She wrote back:
My dear Haresh,
Your letter came today and I am replying immediately. Yesterday Ma got a letter from Kalpana. Ever since then I have been wanting to write to you, but I felt I couldn’t till I had heard the news directly from you. You must believe that it doesn’t make any difference to me. Affection doesn’t depend on things like jobs. It is unfortunate that you should have missed such a good chance at James Hawley — it really is a very good firm — I should think almost the best. Anyway, don’t worry. Everything happens for the best — and, as you say, there is still hope — nothing like going on trying. I feel sure something will emerge.
Here Lata paused and looked out of the bedroom window before continuing. But it was his problems she had to address, not her own, and she continued to write before thoughts could crowd too closely in on her:
Perhaps, Haresh, you didn’t do a very wise thing in not letting your firm know that you were trying elsewhere. Perhaps you should have gone through them. Anyway, let’s forget about it — it’s all in the past now. The unkindness of people only hurts if we continue to remember it. Now that you are out of a job, perhaps you should try for the best rather than the first that comes your way. Maybe it’s worthwhile waiting a little.
You ask if I want you to come to Brahmpur on your way to Calcutta. It would be good to talk to you again. I hope you have not lost your smile. It doesn’t sound so from your letter, anyway. You have a very pleasant smile — when you are amused your eyes disappear altogether — and it would be a pity if you lost it.
Here Lata paused again. What on earth am I writing? she asked herself. Is this too much? Then she just shrugged, told herself she wouldn’t correct it, and wrote on:
The only problem is that the house is in chaos at the moment, and even if you were to live in a hotel, you would see us at a very confused time. Also, my brother Arun’s wife and sister-in-law are here, and though I like them very much, they will not give either of us a moment of peace. And then my afternoons are taken up with rehearsals, which put me in a very confused state. I don’t know if I’m myself or one of Shakespeare’s creatures. Ma also is in a peculiar mood. All in all, it is not a good time for us to see each other. I hope you do not think that I am trying to put you off.
I am glad that Mr Mukherji has been so kind and understanding. I hope he is successful in helping you.
Pran looks much better for his three weeks in hospital, and the constant presence of the baby — who has been named Uma by the whole family at a sort of board meeting — does him a world of good. He sends his regards to you, as does everyone else here. Ma was worried to get your news from Kalpana, but not exactly in the way you think. She was more worried because she thought I was worried, and she kept telling me not to worry, that everything would be all right. I was only worried because I thought you must be very upset — especially as you hadn’t written for a while. So you see it was a sort of vicious circle. I am happy that you haven’t lost any of your optimism and are not bitter. I hate people to wear martyred airs — just as I dislike self-pity. It is the cause of too much unhappiness.
Please keep me informed about everything that happens, and write soon. No one else has lost their faith in you, except your Umesh Uncle, who never had it anyway, so you mustn’t lose it in yourself.
Affectionately,
Lata
13.25
Lata sent the letter off with Mansoor to be posted at the general post office on his way to the market.
Mrs Rupa Mehra was displeased that she had not been allowed to read either the letter or the response.
‘I’ll let you read his letter, Ma, if you insist,’ said Lata. ‘But my reply’s gone off so there’s no question of reading that.’
Haresh’s letter had contained far less of a personal nature than usual, and was therefore showable. Under ‘the very great stress of circumstances’—or possibly because of Lata’s short response to the subject — Haresh had omitted to bring up the question of Simran again.
Meanwhile, Kakoli had got hold of Mrs Rupa Mehra’s card to Pran and Savita, and was enjoying herself, mouthing ‘winsome’ and ‘dainty’ to the helpless Lady Baby, and reformulating the lines while kissing Uma on the forehead.
‘Hush! Lady Baby’s fast asleep, the friendly fire-flames dance and leap and burning her to ash they sweep across the Lady Baby’s dress.’
‘How horrible!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘A Lady Baby burned today — Her dainty soul has flown away — God’s called her back to frisk and play — and that’s one Lady Baby less.’
Kakoli giggled. ‘Don’t worry, Ma, we won’t light a fire in Brahmpur in August. It’s not a sunless time of year.’
‘Meenakshi, you must control your sister.’
‘No one can do that, Ma. She’s hopeless.’
‘You are always saying that with Aparna also.’
‘Am I?’ said Meenakshi absently. ‘Oh, that reminds me, I think I’m pregnant.’
‘What?’ cried everyone (except the Lady Baby).
‘Yes — I’ve missed my period — it’s far too late to be merely delayed. So you may get your grandson after all, Ma.’
‘Oh!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, not knowing what to think. After a pause she added: ‘Does Arun know?’
An abstracted look appeared on Meenakshi’s face. ‘No, not yet,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’ll have to tell him. Should I send him a telegram? No, such things are best done in person. Anyway, I’m tired of Brahmpur. There’s no Life here.’ She had begun to pine once again for canasta, mah-jongg, the Shady Ladies and the bright lights. About the only lively person in Brahmpur was Maan, and he appeared far too rarely. Mr and Mrs Maitra, her hosts, were too deadly for words. As for the Rudhia riff-raff — words failed her. Besides, Lata appeared to be too immersed in this cobbler and his concerns to be vulnerable to hints about Amit.
‘What do you say, Kuku?’
‘Say?’ said Kuku. ‘I’m flabbergasted. When did you know?’
‘I meant, about going back to Calcutta.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Kakoli obligingly. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t enjoying herself here. But she missed Cuddles, and Hans, the telephone, the two cooks, the car, and even the family. ‘I’m ready to leave whenever you want. But why are you looking so thoughtful?’
It was a look that Meenakshi was to wear off and on for quite a while.
When exactly had she managed to get pregnant?
And with whom?
13.26
Haresh was disappointed that he had not been encouraged to stop in Brahmpur on his way to Calcutta or asked to visit Lata’s brothers in Calcutta despite the fact that they were surely going to be his future brothers-in-law, but the tone of understanding in Lata’s letter gave him great consolation among his uncertainties. The letter from the Praha Shoe Company reiterating their offer to him of a job at Rs 28 a week was such a pathetic response to his application that he couldn’t believe that Mr Khandelwal had had anything to do with it. It had probably been passed on to the Personnel Office, they had been forced to respond, and they had done so in their standard, dismissive manner.
Haresh decided that he would go to Calcutta anyway, and he lost no time after his arrival in trying to get Praha to change its corporate mind. He went to Prahapore by train, a journey of less than fifteen miles. It was raining, so his first impression of the grand complex — one of the largest and most efficient in Bengal — took place under gloomy conditions. The endless rows of workers’ houses; the offices and cinema; the green palm trees lining the road and the intensely green playing fields; the great, walled factory — the wall itself painted in neat segments advertising the latest lines of Praha footwear; the officers’ colony (almost exclusively Czech) hidden behind even higher walls; all these were seen by Haresh through the discomfort and greyness of a hot, wet morning. He was wearing an off-white suit and carrying an umbrella. But the weather and Bengal itself — both of which he found dampening — had seeped a little into his spirits. Memories of Mr Ghosh and Mr Sen Gupta came flooding back as he got a rickshaw from the train station to the Personnel Office. Well, at least I’ll have to deal with Czechs here, not Bengalis, thought Haresh.