House for Mister Biswas Part 10

'I not going to tell you.'

'I going to find out. In the meantime, remember the name change. She is the old she-fox.') He remained on the staircase landing, sinking lower and lower through the torn seat of a cane-bottomed chair in front of the stained, battered, disused and useless piano, sipping his tea, cracking biscuits and dropping the pieces into the tea. He watched the pieces swell out and rescued them with his spoon just when they started to sink. Then swiftly, before the soggy biscuit that drooped over the spoon could fall off, he thrust the spoon into his mouth. All around him children were doing the same.

The younger G.o.d came down the stairs. He had been doing the morning puja. puja. With his small dhoti, small vest, beads and miniature caste-marks he looked like a toy holy man. He carried a bra.s.s plate on which there was a cube of burning camphor. The camphor had been used to give incense to the images in the prayer-room; now it was to be offered to every member of the family. With his small dhoti, small vest, beads and miniature caste-marks he looked like a toy holy man. He carried a bra.s.s plate on which there was a cube of burning camphor. The camphor had been used to give incense to the images in the prayer-room; now it was to be offered to every member of the family.

The G.o.d went first to Mrs Tulsi. She put her handkerchief in her bosom, touched the camphor flame with her fingertips and carried her fingertips to her forehead. 'Rama, Rama,' she said. Then she added, 'Take it to your brother Mohun.'

The hall was hushed again. And again Mr Biswas was astonished.

Sus.h.i.+la, clinging to her sickroom authority of the previous evening, said, 'Yes, Owad. Take it to your brother Mohun.'

The G.o.d hesitated, frowning. Then he sucked his teeth, stamped up to the landing and offered the aromatic camphor flame to Mr Biswas. Mr Biswas rescued more sodden biscuit from the enamel cup. He put his mouth under the spoon, caught the biscuit that broke off, chewed noisily and said, 'You could take that away. You know I don't hold with this idol wors.h.i.+p.'

The G.o.d, annoyed just the moment before, was stupefied almost into argument and coaxing before the full horror of Mr Biswas's rejection came to him. He stood still, the camphor burning, melting on the plate.

The hall was still.

Mrs Tulsi was silent. Forgetting her frailty and fatigue, she got up and walked slowly up the stairs.

'Man!' Shama cried.

Shama's shout aroused the G.o.d. He walked down to the hall, tears of anger in his eyes, saying, 'I didn't want to go and offer him anything. I didn't. I know the amount of respect he have for people.'

Sus.h.i.+la said, 'Shh. Not while you are carrying the plate.'

'Man!' Shama said. 'What you go and do now?'

Mr Biswas drained his cup, used his spoon to sc.r.a.pe up the mess of biscuit at the bottom, ate that and, getting up, said, 'What I do? I ain't do nothing. I just don't believe in this idol wors.h.i.+p, that is all.'

'M-m-m-m. Mm!' Mm!' Miss Blackie made a loud purring noise. She was offended. She was a Roman Catholic and went to ma.s.s every morning, but she had seen the Hindu rites performed every day for many years and regarded them as inviolate as her own. Miss Blackie made a loud purring noise. She was offended. She was a Roman Catholic and went to ma.s.s every morning, but she had seen the Hindu rites performed every day for many years and regarded them as inviolate as her own.

'Idols are stepping-stones to the wors.h.i.+p of the real thing,' Mr Biswas said, quoting Pankaj Rai to the hall. 'They are necessary only in a spiritually backward society. Look at that little boy down there. You think he know what he was doing this morning?'

The G.o.d stamped and said shrilly, 'I know a lot more about it than you, you you Christian!' Christian!'

Miss Blackie purred again, now deeply offended.

Sus.h.i.+la said to the G.o.d, 'You must never lose your temper when you are doing puja, puja, Owad. It isn't nice.' Owad. It isn't nice.'

'It nice for him to insult me and Ma and everybody else the way he doing?'

'Just give him enough rope. He will hang himself.'

