by Vikram Seth
He stitched a welt all around. He trimmed the surplus material, and bottom-filled the gap with a mixture of cork and adhesive.
He hardly ate. On the way back to Calcutta each night he dreamed of the finished pair of shoes and how they would transform his life.
He cut the sole leather and split it to the correct thickness. He layed it, stitched it through, and attached the heel. Then he trimmed the heel and the sole. He paused for a few minutes before starting this difficult and delicate operation; trimming was like cutting hair—a mistake would be critical and irretrievable. A pair of shoes had to be completely symmetrical, left and right absolutely in proportion to each other. He paused for a few minutes afterwards as well. He knew from experience that after performing a difficult job well he was prone to the kind of relief and overconfidence that led to botching something simple.
After trimming, he fine-scoured the heel, and indented the welt to make it look good. When he had finished, he allowed himself to think that things were going well. He coloured the edges, and hot-waxed and ironed them to make them impermeable to water.
Mr Novak, the cold fox, came around at one stage to see how he was progressing. Haresh was taking his post-trimming breather. Mr Novak nodded but did not greet him, Haresh nodded but did not greet him, and Mr Novak went wordlessly away.
The shoes were now practically ready except that the soles, where stitched, looked a little crude. So Haresh fine-buffed the soles, waxed them and shone them. And lastly he fudged the bottom edges against a hot revolving wheel that hid the ugly stitches under a fine decorative pattern.
That, thought Haresh, carries a lesson for me. If James Hawley hadn’t retracted their offer I would still be stuck in the same city. Now perhaps I’ll get a job near Calcutta. And in terms of quality, Praha footwear is the best in India.
Appropriately enough, his next operation was to brand-stamp the sole with the name of Praha. He removed the wooden last. He attached the heel (which was attached only temporarily before) with nails. With gold foil he brand-stamped the inside sock with the Praha name and pasted it and cemented it inside the shoe. It was done!
He was halfway to Havel’s office when he turned back, shaking his head and smiling at himself.
‘What now?’ said the man who had been designated to police him while he worked.
‘A pair of laces,’ said Haresh. ‘I must be exhausted.’
The General Manager, the head of Leather, and the head of Personnel gathered together to look at Haresh’s pair of shoes, to twist them and turn them, to prod them and peer at them. They spoke in Czech.
‘Well,’ said Kurilla, ‘they’re better than anything you or I could make.’
‘I’ve promised him a foreman’s job,’ said Havel.
‘You can’t do that,’ said Novak. ‘Everyone starts on the floor.’
‘I’ve promised him a foreman’s job, and he will get one. I don’t want to lose a man like this. What do you think Mr K will say?’
Though Khandelwal had appeared indifferent to Haresh’s fate, he had in fact (as Haresh was later to learn) been very tough with the Czechs. After looking at Haresh’s papers he had said to Havel: ‘Show me any other applicants, Czech or Indian, who have the same qualifications.’ Havel had not been able to. Even Kurilla, the head of Leather, though he had himself graduated from the Middlehampton College of Technology many years earlier, had not had the distinction, as Haresh had had, of standing first. Mr Khandelwal had then said: ‘I forbid you to recruit any person below this man’s qualifications until he is first offered a job.’ Havel had tried to dissuade Khandelwal from this drastic veto, but had not succeeded. He had tried to persuade Haresh to withdraw, but had not succeeded. He had then set him a task that he had not remotely imagined he could succeed in. But Haresh’s shoes were as good as anything he had seen. Pavel Havel, whatever he thought about Indians, would never again speak slightingly about people’s thumbs.
The Goodyear Welted shoes were to lie in Havel’s office for over a year, and he was to point them out on various occasions to visitors whenever he wanted to discuss fine workmanship.
Haresh was called in.
‘Sit, sit, sit,’ said Havel.
Haresh sat down.
‘Excellent, excellent!’ said Havel.
Haresh knew how good his shoes were, but he could not help looking delighted. His eyes disappeared in his smile.
‘So I keep my part of the bargain. You get the job. Eighty rupees a week. Starting on Monday. Yes, Kurilla?’
‘Yes.’
‘Novak?’
Novak nodded, unsmilingly. His right hand was moving over the edge of one of the shoes. ‘A good pair,’ he said quietly.
‘Then good,’ said Havel. ‘You accept?’
‘The salary is too low,’ said Haresh. ‘Compared both to what I was getting before and what I have been offered.’
