‘I’ll write . . . and, Arun Bhai, when you reply, please type.’
Arun laughed, then yawned.
The train departed on time.
Lata was happy once again to see the green and moist countryside of Bengal, which she loved—with its palms and banana trees, emerald fields of rice and village ponds. After a while, however, the landscape changed into a dry and hilly tract with small ravines over which the train clanked in a different voice.
The land became drier still as they moved westwards into the plains. Dusty fields and poor villages passed by between the telegraph poles and furlong markers. The heat was intense, and Lata’s mind began to wander. She would have been happy to stay in Calcutta for the rest of her holidays, but her mother sometimes took it into her head to insist on companionship for her Rail-Pilgrimages—usually when she felt ill or lonely somewhere along the route. She wondered which it was this time.
The other women in her compartment were shy with each other at first, and only talked to those they were travelling with, but as time passed, through the catalysis of a rather charming baby, they established a web of conversation. Young men from their families stopped by to inquire whether everything was all right when the train halted at a station, brought cups of tea in earthenware cups, and replenished the earthenware pitchers with water, for the day was getting even hotter, and the fans functioned only about half the time.
A woman in a burqa, having established which direction was west, rolled out a small prayer-rug and began to pray.
Lata thought of Kabir, and she felt both miserable and—in a curious way that she could not understand—happy. She loved him still—it was pointless to pretend otherwise. Had Calcutta had any effect at all in diminishing what she felt for him? Certainly, his letter had not given her any great hope of the strength of his feelings for her. Was there anything at all to be said for loving and not being loved equally in return? She didn’t think so. Why, then, did she smile when she thought of him?
Lata read her Emma, and was grateful to be able to. If she had been travelling with her mother, they would have formed the central node in the conversational web, and everyone in the compartment would by now have heard about Bentsen Pryce, Lata’s brilliance in her studies, the details of Mrs Rupa Mehra’s rheumatism, her false teeth and former beauty, the saloon-sheltered glory of her late husband’s inspection tours, the harshness of fate, and the wisdom of acceptance and resignation.
Sootily, fitfully, the train made its way along the great, burning plain of the Ganga.
At Patna a swarm of locusts, a mile long, darkened the sky.
Dust and flies and soot somehow succeeded in entering the compartment even when the glass panes were pulled down.
The Brahmpur telegram could not have arrived, because neither Savita nor Pran was at the platform to meet her. Lata had been looking forward to seeing them, if only for the fifteen minutes that the train stopped at Brahmpur. As the train pulled out of Brahmpur Junction she felt a disproportionate sadness.
As the whistle of the train suddenly wailed out, she caught in the distance a glimpse of the roofs of the university.
Always I am weeping, weeping
In your heart my image keeping
If, for example, he had appeared at the station—say, in the casual clothes he had worn when he had been with her on the boat, smiling with his old friendliness, arguing with a porter about the rate he was charging—suppose he too had been going to Kanpur—or at least as far as Banaras or Allahabad—Lata felt that her heart would have leapt with happiness at the sound of his voice and the sight of his face—and any misunderstanding between them would have vanished in a single puff of steam, a single turn of the wheels.
Lata looked down at her book.
‘My poor dear Isabella,’ said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five children—‘How long it is, how terribly long since you were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear—and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.—You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel.’
An egret flew over a field towards a ditch.
A sickly smell of molasses rose from a sugarcane factory.
The train stopped for an hour at a tiny station for no particular reason.
Beggars begged at the barred windows of the compartment.
When the train crossed the Ganga at Banaras, she threw a two-anna coin for luck out of the barred window. It hit a girder, then spun downwards into the river.
At Allahabad the train crossed over to the right bank again, and Lata threw another coin out.
Ganga darshan is so nice.
I have now completed twice.
She told herself that she was in danger of becoming an honorary Chatterji.
She began to hum Raag Sarang, then later drifted into Multani.
