Brahmpur is unpleasantly hot these days and I am a little concerned for my sister Savita, who is expecting a baby very soon. But Ma is here to take care of things, and there could not be a better or more solicitous husband than Pran.
I have not quite settled back into my studies, but have decided, a little against my wishes but on the advice of a friend, to take a part in Twelfth Night, which is our Annual Day play this year. I have the part of Olivia, and am busy learning my lines, which takes up a lot of my time. My friend came to the audition to lend me moral support, but ended up with the part of Maria, which in a way serves her right. Ma, being of the old school, has very mixed feelings about my acting. What do you think?
I look forward to your next letter — do write about yourself. I shall be interested in whatever you have to say.
I’d better say goodbye, for already this letter has grown considerably and I presume you must be yawning by now.
Ma sends you her best wishes, and I wish you all the best,
Lata
There was no mention in Lata’s letter of Haresh’s opinionatedness, his pronunciation of Kanpur as ‘Cawnpore’, the stench of the tannery, paan, co-respondent shoes, or the photograph of Simran on his desk. It was not that Lata had forgotten them, but rather that the memory of some of them had grown dimmer, some of them no longer appeared to her in quite such a negative light, and one of them was not something she felt she would ever want to mention — unless it became necessary to do so.
But Haresh brought it up himself in his next letter. He mentioned that one of the things that he had most liked about Lata was her own directness, and that this emboldened him to speak freely, especially since she had asked him to tell her about himself. He talked at some length about how important Simran had been in his life, how he had despaired of finding anyone who could mean anything to him after he had realized that there was no hope for him there, and how she — Lata — had appeared at what was a crucial time for him. He now suggested that she write a note to Simran so that the two of them could get better acquainted. He had already written to Simran about his meeting with her, but because the only photograph that he had of her had been with his foster-father at the time, he was unable to enclose it in his letter to Simran. He wrote:
. . I hope you will forgive me for talking about Simran so much but she is a wonderful girl and you two are likely to be good friends. If you should like to write to her, here is her address. You cannot write directly to her as her people might intercept the letter, so address the letter to Miss Pritam Kaura, at the address at the bottom of this letter. I should like you to know me well, specially my past life before you make up your mind, and Simran is part and parcel of it.
Sometimes it seems to me that meeting you is too good to be true. I was at a dead end, I knew not what to do and where to look for company. Poor Simran, she is so placed that she cannot express her feelings, her people are the conservative type — nothing like your mother, even if she has mixed feelings about plays. You came into my life like a brightening influence, like someone for whom I have the desire to become better.
You have used very many compliments with regard to my sincerity — given the circumstances I have lived in, one could not afford to be otherwise. Along with sincerity and frankness there is the worse side of it — just because one cannot hurt someone else one postpones a decision to remove someone’s illusions — in the long run one has to suffer for it. When we know each other better and can forgive and forget I shall explain this statement fully. I will give you a hint — perhaps I had better not. Because there are some parts of my life that are far from perfect, and for which you might find it hard to forgive me. Perhaps I have said too much already.
Anyway, I have to thank Kalpana for our chance meeting. But for her we would never have known each other.
Please send me the impression of your foot, because I wish to design something for you — maybe the Chinese man, Mr Lee, can help! Would you like a low sandal for the summer or do you wear the usual High Heels?
Also, I hardly ever see the photograph you gave me because it does the postal rounds. Please do send me another photograph of yourself, recently taken. I will not send that one around. Today I tried to get a frame for your photograph but failed to get it. I am therefore waiting for your next photograph before I expend the money for a good frame. Do you mind if I keep your photograph on my table? It may tend to keep me more ambitious. As I look at your photograph, just back from my father, I find that smile on the brink very attractive. You certainly have a poise which makes you very attractive to me, but then you must, I am sure, be knowing it yourself — others will have told you all that before me.
My father appears to be in favour of a match.
Remember me to your mother and to Pran, Kedarnath and his wife, and Bhaskar. I find it very hard to think of that boy being hurt in that stampede. I trust he is all right by now.
Affectionately,
Haresh
Lata was unsettled by this letter. Everything from the photograph to the foot impression worried her, and the hints about his past life troubled her too. She could not understand how he could expect her to write to Simran. But because she liked him, she replied as kindly as she could. With Pran’s hospitalization, Savita’s imminent baby, and the daily rehearsals with Kabir all weighing on her heart, she could manage no more than a couple of pages, and when she reread the letter it appeared to her to be nothing but a linked chain of refusals. She did not encourage him to spill out whatever he was hinting at; indeed she did not mention it at all. She did say that she could not write to Simran until she felt more confident about her feelings (though she was pleased that he had trusted her enough to confide in her about so many things). She was shy about her feet, which she did not think looked very attractive. And as for the photograph:
To tell you the truth, it is real agony for me, being photographed in a studio or by people from a studio. I know it’s very silly of me, but I feel dreadful. I think the last photograph that Ma got taken of me — before the one that I gave you — was taken about six years ago, and it wasn’t at all good. The one you have was taken in Calcutta this year under compulsion. For the last three years I have been promising to send one in for my old school magazine; really I felt quite ashamed of myself when, just before coming to Kanpur, I met one of my old nuns and she confronted me again about it. At least now I have been able to send her one. But I can’t go through that ordeal again. As for the ‘smile on the brink’ among other things — altogether, I think you flatter me. This is paradoxical, because I think of you as a very sincere and frank sort of person, and surely sincerity and flattery don’t go together! Anyway, anything that’s ever told me, I have learned to take with a large pinch of salt.