House for Mister Biswas Part 35

Mr Biswas stood up. His linen suit was crumpled, the jacket pulled out of shape by the notebooks in the pockets, the tops of which were dirty and a little frayed.

'You never went to his father house?'

'Why should he go to Lawrence's house?' Shama said.

'And you never went to the back door?'

Mr Biswas walked to the window. It was dark; his back was to them.

'Let me put on the light,' Shama said briskly. Her footsteps were heavy. The light went on. Anand covered his face with his arm. 'Is that all that's been upsetting you?' Shama asked. 'Your father has nothing to do with Lawrence. You heard what he said.'

Mr Biswas went out of the room.

Shama said, 'You shouldn't have told him that, you know, son.'

For the rest of that evening Shama walked and talked and did everything as noisily as she could.

The next morning, with his books and lunch parcel in his bag and the six cents for milk in his pocket, Anand was kissing Shama in the back verandah when Mr Biswas came to him and said, 'I don't depend on them for a job. You know that. We could go back any time to Hanuman House. All of us. You know that.'

On Sat.u.r.day he took the children on a surprise visit to Ajodha's. Tara and Ajodha were as delighted as the children, and the visit lasted till Sunday. There was much to look at in the new house. It was a grand two-storeyed concrete house built and decorated and furnished in the modern manner. The concrete blocks looked like rough-hewn stone; there was no dust-collecting fretwork hanging from the eaves; doors and windows were varnished, not painted, and closed and opened in interesting ways; chairs were upholstered and vast, not small and cane-bottomed; floors were stained and polished; the lavatory flushes were chainless. In the drawingroom they studied Tara's photographs of the dead; they saw Raghu in his flower-strewn coffin surrounded by his thin, big-eyed children. The kitchen was enormous and abounded in modern contrivances; Tara, old, slow and oldfas.h.i.+oned, seemed out of place in it. When they were tired of the house they wandered about the yard, which had not changed. They talked to the cowman and the gardener, examined the various people who called, and played among the abandoned frames of motor vehicles. After lunch on Sat.u.r.day they went to the cinema, and on Sunday Ajodha arranged an excursion.

The following week-end they went again, and the week-end after that; and soon this week-end visit was established. They travelled up on Sat.u.r.day morning, since that was the only time it was reasonably easy to get a bus out of Port of Spain. As soon as they got on the bus in the George Street station Mr Biswas changed, dropping his week-day moroseness and becoming gay and even impish. The mood lasted until Sunday evening; then they were all silent as they got nearer the city, the house, Shama, Monday morning. For a day or two afterwards the house in Port of Spain seemed dark and clumsy.

Shama went on only one of these visits, and that she almost ruined. The old, unspoken antagonism between the families still existed and she was not eager to go. There had been a minor quarrel just before they went through the gate, and Shama was sullen when she stepped into Tara's house. Then, either from pride, or because she was made uneasy by the grandeur of the house, or because she was unable to make the effort, she remained sullen throughout the week-end. She said afterwards that she had known all along that Ajodha and Tara did not care for her; and she never went again.

She was often alone in Port of Spain. The children were not anxious to go with her to Hanuman House, and as dissension there increased she went less often herself, regretting the old warmth, fearing to be involved in new quarrels. She had hardly moved outside her own family and did not know how to get on with strangers. She was shy of people of another race, religion or way of life. Her shyness had got her a reputation for hardness among the tenants, and she had done little to get to know the woman who lived in Owad's old room. But now, alone at the week-ends, she felt the need of company and sought out the woman, who not only responded, but showed herself exceedingly curious. And Shama took down her account books and explained.

So the house became Shama's, the place where she stayed, the place to which Mr Biswas and the children returned with sadness after the week-end.