She rejected her sandwiches and bought some samosas and tea at the next station.
She hoped her mother was well. She yawned. She put Emma aside. She thought once again of Kabir.
She drowsed off for an hour. When she woke she found she had been leaning against the shoulder of an old woman in a white sari, who smiled at her. She had been keeping the flies off Lata’s face.
A troop of monkeys were raiding a dusty mango tree in an orchard at dusk, while three men stood below, trying to shoo them off with stones and lathis.
Soon it was night. It was still warm.
In a while the train slowed down once more, and the word ‘Cawnpore’ greeted her in black on a large yellow sign on the platform. Her mother was there, and her uncle Mr Kakkar, both smiling; but there was a look of strain on her mother’s face.
9.6
They went home by car. Kakkar Phupha (as Lata called her father’s sister’s husband) was a successful accountant with a cheery manner.
When they were alone, Mrs Rupa Mehra told Lata about Haresh: ‘a very suitable prospect’.
Lata was speechless for a moment. Then in a tone of disbelief she said: ‘You treat me like a child.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra wavered for a few seconds between suppression and placation, then murmured: ‘What is the harm, darling? I am not forcing anything on you. And day-after we will be leaving for Lucknow anyway and then back to Brahmpur the day after that.’
Lata looked at her mother, amazed that she should defend herself.
‘And it was for this—not because you were unwell or needed my help—that I was summoned from Calcutta.’ The tone of Lata’s voice was so unloving that Mrs Rupa Mehra’s nose reddened. But she pulled herself together and said:
‘Darling, I do need your help. Getting you married is not easy. And the boy is of our community.’
‘I don’t care what community he belongs to. I am not going to see him. I should never have left Calcutta.’
‘But he is a khatri—from U.P. originally,’ protested her mother.
This cast-iron argument had no effect on Lata. She said:
‘Ma, please. I know all your prejudices and I share none of them. You bring me up one way and you act in another.’
To this righteous attack her mother merely murmured: ‘You know, Lata, I have nothing against—against Mohammedans as such. It is only your future I am concerned about.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra had been expecting an outburst of sorts, and, with an effort, remained emollient.
Lata was silent. O, Kabir, Kabir, she thought.
‘Why aren’t you eating anything, dear? It’s been such a long journey.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Yes, you are,’ insisted Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘Ma, you have brought me here under false pretences,’ said Lata, unpacking her suitcase and not looking at her mother. ‘You must have known that if you had given your reasons in the telegram I would never have come.’
‘Darling, it isn’t sensible to add words to a telegram. Telegrams have become terribly expensive these days. Unless
of course you send a stock phrase like “Best wishes on a safe and pleasant journey” or “Heartiest Bijoya greetings” or some such thing. And he is such a nice boy. You’ll see.’
Lata was so exasperated that a couple of tears squeezed their way into her eyes. She shook her head, even angrier now with herself, her mother, and the unknown Haresh.
‘Ma, I hope I am not like you when I am your age,’ she said passionately.
Mrs Rupa Mehra’s nose immediately reddened again.
‘If you don’t believe me, at least believe Kalpana. I met him at her house. The boy is Kalpana’s friend. He has studied in England and has excellent results. He is good-looking, and he is interested in meeting you. If you are not interested in meeting him, how can I show my face to Kalpana who went through all the trouble of arranging this? Even Mr Gaur approves of him. If you don’t believe me, read this letter from her. It’s for you.’
‘I don’t need to read it,’ said Lata. ‘You can tell me what’s in it.’
‘How do you know I’ve read it?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra indignantly. ‘Don’t you trust your own mother?’
Lata stood the empty suitcase in a corner. ‘Ma, there is guilt written all over your face,’ she said. ‘But I’ll read it all the same.’
