Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

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.

Mr Khandelwal greeted him in a friendly manner, in Hindi. ‘So you have become a Prahaman. Very good.’

‘It is because of your kindness—’ began Haresh.

‘You’re quite right,’ said Mr Khandelwal, instead of making some self-deprecating rejoinder. ‘It was my kindness all right.’ He laughed. ‘Those crazy Czechs would have got rid of you if they could. Come in, come in. . But it was your qualifications that did it. I heard about that pair of shoes.’ He laughed again.

Haresh was introduced to Mrs Khandelwal, a strikingly attractive woman in her late thirties, dressed in a gold-and-white sari. A diamond nose-stud and diamond earrings and a charming and lively smile added to the dazzling effect.

Within a few minutes she had sent him off to repair a tap that was not working in the bathroom. ‘We must get it going before the other guests arrive,’ she said in her most charming manner. ‘I hear you are very good with your hands.’

Haresh, slightly puzzled, went to do as he was bid. It was not a test of any kind — either of the Pavel Havel kind or of his vulnerability to her smile. It was simply that when something needed to be done, Mrs Khandelwal expected everyone around her to do it. When she wanted a handyman, she seized upon any man who was handy. All Indian Prahamen had learned that they could be called upon at any time to do the Queen’s bidding. Haresh didn’t mind; he liked putting things right. He took off his jacket, and wandered through the huge house with a servant until he came to the erring tap. He wondered who these important guests were.

Meanwhile, the guests themselves were on their way. Meenakshi was quite looking forward to it all. After the yawn that was Brahmpur it was good to be back in Calcutta. Aparna had become a little more placid by spending a few days with her grandmother Mrs Chatterji (which is where she had been parked this evening as well); and even the shiftless Varun (who was also out this evening) was a welcome homecoming sight after the Brahmpur baby smells and the Rudhia relatives and the doddering Maitras.

This evening was to be a grand one: tea with the Khandelwals; two cocktail parties to follow (at at least one of which she was bound to meet Billy — what would he say, she wondered, when she laughingly told him her news?); then dinner and dancing. She was curious about the Khandelwals, with their grand house and six dogs and five cars, and she was very interested in meeting the upstart cobbler who had designs on Luts.

The lawns and flowers of the Praha Residency were more than impressive, even for a season when almost nothing bloomed. Mrs Khandelwal, who was an obsessive woman, would have thought nothing of transplanting Kew to Calcutta if it had suited her ends.

Haresh was back in his jacket by the time he was introduced to the tall young gentleman and his elegant wife, both of whom appeared to be appraising him from a height that was not merely literal. The moment he heard his host’s words—‘Arun Mehra — from Bentsen Pryce’—he realized why. So this was Lata’s Calcutta brother.

‘Very pleased to meet you,’ said Haresh, shaking Arun’s hand in perhaps too firm a grip. This was his first real meeting with a brown sahib. They had never been a part of his life. When he had lived for a while in Patiala he had often wondered why people made such a fuss about the young man from Imperial Tobacco or Shell or some other foreign firm who was based in the town or travelling through, not realizing that for a mere trader such a member of the comprador classes was a man important beyond his years; he could dispense and revoke agencies, he could make or break one’s fortune. He invariably travelled around in a car with a chauffeur, and a car with a chauffeur in a small town was a great thing.

Arun for his part was thinking: short; a bit brash; something about his manner of dressing that’s a bit flashy; has too good an opinion of himself.

But they all sat down to tea, and the opening moves of the conversation were made by the women. Meenakshi noticed that the Rosenthal service in white and gold too perfectly matched her hostess’s sari. Typical of these people! she thought. They try too hard.

She looked around the room for something to praise. She couldn’t very well praise the heavy furniture, most of which was in rather overdone taste, but there was a Japanese painting that she quite liked: two birds and a bit of calligraphy.

‘That’s a lovely painting, Mrs Khandelwal,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘From Japan. Mr Khandelwal went on a trip there—’

‘From Indonesia,’ said Mr Khandelwal. It had been given to him by a Japanese businessman at a conference in Djakarta that he had attended on behalf of Praha India.

Mrs Khandelwal flashed her eyes at him, and he quailed.

‘I know what you got and when,’ said Mrs Khandelwal.

‘Yes, yes—’ said her husband in rather a worried tone.

‘Nice furniture!’ said Haresh, in the belief that this was the kind of small talk that needed to be made.

Meenakshi looked at him and forbore from comment.

But Mrs Khandelwal gazed at him with her sweetest, most charming expression. He had provided her with an opportunity to say what she had been waiting to say. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked Haresh. ‘It has been done by Kamdar’s — Kamdar’s of Bombay. Half our rooms are decorated by them.’

Meenakshi looked at the heavy corner settee — in dark, solid wood with dark-blue upholstery. ‘If you like this sort of thing, you can always get it in Calcutta,’ she said. ‘There’s the Chowringhee Sales Bureau, for instance, for old-fashioned furniture. And if you want something more modern in style, there’s always Mozoomdar. It’s a little less’—she paused for a word—‘a little less ponderous. But it depends on your taste. These pakoras are delicious,’ she added by way of compensation, helping herself to another one.

Her bright laugh tinkled across the china, though there was nothing very obviously humorous in her previous remarks.

‘Oh, but I think,’ said Mrs Khandelwal, oozing charm, ‘I do think that the quality of workmanship and the quality of wood at Kamdar’s is unbeatable.’

And the quality of distance, thought Meenakshi. If you lived in Bombay, you’d be importing your furniture from Calcutta. Aloud she said: ‘Well, Kamdar’s is Kamdar’s, of course.’

‘Do have some more tea, Mrs Mehra,’ said Mrs Khandelwal, pouring it out herself.