‘We will put you on probation for six months, and then reconsider the salary. You do not realize, Khanna, how far we go to accommodate you, to make you a Prahaman.’
Haresh said: ‘I am grateful. I accept these terms, but there is one thing I will not compromise on. I must live inside the colony and be able to use the Officers’ Club.’
He realized that, however momentous in terms of the Praha culture was his direct entry at the supervisory level, he would be fatally disadvantaged in social terms if he was not seen—by Lata and her mother and her much-vaunted Calcutta brother, for example—to be on easy terms with the managers of his company.
‘No, no, no—’ said Pavel Havel. He looked thoroughly worried.
‘Impossible,’ said Novak, his eyes boring into Haresh, willing him to give in.
Kurilla did not say anything. He looked at the pair of shoes. He knew that no supervisor—and only one Indian—had been allocated a place among the forty or so houses in the walled compound. But he was glad to see the excellence of the training of his old college vindicated by Haresh. Among his Praha colleagues, most of whom had learned their skills on the job, Kurilla’s technical training was often treated as something of a joke.
Haresh too had found out from Havel’s Indian assistant that only one Indian had so far gained admittance into the hallowed colony—a manager from the Accounts Department.
He sensed Kurilla’s sympathy and Havel’s hesitancy. Even the icy Novak had a little earlier—and most uncharacteristically for him—praised his work in three brief syllables. So there appeared to be hope.
‘I want above everything else to work for Praha,’ said Haresh with feeling. ‘You can see how much I care for quality. That is what has drawn me to your company. I have been an officer at the Cawnpore Leather and Footwear Company, and I was offered a manager’s, an officer’s grade at James Hawley, so my living in the compound would not be so extraordinary. I cannot take the job otherwise. I am sorry. I want to work here so much that I am willing to compromise on salary and on status. Keep me as a foreman, a supervisor, if you wish, and pay me less than I was getting before. But please compromise on this small matter of accommodation.’
There was a confabulation in Czech. The Managing Director was out of the country and could not be consulted. More importantly, the Chairman, who sometimes treated the Czechs as brusquely as they treated Indians, would not be sympathetic to what he would see as their exclusivism. If Haresh refused the job after all this, there would be hell to pay.
Like a litigant listening to legal incomprehensibilities in court, incomprehensibilities that would decide his fortune, Haresh listened to the three men, sensing from their tones and gestures and the occasional word—‘colony’, ‘club’, ‘Khandelwal’, ‘Middlehampton’, ‘Jan Tomin’ and so on—that Kurilla had persuaded Havel and that both were now bearing down on Novak. Novak’s replies were brief, trenchant, entrenched, consisting only rarely of more than five or six syllables. Then, quite suddenly, Novak made an expressive gesture—he half shrugged, he half threw up his hands. He did not utter a word or even a nod of assent, but there w
as no further dissent from him either.
Pavel Havel turned to Haresh with a broad smile.
‘Welcome—welcome to Praha!’ he said, as if he were offering Haresh the keys to the kingdom of heaven.
Haresh beamed with pleasure, as if indeed he were.
And everyone civilly shook hands.
13.29
Arun Mehra and his friend Billy Irani were sitting on the verandah of the Calcutta Club overlooking the lawn. It was lunchtime. The waiter had not yet come around to take his order for a drink. Arun, however, did not wish to press the little brass bell at his white cane table. As a waiter walked past a few yards away, Arun got his attention by patting the top of his left hand with his right.
‘Abdar!’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What’ll you have, Billy?’
‘A gimlet.’
‘One gimlet and one Tom Collins.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The drinks came around in due course. Both of them ordered grilled fish for lunch.
They were still on their drinks when Arun, looking around, said: ‘That’s Khandelwal sitting there by himself—the Praha chap.’
Billy’s comment was relaxed: ‘These Marwaris—there was a time when membership in this club meant something.’
They had both on several occasions noted with distaste Khandelwal’s drinking habits. Being limited at home by the powerful Mrs Khandelwal to one drink in the evening, Khandelwal made it his business to get in as many as possible during the day.
But Arun today found nothing much to object to in Khandelwal’s presence, particularly in the fact that he was sitting alone and drinking his fourth Scotch. Mrs Rupa Mehra had written to Arun, ordering him to acquaint himself with Haresh Khanna and to write to her telling her what he thought of him. Haresh apparently had got some job or other in Praha and lived and worked in Prahapore.