Kalpana’s letter was brief and affectionate. Just as she had told Haresh that Lata was like a sister to her, she now told Lata that Haresh was like a brother to her. Kalpana, it seemed, had written to Haresh. Haresh had written back, saying that he couldn’t return to Delhi because he was required at the factory and had taken leave only recently, but that he would be very happy to meet Lata and Mrs Rupa Mehra in Kanpur. He had added that despite his affection for Simran, he had now come to realize that there was no hope for him there. As a result, he was not averse to meeting other girls. At the moment his life consisted of little but work; India was not England, where it was easy to get to know girls on their own.
As for a dowry [continued Kalpana in her curvaceously looped script], he isn’t the kind of man to ask for it, and there is no one to ask for it on his behalf. He is very attached to his father—his foster-father, actually, though he calls him Baoji—but (unlike his foster-brothers) he has established his independence early enough. He ran away from home once when he was fifteen, but you should not hold that against him. If the two of you like each other, you will not have to live with your in-laws. The joint family lives in Neel Darvaza in Delhi, and though I have been there once and like most of them, I know that that environment would not suit you, given the way you have been brought up.
I can tell you honestly, Lata, that I have always liked Haresh. At one time I even had a slight crush on him—we were in the same class at St Stephen’s. When my father read his recent letter, he said: ‘Well, it is a straightforward reply. At least he makes no bones about his earlier affections.’ And certainly, Ma seems set on him. She has been getting more and more worried lately. Perhaps this is the answer to her dreams as well as yours. At any rate, Lata, whatever you do or don’t do finally, do meet him, and don’t be annoyed with your mother, who has been going frantic trying to ensure your happiness (as she sees it).
Ma will have told you about my health. If I were not myself I would be amused by my own symptoms, which range from yawning to spells of dizziness to hot spots on the soles of my feet. These hot spots are particularly puzzling. Your mother swears by some Doctor Nuruddin in Calcutta, but he sounds like a quack. And anyway, I can’t travel. Why don’t you visit me after Kanpur and we’ll play Monopoly, just as we used to as children? It has been so long since I last saw you. My love to you and to Ma. Do pay some attention to her advice; I think that you are very lucky to be her daughter. Please report to me the moment you have something to report. Lying in bed all I can listen to is this painful classical music on the radio, which I know you don’t think is painful, and the gup-shup of empty-headed friends. A visit from you would do me good. . . .
Something in the tone of the letter made Lata think of the time at Sophia Convent when, as a schoolgirl, overcome by a sudden impulse, a strange, trance-like state, she had wanted to become a Christian and a nun. She had wanted to convert immediately and Arun had been summoned to Mussourie to talk some sense into her head. He had promptly declared that it was all ‘summer moonshine’. It was the first time that Lata had heard the phrase. Though she had been struck by it, she had refused to believe that these religious impulses were moonshine of any kind. She had been determined to go ahead with her resolve. It was in fact a nun at Sophia Convent who had finally sat her down on a bench and talked to her—a green bench some distance away from the school buildings. It had had a view of a slope covered with a well-kept lawn and beautiful flowers; at the foot of the slope was a cemetery in which nuns of the order, many of whom had taught at the school, lay buried. She had said: ‘Give yourself a few months, Lata. Wait at least till you leave school. You can always decide a little later. Don’t make an immediate commitment. Remember, it will be very hard on your mother, who is a young widow.’
Lata sat on the bed for a while with Kalpana’s letter in her hand, trying to avoid looking at her mother’s face. Mrs Rupa Mehra arranged her saris in a drawer, deliberately silent. After a minute Lata said:
‘All right, Ma. I’ll see him.’ She did not say anything further. She was angry still, but saw no point in expressing it. When some of the lines of anxiety on her mother’s forehead relaxed, she was glad she had left it at that.
9.7
For some time now, Haresh had kept a diary of sorts. These days he usually wrote it at night at a heavy writing desk in the rooms he rented at Elm Villa. He was browsing through it, glancing from time to time at the photograph standing in a silver frame on his desk.