In the long room Mr Biswas gathered his painting equipment and sang over and over: In the snowy and the blowy, In the blowy and the snowy.

Words and tune were based, remotely, on Roaming in the Gloaming, Roaming in the Gloaming, which the choir at Lal's school had once sung to entertain important visitors from the Canadian Mission. which the choir at Lal's school had once sung to entertain important visitors from the Canadian Mission.

Yet almost as soon as he had left Hanuman House through the side gate, Mr Biswas's high spirits vanished, and a depression fell upon him and lasted all day. He worked badly. He had to paint a large sign on a corrugated iron paling. Doing letters on a corrugated surface was bad enough; to paint a cow and a gate, as he had to, was maddening. His cow looked stiff, deformed and sorrowful, and undid the gaiety of the rest of the advertis.e.m.e.nt.

He was strained and irritable when he went back to Hanuman House. The aggrieved and aggressive stares he received in the hall reminded him of his morning triumph. All his joy at that had turned into disgust at his condition. The campaign against the Tulsis, which he had been conducting with such pleasure, now seemed pointless and degrading. Suppose, Mr Biswas thought in the long room, suppose that at one word I could just disappear from this room, what would remain to speak of me? A few clothes, a few books. The shouts and thumps in the hall would continue; the puja puja would be done; in the morning the Tulsi Store would open its doors. would be done; in the morning the Tulsi Store would open its doors.

He had lived in many houses. And how easy it was to think of those houses without him! At this moment Pundit Jairam would be at a meeting or he would be eating at home, looking forward to an evening with his books. Soanie stood in the doorway, darkening the room, waiting for the least gesture of command. In Tara's back verandah Ajodha sat relaxed in his rockingchair, his eyes closed, listening perhaps to That Body of Yours That Body of Yours being read by Rabidat, who sat at an awkward angle, trying to hide the smell of drink and tobacco on his breath. Tara was about, harrying the cowman (it was milking-time) or harrying the yard boy or the servant girl, harrying somebody. In none of these places he was being missed because in none of these places had he ever been more than a visitor, an upsetter of routine. Was Bipti thinking of him in the back trace? But she herself was a derelict. And, even more remote, that house of mud and gra.s.s in the swamplands: probably pulled down now and ploughed up. Beyond that, a void. There was nothing to speak of him. being read by Rabidat, who sat at an awkward angle, trying to hide the smell of drink and tobacco on his breath. Tara was about, harrying the cowman (it was milking-time) or harrying the yard boy or the servant girl, harrying somebody. In none of these places he was being missed because in none of these places had he ever been more than a visitor, an upsetter of routine. Was Bipti thinking of him in the back trace? But she herself was a derelict. And, even more remote, that house of mud and gra.s.s in the swamplands: probably pulled down now and ploughed up. Beyond that, a void. There was nothing to speak of him.

He heard footsteps and Shama came into the room with a bra.s.s plate loaded with rice, curried potatoes, lentils and coconut chutney.

'How often you want me to tell you that I hate those blasted bra.s.s plates?'

She put the plate on the floor.

He walked round it. 'n.o.body ever teach you hygiene at school? Rice, potatoes. All that d.a.m.n starch.' He tapped his belly. 'You want to blow me up?' At the sight of Shama his depression had turned to anger, but he spoke jocularly.

'I always say,' Shama said, 'that you must complain only when you start providing your own food.'

He went to the window, washed his hands, gargled and spat.

Someone shouted from below, 'Up there! Look what you doing!'

'I know, I know,' Shama said, running to the window. 'I know this was bound to happen one day. You spit on somebody.'

He looked out with interest. 'Who it is? The old she-fox, or one of the G.o.ds?'

'You spit on Owad.' They heard him complaining.

Mr Biswas took another mouthful of water and gargled. Then, with cheeks puffed out, he leaned as far out of the window as he could.

'Don't think I not seeing you,' the G.o.d shouted. 'I marking what you doing, Mr Biswas. But I standing up right here and if you spit on me again I going to tell Ma.'