It would have been too demeaning for Arun to approach him directly, and he had been wondering how to go about it. But yes, he could certainly mention the matter to the Chairman of Praha and perhaps inveigle a common invitation to tea—on neutral grounds. Here was an excellent opportunity.
Billy was continuing: ‘It’s remarkable. He no sooner finishes one than another’s at his elbow. He never knows when to stop.’
Arun laughed. Then another thought struck him. ‘Oh, by the way—Meenakshi’s expecting again.’
‘Expecting?’ Billy was looking slightly blank.
‘Yes, you know, old fellow, preggers!’
‘Ah, yes, yes, preggers!’ Billy Irani nodded his head. Then suddenly a thought struck him, and he began to look bewildered.
‘Are you feeling all right, old chap? Another? Abdar—’
The waiter came by. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Another gimlet. Though we were taking the usual precautions. Still, it shows you never can tell. Determined fellows—’
‘Fellows?’
‘Yes, you know, babies. They want to appear, so they do so without consulting their parents. Meenakshi’s been looking worried—but I suppose it’s all for the best. Aparna could do with a brother. Or sister, I suppose. I say, Billy, I might have to go over and have a few words with Khandelwal. It’s about the new hiring policies of our firm. Praha apparently have been taking on some Indians lately, and I might get a few ideas from him—well, I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Oh, no, no—not at all.’
‘You’re looking rather poorly. Is it the sun? We can change tables.’
‘No, no—just tired—working too hard, I suppose.’
‘Well, take it easy. Doesn’t Shireen tick you off? Act as a moderating influence and all that?’ Arun smiled as he moved away.
‘Shireen?’ Billy’s handsome face was pale. His mouth was open in rather a fish-like gape. ‘Oh, yes, Shireen.’
Arun wondered for a second whether Billy’s IQ had sunk to zero, but his mind was soon occupied with other thoughts. He winched up a smile as he approached Mr Khandelwal’s table at the far end of the verandah.
‘Ah, Mr Khandelwal. Good to see you.’
Mr Khandelwal looked up, half sozzled already, but very genially. This was Arun Mehra, one of a handful of young men in Calcutta who had been accepted into the British commercial establishment—and who with their wives were therefore the leaders of Indian society in Calcutta. Chairman of Praha though he was, he was flattered to be recognized by Arun, to whom he had once been introduced at the races. Khandelwal remembered that the young man had an exceedingly glamorous wife, but he had a bad memory for names, and groped around a bit before Arun, who could not believe that anyone could have forgotten him, said, ‘Arun Mehra.’
‘Yes, yes, of course—Bentsen Pryce.’
Arun was mollified.
‘I wonder if I could have a few words with you, Mr Khandelwal,’ he said.
Mr Khandelwal gestured towards a chair and Arun sat down.
‘Will you have a drink?’ offered Mr Khandelwal, his hand poised above the small brass bell.
‘No, thank you, I’ve had one already.’
In Mr Khandelwal’s view that was no good reason not to have another half-dozen. ‘What is on your mind?’ he asked the younger man.
‘Well, as you know, Mr Khandelwal, our firm, and several others like ours, have been recruiting Indians—suitable Indians, of course—for management positions, on a gradual basis. And one hears that you, too, being a big organization, have been thinking of doing the same thing.’
Khandelwal nodded.
‘Well,’ said Arun. ‘In some respects we are in the same predicament. It’s rather difficult to get the sort of people we need.’
Khandelwal smiled.
‘You may find it difficult,’ he said slowly, ‘but we find no problem getting qualified people. Only the other day we recruited a man with a good background.’ He lapsed into Hindi. ‘A good man—he has studied in England, has a fine technical background. They wanted to give him a lower position, but I insisted—’ He gestured for another Scotch. ‘I can’t remember his name, oh yes, Haresh Khanna.’
‘From Kanpur?’ replied Arun, permitting himself two words in Hindi.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Khandelwal. ‘Oh yes, from Kanpur. He came to my attention through Mukherji of CLFC. Yes, have you heard of him?’
‘It’s very curious,’ said Arun, to whom none of this was in the least curious. ‘But now that you mention the name, Mr Khandelwal, I believe this must be the young man whom my mother talked about a little while ago as a—well, as a prospect for my sister. He’s a khatri, and, as you know, so are we—though I’m not in the least a believer in caste and so on. But of course there’s no arguing with my mother—she believes in all this khatri-patri business. How interesting; so he works for you?’
‘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 mêlée 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 fiat decades before the government came around to even deciding to do so.