Mukherji took Haresh along late one evening to the Imperial Hotel, where Mr Khandelwal always stayed when in Delhi. In fact, Mr Khandelwal always stayed in the Moghul Suite, the fanciest suite of all. He was a relaxed sort of man, of medium height, running both to fat and to the beginning of grey hair. He was dressed in kurta and dhoti. Apparently, he was even more fond of paan than Haresh; he chewed three at a time.
Haresh could not at first believe that this man sitting in a dhoti on the sofa was the legendary Mr Khandelwal. But when he saw how everyone scurried around him, some of them actually trembling while handing him papers which he quickly scanned and commented on, usually in a couple of words, Haresh got a sense both of his acuity and of his undoubted authority. One short, eager Czech, moving around in a most deferential manner, took down notes whenever Mr Khandelwal wanted something done or checked or reported on.
When Mr Khandelwal noticed Mr Mukherji he smiled and welcomed him in Bengali. Despite being a Marwari, Mr Khandelwal, having lived in Calcutta all his life, was fluent in Bengali; in fact he conducted meetings with trade union leaders from the Prahapore factory near Calcutta entirely in Bengali.
‘What can I do for you, Mukherji Shaib?’ he said, and took a gulp of whisky.
‘This young man, who has been working for us, is now looking for a job. He wanted to see if Praha could give him one. He has excellent academic qualifications in footwear technology, and I can vouch for him in all other respects.’
Mr Khandelwal smiled benevolently and, looking now not at Mr Mukherji but at Haresh, exclaimed: ‘Why are you being so generous as to give me such a good man?’
Mr Mukherji looked a little shamefaced. He said, quietly: ‘He has been hard done by, and I do not have the courage to talk to my brother-in-law about it. I fear, anyway, that it would do no good; his mind is entirely made up.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Mr Khandelwal of Haresh.
‘Sir, I have applied for a job with Praha several times, and have sent several letters, but have not had any proper reply at all. If you were to see that my application is at least considered, I’m sure that my qualifications and work experience will get me a job with the firm.’
‘Take his application,’ said Mr Khandelwal, and the dapper Czech took it and jotted something down on his pad.
‘So—’ said Mr Khandelwal, ‘you will hear from Praha in less than a week.’
But Haresh, though he did indeed hear within a few days from Praha, was once again offered by the Personnel Office a job at Rs 28 a week: a pittance which succeeded in doing nothing but making him angry.
However, it reassured Umesh Uncle. ‘I told you that you would not get a job if you left this one. But you never took my advice; you considered yourself so smart. Look at you now, sponging off others, rather than working, like a man should.’
Haresh controlled himself before replying: ‘Thank you for your advice yet again, Umesh Uncle. It is as valuable as it has always been.’
Umesh Uncle, faced by Haresh’s sudden meekness, felt that his spirit had been broken, and that he would be an easier recipient for his counsel from then on. ‘It’s good that you’ve seen sense at last,’ he told him. ‘A man should never have too high an opinion of himself.’
Haresh nodded, his thoughts anything but meek.
13.21
When, some weeks previously, Lata had received Haresh’s first letter — three pages written in his small, forward-slanting hand on his blue writing pad — she had replied to it in a friendly way. Half of Haresh’s letter had been concerned with trying to get a contact at the Praha Shoe Company to present his application to. Mrs Rupa Mehra had mentioned when they had all met in Kanpur that she knew someone who knew someone who might be able to help. In fact, it had turned out to be more difficult than she had imagined, and nothing had come of it. Haresh could not have known at the time that a strange series of events and the sympathy of Mr Mukherji would have got him to meet Mr Khandelwal, the Chairman of Praha, himself.
The other half of the letter had been personal. Lata had read it over a number of times. Unlike Kabir’s letter, it had made her smile:
This business being over [Haresh had written], 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 hope the town has recovered from the disaster at the Pul Mela.
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. .
Lata tried to work out what exactly it was about this letter that she liked. Haresh’s English was slightly odd. ‘In the usual way’ and ‘the way of putting things’, to take just two out of about ten examples in those three short paragraphs, jarred against her sense of the language. And yet the whole was not unpleasing. It was pleasant to be praised by someone who did not seem practised at praising — and who, for all his own abundant self-confidence, clearly admired her.
The more she read the letter, the more she liked it. But she waited a while before replying:
Dear Haresh,
I was very glad to get your letter, as you had indicated at the station that you wanted to write to me. I believe that this is a good way of getting to know each other.
We have not had much luck with the Praha Shoe Company, but the reason for that is that we are not at present in Calcutta and, apart from it being the Head Office of the company, Ma’s acquaintance lives there. But Ma has written to him, and let’s see what happens. She has also mentioned the matter to Arun, my brother, who lives in Calcutta, and he may be able to help. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.
It would be good if you were in Prahapore, for then when I am in Calcutta over the New Year holidays, we could see much more of each other in the ordinary course of things. It was good to meet you in Kanpur. I am very glad I broke journey there. I must thank you again for the trouble you took at Lucknow Station to see us safely into a compartment and to install our luggage there. We had a very comfortable journey back, and Pran — my brother-in-law — was there to greet us at the other end.
I am glad to know that you have written to your foster-father. I shall be keen to know what he thinks and says.
I must admit that it was interesting going around the tannery. I liked your Chinese designer. The way he spoke Hindi was delightful.
I like to see men with ambition like you — you should make good. It is also refreshing to meet a man who doesn’t smoke — I can assure you I admire it — because I think it requires a lot of character. I liked you because you were so frank and clear in all your statements — so different from the young men one generally meets in Calcutta, but not only in Calcutta — so polished, so charming, yet so insincere. Your sincerity is refreshing.
You did mention when we met that you had been in Brahmpur very briefly earlier this year, but we got on to other subjects and did not follow this one up. So Ma (and not only Ma, I should admit) was astonished to find that you already know at least two members of our family. Pran mentioned he had met you at a party. In case you don’t remember him, he is a thin, tall lecturer in the English Department. It is his address that you have just written to. And then there is Kedarnath Tandon — who is Pran’s jijaji — which makes him my jijaji’s jijaji, but that is (in the Brahmpur context, and perhaps in your Delhi context too) a fairly close relation. His son Bhaskar has apparently just had a letter from you as well, even shorter than the one you sent me. You will be sorry to hear that he was slightly injured in the Pul Mela stampede, but now appears to be almost fully recovered. Veena mentioned how happy he was to get the postcard and the information it contained.