said: ‘I would very much like to be of some help to you tomorrow.’
‘No, no,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, almost in a panic. ‘The tickets have been reserved already. We don’t need any help. They have been reserved by my son — my son in Bentsen Pryce. We’ll be travelling very comfortably. You must not come to the station.’
Haresh looked at Lata for a while and was about to ask her something. Then he turned to her mother instead and said: ‘May I write to Lata, Mrs Mehra?’
Mrs Mehra was about to agree with enthusiasm, then, checking herself she turned to Lata, and Lata nodded, rather gravely. It would have been too cruel to say no.
‘Yes, you may write, of course,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘And you really must call me Ma.’
‘Now I’d like to make sure that you get to Mr Sahgal’s place safely,’ said Haresh. ‘I’ll get a tonga.’
It was pleasant to be taken care of, and the two women allowed Haresh to fuss competently over them.
In fifteen minutes they had arrived at the Sahgals’. Mrs Sahgal was Mrs Rupa Mehra’s first cousin. She was a weak-brained, sweet-natured woman of about forty-five, married to a well-known Lucknow lawyer. ‘Who is this gentleman?’ she asked of Haresh.
‘This is a young man who knew Kalpana Gaur at St Stephen’s,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra by way of non-explanatory explanation.
‘But he must come in and have tea with us,’ said Mrs Sahgal. ‘Sahgal Sahib will be so angry if he doesn’t.’
Mrs Sahgal’s saccharine, foolish life revolved around her husband. No sentence was complete for her without a reference to Mr Sahgal. Some people thought her a saint, some a fool. Mrs Rupa Mehra recalled that her own late husband, usually a good-natured and tolerant man, had thought Mrs Sahgal a doting idiot. He had said this angrily rather than amusedly. The Sahgals’ son, who was about seventeen, was mentally deficient. Their daughter, who was Lata’s age, was highly intelligent and highly neurotic.
Mr Sahgal was very pleased to see Lata and her mother. He was a sober, wise-looking man with a short-trimmed grey-and-white beard. If an expressionless portrait had been made of him, he would have looked like a judge. Rather than welcoming Haresh, however, he gave him a strange, conspiratorial smirk. Haresh took an instant dislike to him.
‘Are you quite sure I can’t be of any help to you tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Quite sure, Haresh, God bless you,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘Lata?’ said Haresh, smiling, but with a trace of uncertainty; perhaps, for once, he was not entirely sure whether he was liked or disliked. Certainly the signals he was receiving were perplexingly mixed. ‘You’re sure I may write?’
‘Yes, that would be nice,’ said Lata, as if someone had offered her a piece of toast.
This sounded so lukewarm, even to her, that she added:
‘It would really be very nice. It’s a good way to get to know each other.’
Haresh was about to say something more, but decided against it.
‘Au revoir, then,’ he said, smiling. He had taken a few French lessons in England.
‘Au revoir,’ replied Lata with a laugh.
‘Why are you laughing?’ asked Haresh. ‘Were you laughing at me?’
‘Yes,’ said Lata honestly. ‘I was. Thank you.’
‘For what?’ asked Haresh.
‘For a very enjoyable day.’ She glanced once more at his co-respondent shoes. ‘I won’t forget it.’
‘Neither will I,’ said Haresh. Then he thought of several things to say but rejected each one.
‘You must learn to say shorter goodbyes,’ said Lata.
‘Do you have any other advice for me?’ asked Haresh.
Yes, thought Lata; at least seven pieces. Aloud she said: ‘Yes, I do. Keep to the left.’
Grateful for the affectionate banality, Haresh nodded; and his tonga plodded off towards Simran’s sister’s house.
9.14
Both Lata and Mrs Rupa Mehra were so tired after their Kanpur visit that they went off to sleep soon after lunch. Each had her own room, and Lata welcomed these rare hours of privacy. She knew that the moment they were alone together her mother would begin asking her about what she thought of Haresh.
Before she dropped off to sleep her mother came to her room. The bedrooms were arranged in rows on both sides of a long corridor — as if in a hotel. It was a hot afternoon. Mrs Rupa Mehra had with her her bottle of 4711 Eau de Cologne, one of the objects that had a permanent home in her bag. With this she soaked a corner of one of her rose-embroidered handkerchiefs and dabbed Lata’s head affectionately.
‘I thought I would say a word to my darling daughter before she fell off to sleep.’
Lata waited for the question.
‘Well, Lata?’
‘Well, Ma?’ Lata smiled. Now that it was a reality rather than an anticipation, the question was not so formidable.
‘Don’t you think he’s suitable?’ Mrs Rupa Mehra’s voice made it clear that any rejection of Haresh would hurt her to the quick.
‘Ma, I’ve only met him for twenty-four hours!’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘What do I really know of him, Ma?’ said Lata. ‘Let’s say — it’s not negative: he’s all right. I’ve got to know him better.’
This last sentence being ambiguous, Mrs Rupa Mehra wanted an immediate clarification. Lata, smiling to herself said:
‘Let me put it like this. He’s not rejected. He says he wants to write to me. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’
‘You are a very fussy and ungrateful girl,’ said her mother. ‘You are always thinking of the wrong people.’
Lata said:
‘Yes, Ma, you’re quite right. I am very fussy and very ungrateful, but at the moment I am also very sleepy.’
‘Here. You keep this handkerchief.’ And her mother left her to herself.
Lata fell off to sleep almost immediately. The Sunny Park household in Calcutta, the long journey to Kanpur in the heat, the strain of being on display before a marriageable man, the tannery, the tension between her liking and distaste for Haresh, the journey from Kanpur to Lucknow, and her repeated and unbidden thoughts of Kabir, all had exhausted her. She slept well. When she woke up it was four o’clock and teatime. She washed her face, changed, and went to the drawing room.