'Tell, you little son of a b.i.t.c.h,' Mr Biswas muttered, spitting.

'Man!'

'O G.o.d!' the G.o.d exclaimed.

'You lucky little monkey,' Mr Biswas said. He had missed.

'Man!' Shama cried, and dragged him from the window.

He walked slowly around the bra.s.s plate.

'Walk,' Shama said. 'You walk until you tired. But wait until you provide your own food before you start criticizing the food other people give you.'

'Who give you that message to give me? Your mother?' He pulled his top teeth behind his lower teeth, but his long floursack pants prevented him from looking menacing.

'n.o.body didn't give me any message to give you. It is just something I think of myself.'

'You think of it yourself, eh?'

He had seized the bra.s.s plate, spilling rice on the floor, and was rus.h.i.+ng to the Demerara window. Going to throw the whole d.a.m.ned thing out, he had decided. But his violence calmed him, and at the window he had another thought: throw the plate out and you could kill somebody. He arrested his hurling gesture, and merely tilted the plate. The food slipped off easily, leaving a few grains of rice sticking to streaks of lentils and oily, bubble-ridden trails of curry.

'O G.o.d! Oo Go-o-od!'

It began as a gentle cry and rose rapidly to a sustained bawling which aroused sympathetic shrieks from babies all over the house. All at once the bawling was cut off, and seconds later it seemed much later Mr Biswas heard a deep, grating, withdrawing snuffle. 'I going to tell Ma,' the G.o.d cried. 'Ma, come and see what your son-in-law do to me. He cover me down with his dirty food.' After a sirenlike intake of breath the bawling continued.

Shama looked martyred.

There was considerable commotion below. Several people were shouting at once, babies screamed, there was much subsidiary bawling and chatter, and the hall resounded with agitated movements.

Heavy footsteps made the stairs shake, rattled the gla.s.s panes on doors, drummed across the Book Room, and Govind was in Mr Biswas's chamber.

'Is you!' Govind shouted, breathing hard, his handsome face contorted. 'Is you who spit on Owad.'

Mr Biswas was frightened.

He heard more footsteps on the stairs. The bawling drew nearer.

'Spit?' Mr Biswas said. 'I ain't spit on anybody. I just gargle out of the window and throw away some bad food.'

Shama screamed.

Govind threw himself on Mr Biswas.

Caught by surprise, stupefied by fear, Mr Biswas neither shouted nor hit back at Govind, and allowed himself to be pummelled. He was struck hard and often on the jaw, and with every blow Govind said, 'Is you.' Vaguely Mr Biswas was aware of women ma.s.sing in the room, screaming, sobbing, falling upon Govind and himself. He was acutely aware of the G.o.d bawling, right in his ear, it seemed: a dry, deliberate, sc.r.a.ping noise. Abruptly the bawling ceased. 'Yes, is he!' the G.o.d said. 'Is he. He asking for this a long time now.' And at every cuff and kick Govind gave, the G.o.d grunted, as though he himself had given the blow. The women were above Mr Biswas and Govind, their hair and veils falling loose. One veil tickled Mr Biswas's nose.

'Stop him!' Chinta cried. 'Govind will kill Biswas if you don't stop him. He is a terrible man, I tell you, when his temper is up.' She burst into a short, sharp wail. 'Stop it, stop it. They will send Govind to the gallows if you don't stop it. Stop it before they make me a widow.'

Punched on his hollow chest, short-jabbed on his soft, rising belly, Mr Biswas found, to his surprise, that his mind remained quite clear. What the h.e.l.l is that woman crying for? he thought. She is going to be a widow all right, but what about me? He was trying to encircle Govind with his arms, but was unable to do more than tap him on the back. Govind didn't appear to notice the taps. Mr Biswas would have been surprised if he had. He wanted to scratch and pinch Govind, but reflected that it would be unmanly to do so.

'Kill him!' the G.o.d shouted. 'Kill him, Uncle Govind.'

