Khushwant did not smile, but he thought that it was unlike Mr Khanna to be so concerned about things of this kind. He wondered what this special party was that he was being asked to cater for — at a lunch that would consume two weeks’ worth of Mr Khanna’s salary in two hours.
Haresh walked home thinking about his next morning’s meeting rather than the Goodyear Welted line. It was a two-minute walk to the small flat that he had been provided in the colony. When he got to his room, he sat at his desk for a while. He faced a small, framed photograph; it was the well-travelled picture of Lata that Mrs Rupa Mehra had given him in Kanpur.
He looked at it and smiled, then thought of the other photograph which used to travel with him. It had been left in its silver frame, but put away, lovingly and regretfully, in a drawer. And Haresh, after copying out in his small, slanting hand a few paragraphs and phrases from Simran’s letters to him, had sent all her letters back to her. It would not be fair, he felt, to keep them.
The next day just at noon, two cars (the Chatterjis’ white Humber which had been kuku’d by Meenakshi for the day, and Arun’s little blue Austin) entered the white gates of the Prahapore Officers’ Colony and stopped at House 6, Row 3. From the two cars emerged Mrs Rupa Mehra, together with two sons and a son-in-law, and two daughters and a daughter-in-law. The entire Mehra mafia was met and welcomed by Haresh, who took them upstairs to his little three-room flat.
Haresh had made sure that there would be enough beer, Scotch (White Horse, not Black Dog), and gin to keep everyone happy, as well as lots of nimbu pani and other soft drinks. His servant was a boy of about seventeen, who had been briefed that this was a very important occasion; he could not help grinning at the guests as he served them their drinks.
Pran and Varun had a beer, Arun a Scotch, and Meenakshi a Tom Collins. Mrs Rupa Mehra and her two daughters asked for nimbu pani. Haresh spent a lot of time fussing over Mrs Rupa Mehra. He was, most atypically and unlike his first meeting with Lata, quite nervous. Perhaps his meeting with Arun and Meenakshi at the Khandelwals’ had given him the sense that they were critical of him. By now he and Lata had exchanged enough letters to make him feel that she was the woman for him. Her most affectionate letter had followed his announcement that he had lost his job; and he had been very moved by this.
Haresh made a few inquiries about Brahmpur and Bhaskar, and told Pran that he was looking very well. How were Veena and Kedarnath and Bhaskar? How was Sunil Patwardhan? He made a little polite conversation with Savita and Varun, whom he had never met before, and tried not to talk to Lata, who he sensed was equally nervous, perhaps even a little withdrawn.
Haresh was very conscious that he was under close family scrutiny, but he was not sure how to handle it. This was no Czech interview where he could talk about brass tacks and production. Some subtlety was required, and Haresh was not given to subtlety.
He talked a little about ‘Cawnpore’, until Arun said something denigratory about provincial industrial towns. Middlehampton too met with a similar response. Arun’s amour propre and his habit of laying down his opinions as statute had clearly recovered from his setback at the Khandelwals’.
Haresh noticed that Lata was looking at his co-respondent shoes with what appeared almost to be distaste. But the moment he looked at her, she turned away a bit guiltily towards his small bookshelf with its maroon-bound set of Hardy novels. Haresh felt a little downcast; he had thought a great deal about what to wear.
But the grand luncheon was still to come, and he was sure that the Mehras would be more than impressed by the spread that Khushwant would lay on, as well as by the great wood-floored hall that constituted almost the entire premises of the Prahapore Officers’ Club. Thank God he was not living outside the gates where the other foremen lived. The juxtaposition of those humble quarters with the pink silk handkerchief tucked into Arun’s grey suit pocket, with Meenakshi’s silvery laugh, with the white Humber parked outside, would have been disastrous.
By the time the party of eight was walking towards the club in the warm winter sunshine, Haresh’s general optimism had reasserted itself. He pointed out that beyond the compound walls lay the river Hooghly and that the tall hedge that they were passing bounded the General Manager Havel’s house. They walked past a small playground for children and a chapel. The chapel too was festooned for Christmas.
‘The Czechs are good chaps at heart,’ said Haresh expansively to Arun. ‘They believe in results, in being shown rather than told something. I believe they’ll even agree to my plan for brogues to be made in Brahmpur — and not by the Praha factory there but by small-scale manufacturers. They’re not like the Bengalis, who want to talk everything over the table and do as little work as possible. It is amazing what the Czechs have managed to create — and that too in Bengal.’
Lata listened to Haresh, quite astonished by his bluntness. She had had something of the same opinion about Bengalis, but once their family had become allied to the Chatterjis, she did not make or take such generalizations easily. And didn’t Haresh realize that Meenakshi was Bengali? Apparently not, because he was continuing regardless:
‘It’s hard for them, it must be, to be so far away from home and not be able to go back. They don’t even have passports. Just what they call white papers, which makes it difficult for them to travel. They’re mostly self-taught, though Kurilla has been to Middlehampton — and a few days ago even Novak was playing the piano at the club.’
But Haresh didn’t explain who either of these two gentlemen were; he assumed that everyone else knew them. Lata was reminded of his explanations at the tannery.
By now they had got to the club, and Haresh, proud Prahaman that he had become, was showing them around with a proprietorial air.
He pointed out the pool — which had been drained and repainted a pleasant light blue, and a children’s paddling pool nearby, the offices, the palm trees in pots, and the tables where a few Czechs were sitting outside under umbrellas, eating. There was nothing else to point out except the huge hall of the club. Arun, who was used to the subdued elegance of the Calcutta Club, was amazed by Haresh’s bumptious self-assurance.
They entered the festooned hall; after the brightness outside, it was rather dark; there were a few groups here and there sitting down to lunch. Along the far wall was their own table for eight, created by joining three small square tables together.
‘The hall is used for everything,’ said Haresh. ‘For dining, for dancing, as a cinema hall, and even for important meetings. When Mr Tomin’—and here Haresh’s voice took on a somewhat reverential note—‘when Mr Tomin came here last year, he gave a speech from the podium there. But these days it is used for the dance band.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Arun.
‘How wonderful,’ breathed Mrs Rupa Mehra.
16.14
Mrs Rupa Mehra was very impressed by all the arrangements. A thick white tablecloth and napkins, several sets of knives and forks, good glasses and crockery, and three flower arrangements consisting of an assortment of sweetpeas.
As soon as Haresh and his party entered, two waiters approached the table, and placed some bread on it, together with three dishes containing curlicues of Anchor butter. The bread had been baked under Khushwant’s supervision; he had learned the technique from the Czechs. Varun, who had been walking a little unsteadily, was feeling quite peckish. After a few minutes, when the soup had not yet arrived, he took a slice. It was delicious. He took another.
‘Varun, don’t eat so much bread,’ chided his mother. ‘Can’t you see how many courses there are?’