Brahmpur
Lasting here is good, as is the general standard of workmanship. Am having pair of brogues done in Ravidaspur on design of shoes I had brought for Sunil. If my idea works, Brahmpur could become a good source of finished footwear. But quality is the key. Unless an infrastructure of good labour is built up the trade will not advance.
Purchasing of micro-sheets is not a problem: over-supply because of strike. Kedarnath Tandon took me around the market (troubles with labour and suppliers at the moment over local demands) and had lunch with his family. Bhaskar his son is very bright, and his wife is an attractive lady. Veena I think.
Praha people are very difficult to talk to, and are not impressed with my qualifications. The problem, as always, is one of ingress. If I can talk to the top, there is a possibility, otherwise none. They have not even answered my letters seriously.
Sunil in fine form as usual.
Letter to Baoji, Simran, M. and Mme. Poudevigne
Cawnpore
Hot days, and working in the factory is hard. At least in the evening I can rest under the fan at Elm Villa.
I think of Simran all the time, but I know there is little hope. Now her mother has threatened to commit suicide if she marries someone outside her faith. It may be human nature, but I do not want to be at the receiving end of human nature. It is even harder for Simran. No doubt they are trying to get her married off to someone suitable, poor girl.
At work, as usual, supplies are holding things up. I am too short-tempered and impatient. Had row with Rao from the other department. He is a good for nothing man who only knows how to play labour off against each other. He has favourites and is unobjective, and it is to the detriment of the whole organisation. Sometimes he simply takes away one or two people who I need, and then I am short-staffed. Thin lean fellow like Uriah, with a sharp nose. Elsewhere they believe in ‘Grow and make the business grow’. In India we believe that the way to rise is to do someone else down.
Today the problem I faced was not nails or soles or stitching thread but sheepskin again. There were quite a few uppers cut which needed lining, also the recent order required sheepskin. After setting the men to work I took Rs. 600/- in suspense a/c and went to the market myself. Buying material is always a training in its
elf. Maybe I should treat my experience at CLFC as a paid apprenticeship. I felt tired after the day’s work. Came home, read a few pages of The Mayor of Casterbridge and slept early. No letters.
Watch strap Rs. 12/- (Crocodile skin)
Cawnpore
Very interesting day.
Reached factory in time. It rained. Went about work as usual, there seems no system in the work, one person has to handle so many things.
Saw a shop in market run by a Chinaman, Lee. He has a small shop, I saw a few shoes with striking designs, so entered on impulse, and talked to him. He speaks English and also Hindi in a strange way. Makes shoes himself. I asked him who designed them, and he said he designed them himself as well. I was impressed. His technology of designing is not scientific, but he has a fairly good grasp of proportions and colour-schemes, even though I am colour-blind I could see that. The toe and tongue not lopsided, the type of sole and heel in balance, the total visual impact good. By seeing the quantity of business he did and through the conversation I found out without making him nervous how much he would be likely to make after rent and material and other costs. Lee cannot make much because Praha, Cooper Allen etc. flood the market with cheap shoes of a certain quality and Cawnpore is not a discriminating place for specially designed shoes. I think I could improve his prospects and also help my new department if I could convince Mukherji to take him on for Rs. 250 a month. Of course he will have to speak to Ghosh in Bombay, and that is the rub. If I were in business for myself I would take him on immediately. He would surely not be averse to have a designer’s job without all the other troubles he must have.
Got ticket for Delhi and will be leaving tomorrow. A private party is thinking of hiring me, so I should be well prepared. And CLFC wants to get into the Delhi market also. They should first set their own house in order.
Too sleepy to write more.
Delhi
Mukherji agrees about Lee, now it is up to Ghosh.
Was tired, so rested on the train, even though it was a day journey. Freshened up in waiting room, then went to Kalpana. Had a good talk about the old times. She is not well, and has had a sad life, but cheers up everyone around her. Did not talk about S though it was on both our minds. Met her father and her good-looking aunt Mrs Mehra.