‘Yes. A good boy. Good technical qualifications.’
Arun shuddered inwardly at the word ‘technical’.
‘Well, we wouldn’t mind his coming over some day to our place,’ Arun said. ‘But perhaps it might be better if it were not quite so face-to-face, with just him and us. I wonder if perhaps you and Mrs Khandelwal might care to come over for tea one day. We live in Sunny Park, which, as you know, is in Ballygunge: not all that far away from you. I’ve been thinking of inviting you over for some time anyway; I understand you play an excellent game of bridge.’
Since Mr Khandelwal was a notoriously reckless player – his skill at bridge consisted largely of losing while playing for high stakes (though sometimes in the interests of a larger game) – Arun’s remark was pure flattery. But it had its effect.
Mr Khandelwal, although not blind to Arun’s charming manipulativeness, was pleased to be flattered. He was a hospitable man – and he had a mansion to display. So, as Arun had hoped and intended that he might when he had tendered his reverse invitation, the Chairman of Praha invited them over instead.
‘No, no, you come and join us for tea at our place,’ said Mr Khandelwal, ‘I’ll get this boy over – Khanna. And my wife will be very interested in meeting Mrs Mehra. Please bring her too.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Khandelwal.’
‘Not at all, not at all. Sure you won’t have a drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘We can discuss recruiting procedures then.’
‘Oh, yes, recruiting,’ said Arun.
‘Well, which day would suit you?’
‘Come any time.’ Mr Khandelwal left the matter up in the air. The Khandelwal household ran on very flexible principles. People dropped in and vast formal parties were given, often at the same time. Six large alsatians joined in the melee and terrified the guests. Mrs Khandelwal ruled over Mr Khandelwal with a whip, but he often went astray with drink or women.
‘How about next Tuesday?’
‘Yes, yes, next Tuesday, any day,’ said Mr Khandelwal vaguely.
‘At five?’
‘Yes, yes, at five, any time.’
‘Well, then, at five next Tuesday. I look forward to it,’ said Arun, wondering whether Mr Khandelwal would remember this conversation five minutes later.
‘Yes, yes, Tuesday, at five,’ said Mr Khandelwal, deep in his cups. ‘Yes. Abdar –’
13.30
EVERYONE punched in at the Praha factory gate before the second siren went at eight in the morning; but there was a separate gate for the supervisors and managers, from the foremen upwards. Haresh was shown where he would sit. It was at a table in the open hall next to the conveyor belt. Here he would both supervise and do any office work that was necessary. Only group foremen got cubicles. There was nowhere for him to screw in the brass plate bearing his name that he had removed from his office door at CLFC not very long ago.
But perhaps he would not have been able to use that brass plate anyway. Everything was uniform in Praha and no doubt there was a standard lettering and size to brass plates as to everything else. The Czechs, for example, had brought the metric system with them, and refused to work with anything else, regardless of what had prevailed in the Raj or what now prevailed in Independent India. As for the litany that every Indian schoolchild learned – ‘three pies to a paisa, four paisas to an anna, sixteen annas to a rupee,’ – the Czechs treated this as a joke. They had decimalized the rupee for all internal Praha purposes by flat decades before the government came around to even deciding to do so.
Haresh, who liked order, did not disapprove of this at all. He was happy to be working in a well-organized, well-lit, well-knit environment, and was determined to do his best for the company.
Because he had been started off at the foreman level and granted permission to live in the colony, a number of rumours had begun to do the rounds among the workmen. These were enhanced when he was invited to tea with Mr Khandelwal. The first rumour was that the fair, compact, well-dressed Haresh Khanna was actually a Czech, who for purposes best known to himself had decided to pose as an Indian. The second was that he was Mr Khandelwal’s brother-in-law. Haresh did nothing to dispel these rumours, as he found both of them helpful when he wanted to get things done.
Haresh took an hour’s leave on the day that he had to go to Calcutta for tea with the Chairman. When he arrived at the huge house on Theatre Road – the ‘Praha Residency’ as it was popularly known – he was saluted smartly by the guards. The immaculate lawn, the five cars in the drive (including the Austin Sheerline that he had bodily halted a few days before), the palms lining the drive, the grand mansion itself, all impressed him greatly. The only thing that troubled him a little was that one palm tree was slightly out of line.