Please give my regards to Dr Durrani, to your parents, and to your grandmother. Also, ask your father to send me the second sample of brogues that I was promised by the man in Ravidaspur. They should have arrived more than a week ago. Perhaps they are already on their way.
Affectionately,
Haresh Chacha.
Next he wrote a short letter of a page and a half to his father, in which he enclosed the small snapshot of Lata he had got off the Mehras. He had wanted to take a photograph of them himself, but they had felt a bit embarrassed, and he had not pressed the matter.
To Lata he wrote a three-page letter on his blue writing pad. Though he had almost been at the point of telling her (or, more strictly, them) over the cold chocolate that he knew that she was the right wife for him, something had held him back. Now he was glad of it. Haresh knew that despite his pragmatism he was highly impulsive. When he had decided to leave home at fifteen it had taken him a minute to decide and ten minutes to leave; it had been months before he had returned. In the market the other day he had almost hired Mr Lee, the designer, on the spot, though he had no real authority to do so; he knew that he was the right man to help design the new orders that he felt sure he could bring in.
So much for decisions that were (or would have been) if not laudable, at least admirable. The money that he once lent a friend of his in Patiala, however, was lent equally impulsively. It had been a good third of his assets, and he now knew that he would never get it back. But the decision that faced him at the present time dealt not with his assets but with himself. If he gave himself away he would not be able to retrieve himself.
He looked at Simran’s photograph — nothing would induce him to turn it away even while writing his first letter to Lata. He wondered what she would have said, what advice she would have given him. Her kindness and purity of heart would have led him in the right direction, he knew. She wanted his good as much as he wanted hers.
‘Look at it this way, Simran,’ he said. ‘I am twenty-eight. There is no possibility of anything between us. I will have to settle down one day. If I have to marry I may as well go ahead and do it. They like me. At least I’m confident the mother does; and that makes a change.’
Of the three pages of his letter to Lata, one and a half were about the Praha Shoe Company, the Czech-founded establishment with Indian headquarters in Calcutta and a huge factory at Prahapore fifteen miles away. Haresh wanted his name and copies of his certificates brought to the attention of someone whom Mrs Rupa Mehra had known socially over a period of years and who himself knew someone fairly high up in the company. Haresh saw three advantages in a job with Praha. He would have a better chance of rising to the top in a company that was professionally managed. He would be near Calcutta, which could be considered to be the Mehra home base, and where Lata, he had ascertained, would be spending her Christmas holidays. And finally, he thought his income would surely be larger than the one he was at present living on. The insulting offer of a weekly wage that he had previously received from Praha he was prepared to discount as their badgered response to a persistent series of letters from a man writing to them without any prior introduction. What he needed to do, Haresh believed, was to get the attention of someone at the top.
This business being over [continued Haresh], 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 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.
A couple of final paragraphs about generalities, and the letter was over. Haresh addressed the envelope. As he lay on his bed a few minutes later it struck him that the Mehras would certainly have seen Simran’s silver-framed portrait on his writing table. When he had invited them to Elm Villa he had not thought about the photograph at all. It was as much a part of the room as his bed. Between themselves, mother and daughter would doubtless have discussed it — and particularly the fact that he had let it remain there. He wondered what they must have thought, what they could have said. But he was asleep too soon to wonder long.
9.22
One morning, a few days later, Haresh arrived at the factory to find that Rao had assigned Lee to do some trivial work of his own.
‘I need Lee,’ said Haresh bluntly. ‘It’s for the HSH order.’
Rao looked at him with distaste down his sharp nose. ‘You can have him when I’ve finished with him,’ he said. ‘He will be working with me this week.’
Lee, who had witnessed the scene, was very embarrassed. He owed his position to Haresh, and he respected him. He did not respect Rao, but Rao was nominally Haresh’s senior in the company structure.
The weekly meeting later that morning in Mukherji’s office produced a display of spectacular fireworks.
Mukherji congratulated Haresh heartily for his work in obtaining the HSH order, which had recently been confirmed. The factory would have been in severe difficulties without it.
‘But the question of labour should be coordinated with Sen Gupta,’ he added.
‘Assuredly,’ said Sen Gupta. He looked pleased. He was supposed to be in charge of labour and personnel, but there was nothing that this lazy man enjoyed more than chewing his paan and delaying any work that needed desperately to be done. Waiting for Sen Gupta to do anything except stare with his bloodshot eyes at a red-stained file was like waiting for a stupa to disintegrate. Sen Gupta had looked sour when Mukherji had praised Haresh.
‘We will have to work a little harder all around, hn? Sen Gupta?’ continued the factory manager. ‘Now, Khanna,’ he continued, turning to Haresh, ‘Sen Gupta has been a bit unhappy of late about your interference in labour. Especially the construction job. He feels he could have hired better men more cheaply — and quicker.’
Actually Sen Gupta was hopping mad — and envious.
Quicker! Sen Gupta! was what Haresh was thinking.
‘Talking of personnel,’ he said aloud, deciding that this was the time to thrash matters out, ‘I’d like to have Lee put back to work on the HSH order.’ He looked at Rao.
‘Back?’ said Mukherji, looking from Haresh to Rao.
‘Yes. Mr Rao decided to—’
Rao interrupted: ‘You will have him back in a week. There is no need to bring it up in this meeting. Mr Mukherji has more important matters to deal with.’
‘I need him now. If we fail in this order do you think they’ll come back to us cap in hand begging us to make more shoes for them? Can’t we get our priorities right? Lee cares about quality. I need him both for design and for the choice of leather.’
‘I care for quality too,’ said Rao with distaste.
‘Tell me another,’ said Haresh hotly. ‘You steal my workers when I most need them — just two days ago two of my clickers disappeared into your department, because your men did not turn up for work. You can’t keep discipline in your area, and you undermine it in mine. Quality is the last thing on your mind.’ Haresh turned to Mukherji. ‘Why do you let him get away with it? You are the factory manager.’