‘Quite sure, Haresh, God bless you,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘Lata?’ said Haresh, smiling, but with a trace of uncertainty; perhaps, for once, he was not entirely sure whether he was liked or disliked. Certainly the signals he was receiving were perplexingly mixed. ‘You’re sure I may write?’
‘Yes, that would be nice,’ said Lata, as if someone had offered her a piece of toast.
This sounded so lukewarm, even to her, that she added: ‘It would really be very nice. It’s a good way to get to know each other.’
Haresh was about to say something more, but decided against it.
‘Au revoir, then,’ he said, smiling. He had taken a few French lessons in England.
‘Au revoir,’ replied Lata with a laugh.
‘Why are you laughing?’ asked Haresh. ‘Were you laughing at me?’
‘Yes,’ said Lata honestly. ‘I was. Thank you.’
‘For what?’ asked Haresh.
‘For a very enjoyable day.’ She glanced once more at his co-respondent shoes. ‘I won’t forget it.’
‘Neither will I,’ said Haresh. Then he thought of several things to say but rejected each one.
‘You must learn to say shorter goodbyes,’ said Lata.
‘Do you have any other advice for me?’ asked Haresh.
Yes, thought Lata; at least seven pieces. Aloud she said: ‘Yes, I do. Keep to the left.’
Grateful for the affectionate banality, Haresh nodded; and his tonga plodded off towards Simran’s sister’s house.
9.14
BOTH Lata and mrs Rupa Mehra were so tired after their Kanpur visit that they went off to sleep soon after lunch. Each had her own room, and Lata welcomed these rare hours of privacy. She knew that the moment they were alone together her mother would begin asking her about what she thought of Haresh.
Before she dropped off to sleep her mother came to her room. The bedrooms were arranged in rows on both sides of a long corridor – as if in a hotel. It was a hot afternoon. Mrs Rupa Mehra had with her her bottle of 4711 eau-de-Cologne, one of the objects that had a permanent home in her bag. With this she soaked a corner of one of her rose-embroidered handkerchiefs and dabbed Lata’s head affectionately.
‘I thought I would say a word to my darling daughter before she fell off to sleep.’
Lata waited for the question.
‘Well, Lata?’
‘Well, Ma?’ Lata smiled. Now that it was a reality rather than an anticipation, the question was not so formidable.
‘Don’t you think he’s suitable?’ Mrs Rupa Mehra’s voice made it clear that any rejection of Haresh would hurt her to the quick.
‘Ma, I’ve only met him for twenty-four hours!’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘What do I really know of him, Ma?’ said Lata. ‘Let’s say – it’s not negative: he’s all right. I’ve got to know him better.’
This last sentence being ambiguous, Mrs Rupa Mehra wanted an immediate clarification. Lata, smiling to herself, said: ‘Let me put it like this. He’s not rejected. He says he wants to write to me. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.’
‘You are a very fussy and ungrateful girl,’ said her mother. ‘You are always thinking of the wrong people.’
Lata said: ‘Yes, Ma, you’re quite right. I am very fussy and very ungrateful, but at the moment I am also very sleepy.’
‘Here. You keep this handkerchief.’ And her mother left her to herself.
Lata fell off to sleep almost immediately. The Sunny Park household in Calcutta, the long journey to Kanpur in the heat, the strain of being on display before a marriageable man, the tannery, the tension between her liking and distaste for Haresh, the journey from Kanpur to Lucknow, and her repeated and unbidden thoughts of Kabir, all had exhausted her. She slept well. When she woke up it was four o’clock and tea-time. She washed her face, changed, and went to the drawing room.
Her mother, Mr Sahgal, Mrs Sahgal, and their two children were sitting there having tea and samosas. Mrs Rupa Mehra was catching up as usual on her enormous network of acquaintances. Though Mrs Sahgal was, strictly speaking, her cousin, they actually thought of each other as sisters: they had spent a great deal of their childhood together after Rupa’s mother’s death in the great influenza epidemic.
Mrs Sahgal’s wish to please her husband was comic, or perhaps pathetic. Her eyes were constantly following his: ‘Shall I bring that newspaper?’, ‘Will you have another cup?’, ‘Do you want me to bring the photograph album?’. His eyes had only to rest on some object in the room for her to anticipate his wishes and scurry to fulfil them. He did not treat her with contempt, however; he praised her in measured tones. Sometimes he would stroke his short grey-and-white beard and say: ‘You see my luck? With Maya as a wife I have to do nothing! I worship her as a goddess.’ His wife would preen with pleasure.