A Suitable Boy(480)

He had Haresh’s application before him as he interviewed him. At the end of ten minutes he said: ‘Well, I see no reason to change our offer. It is a good one.’

‘At twenty-eight rupees a week?’

‘Yes.’

‘You cannot imagine I can accept an offer like that.’

‘That is up to you.’

‘My qualifications – my work experience –’ said Haresh helplessly, waving a hand at his application.

Mr Novak did not deign to answer. He looked like an old, cold fox.

‘Please reconsider your offer, Mr Novak.’

‘No.’ The voice was soft, and the eyes unsmiling and even – it seemed to Haresh – unflickering.

‘I have come here all the way from Delhi. At least give me half a chance. I have been in management on a reasonable monthly salary, and you are asking me to take the weekly wage of a workman – not even a supervisor, a foreman. I am sure you see how unreasonable this offer is.’

‘No.’

‘The Chairman –’

Mr Novak’s voice cut across like a quiet whip: ‘The Chairman asked me to consider your application. I did that and sent you a letter. That should have been the end of the matter. You have come here from Delhi for no reason, and I see no reason to change my mind. Good morning, Mr Khanna.’

Haresh got up, fuming, and left. It was still pouring outside. In the train back to Calcutta, he considered what to do. He felt he had been treated like dirt by Novak, and it burned him up. He had hated to plead, and his pleading had not worked.

He was a proud man, but now he had other compulsions. He had to have a job if he was to court Lata. From what he knew of Mrs Rupa Mehra, she would never allow her to marry an unemployed man – and Haresh could anyway not be so irresponsible as to ask Lata to share a hand-to-mouth existence with him. And what would he tell Umesh Uncle when he went back to Delhi? It would be galling beyond endurance to have to put up with his taunts.

So he decided to take the bull by the horns. He stood in the rain that afternoon outside the Praha head office in Camac Street. The next day was sunny, and he did the same. As a result of this reconnaisance he worked out Mr Khandelwal’s movements. It became clear that at one o’clock in the afternoon he left the office for lunch.

The third day at lunchtime, as the gates opened to let the Chairman’s Austin Sheerline glide out, Haresh stopped the car by standing in front of it. The watchmen ran helter-skelter in confusion and dismay and did not know whether to reason with him or drag him away. Mr Khandelwal, however, looked at him, recognized him, and opened the window.

‘Ah,’ he said, trying to recall the name.

‘Haresh Khanna, Sir –’

‘Yes, yes, I remember, Mukherji brought you to see me in Delhi. What happened?’

‘Nothing.’ Haresh spoke calmly, though he could not bring himself to smile.

‘Nothing?’ Mr Khandelwal frowned.

‘As against an offer of seven hundred and fifty a month with James Hawley, I was offered twenty-eight rupees a week by Mr Novak. It seems that Praha doesn’t want qualified people.’

Haresh did not mention that the James Hawley offer had been effectively rescinded, and he was glad that that aspect of the matter had not come up when he and Mukherji had met Khandelwal in Delhi.

‘Hmm,’ said Mr Khandelwal, ‘come and see me the day after tomorrow.’

When Haresh went to see him two days later, Mr Khandelwal had got his file before him. He was brief. He nodded at Haresh and said: ‘I have looked over this. Havel will meet you tomorrow for an interview.’ Havel was the General Manager at Prahapore.

Mr Khandelwal appeared to have no further questions for Haresh except an inquiry or two about how Mukherji was. ‘All right, let us see how things go,’ was his parting comment. He did not seem unduly concerned whether Haresh sank or swam.





13.27


BUT Haresh was nevertheless very encouraged. .An interview with Havel meant that the Chairman had forced the Czechs to take his application seriously. The next day, when he boarded the train for the forty-five minute trip to Prahapore, he was in a fairly confident mood.

The Indian personal assistant to the General Manager told him that Novak would not be attending the interview. Haresh was relieved.

In a few minutes Haresh was ushered into the office of the General Manager of Prahapore.

Pavel Havel – so named by playfully idiotic parents, who had no conception of how he would be teased at school – was a short man like Haresh, but almost as broad as he was tall.

‘Sit, sit, sit –’ he said to Haresh.

Haresh sat down.

‘Show me your hands,’ he said.

Haresh offered Mr Havel his hands, palms upwards. ‘Bend your thumb.’ Haresh bent it as much as possible. Mr Havel laughed in a not unfriendly but rather final way. ‘You are not a shoemaker,’ he said.