'Owad, Owad,' Chinta said. 'How can you say a thing like that?' She pulled the G.o.d to her and pressed his head against her bosom. 'You too? Do you want want to make me a widow?' to make me a widow?'

The G.o.d allowed himself to be embraced, but twisted his head to see the struggle and kept on shouting, 'Kill him, Uncle Govind. Kill him.'

The women were having little effect on Govind. They had succeeded only in lessening the swing of his arms, but his short jabs were powerful. Mr Biswas felt them all. They no longer caused pain.

'Kill him, Uncle Govind!'

He doesn't want any encouragement, Mr Biswas thought.

Neighbours were shouting.

'What happening, Mai? Mai! Mrs Tulsi! Mr Seth! What happening?'

Their urgent, frightened voices frightened Mr Biswas. Suddenly he heard himself bawling, 'O G.o.d! I dead. I dead. He will kill me.'

His terror silenced the house.

It stilled Govind's arms. It stilled the G.o.d, and gave him a fleeting vision of black policemen, courthouses, gallows, graves, coffins.

The women lifted themselves off Govind and Mr Biswas. Govind, breathing heavily, lifted himself off Mr Biswas.

How I hate people who breathe like that, Mr Biswas thought. And how that Govind smells! It wasn't a smell of sweat, but of oil, body oil, a.s.sociated in Mr Biswas's mind with the pimples on Govind's face. How unpleasant it must be, to be married to a man like that!

'Has he killed him?' Chinta asked. She was calmer; her voice held pride and genuine concern. 'Talk, brother. Talk. Talk to your sister. Get him to say something, somebody.'

Now that Govind was off his chest Mr Biswas's only concern was to make sure that he was properly dressed. He hoped nothing had happened to his pants. He moved a hand down to investigate.

'He is all right,' Sus.h.i.+la said.

Someone bent over him. That smell of oil, Vick's Vaporub, garlic and raw vegetables told him it was Padma. 'Are you all right?' she asked, and shook him.

He turned over on his side, his face to the wall.

'He is all right,' Govind said, and added in English, 'Is a good thing all you people did come, otherwise I woulda be swinging on the gallows for this man.'

Chinta gave a sob.

Shama had maintained her martyr's att.i.tude throughout, sitting on the low bench, her skirt draped over her knees, one hand supporting her chin, her staring eyes misting over with tears.

'Spitting on me, eh?' the G.o.d said. 'Go ahead. Why you don't spit now? Coming and laughing at our religion. Laughing at me when I do puja. I puja. I know the good I doing myself when I do know the good I doing myself when I do puja, puja, you hear.' you hear.'

'It's all right, son,' Govind said. 'n.o.body can insult you and Mai when I am around.'

'Leave him alone, Govind,' Padma said. 'Leave him, Owad.'

The incident was over. The room emptied.

Left alone, Shama and Mr Biswas remained as they were, Shama staring through the doorway, Mr Biswas considering the lotuses on the pale green wall.

They heard the hall return to life. The evening meal, delayed, was being laid out with unusual zest. Babies were consoled with songs, clapping, chuckles and baby-talk. Children were scolded with exceptional good humour. Between everyone downstairs there was for the moment a new bond, and Mr Biswas recognized this bond as himself.

'Go and get me a tin of red salmon,' he said to Shama, without turning from the wall. 'And some hops bread.'

Her throat was tickling. She coughed and tried to hide the swallow by sighing.

This wearied him further. He got up, his pants hanging loose, and looked at her. She was still staring through the doorway into the Book Room. His face felt heavy. He put a hand to one cheek and worked his jaw. It moved stiffly.

Tears spilled over from Shama's big eyes and ran down her cheeks.

'What happen? Somebody beat you too?'

She shook her tears away, without removing her hand from her chin.

'Go and get me a tin of salmon. Canadian. And get some bread and peppersauce.'

'What happen? You have a craving? You making baby?'

He would have liked to hit her. But that would have been ridiculous after what had just happened.