And during the week Anand's life was a misery. While Mr Biswas struggled with features on the splendid work of the Chacachacare Leper Settlement (with a photograph of lepers at prayer) and the Young Offenders' Detention Inst.i.tution (with a photograph of young offenders at prayer), Anand wrote down and learned by heart copious notes on geography and English. Textbooks were discarded; only the notes of the teacher mattered; any deviation was instantly and severely punished; and there was not a day when some boy was not flogged and put to stand behind the blackboard. For this was the exhibition cla.s.s, where no learning mattered except that which led to good examination results; and the teacher knew his job. At home Mr Biswas read Anand Self-Help Self-Help and on his birthday gave him and on his birthday gave him Duty, Duty, adding as a pure frivolity a school edition of Lamb's adding as a pure frivolity a school edition of Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. Tales from Shakespeare. Childhood, as a time of gaiety and irresponsibility, was for these exhibition pupils only one of the myths of English Composition. Only in compositions did they give delirious shouts of joy and their spirits overflowed into song; only there did they indulge in what the composition notes called 'schoolboy's pranks'. Childhood, as a time of gaiety and irresponsibility, was for these exhibition pupils only one of the myths of English Composition. Only in compositions did they give delirious shouts of joy and their spirits overflowed into song; only there did they indulge in what the composition notes called 'schoolboy's pranks'.

Anand, following the example of those Samuel Smiles heroes who had in youth concealed the brilliance of their later years, did what he could to avoid school. He pretended to be ill; he played truant, forged excuses, was found out and flogged; he destroyed his shoes. He abandoned private lessons one afternoon, telling the teacher that he was wanted at home for a Hindu prayer ceremony which could take place only at half past three that afternoon, and telling his parents that the teacher's mother had died and the teacher had gone to the funeral. Mr Biswas, anxious to remain in the teacher's favour, cycled to the school the next day to offer his condolences. Anand was called a young scamp (the teacher sank in his estimation for using a word that sounded so slangy), flogged and left behind the blackboard. At home Mr Biswas said, 'Those private lessons are costing me money, you know.' 'Pranks' were permitted only in English Composition.

Most of his male cousins had undergone the brahminical initiation, and though Anand shared Mr Biswas's distaste for religious ritual, he was immediately attracted by this ceremony. His cousins had had their heads shaved, they were invested with the sacred thread, told the secret verses, given little bundles and sent off to Benares to study. This last was only a piece of play-acting. The attraction of the ceremony lay in the shaving of the head: no boy with a shaved head could go to a predominantly Christian school. Anand began a strong campaign for initiation. But he knew Mr Biswas's prejudices and worked subtly. He told Mr Biswas one evening that he was unable to offer up the usual prayers with sincerity, since the words had become meaningless. He needed an original prayer, so that he could think of each word. He wanted Mr Biswas to write this prayer for him, though he made it clear that, unlike Mr Biswas, he wanted no east-west compromise: he wanted a specifically Hindu prayer. The prayer was written. And Anand got Shama to bring a coloured print of the G.o.ddess Lakshmi from Hanuman House. He hung the print on the wall above his table and objected when lights were turned on in the evening before he had said his prayer to Lakshmi. Shama was delighted at this example of blood triumphing over environment; and Mr Biswas, despite his Aryan aversion to Sanatanist, Tulsi-like idol wors.h.i.+p, could not hide the honour he felt at being asked to write Anand's prayer. After some time Anand complained that the whole procedure was improper, a mockery, and would continue to be so until he had been initiated.

Shama was thrilled.

But Mr Biswas said, 'Wait till the long holidays.'

And so, during the long holidays, when Savi and Myna and Kamla were making their round of holiday visits, including a fortnight at a beach house Ajodha had rented, Anand, shaved and thoroughly brahmin, but ashamed of showing his bald head, stayed in Port of Spain and Mr Biswas gave him portions of Macdougall's Grammar Macdougall's Grammar to learn and listened to him recite his geography and English notes. The evening wors.h.i.+p of Lakshmi stopped. to learn and listened to him recite his geography and English notes. The evening wors.h.i.+p of Lakshmi stopped.

Towards the end of that year a letter came to Mr Biswas from Chicago. The stamp was cancelled: REPORT OBSCENE MAIL REPORT OBSCENE MAIL TO YOUR POSTMASTER TO YOUR POSTMASTER. Though the envelope was long the letter was short, a third of the paper being taken up by the florid, raised red and black letterhead of a newspaper. The letter was from Mr Burnett.

Dear Mohun, As you can see, I have left my little circus and am back in the old business. As a matter of fact I didn't leave the circus. It left me. Perhaps fire in Trinidad is different. But when that boy from St James was given one small American fire to walk through, he just ran. Away. My guess is that he is somewhere on Ellis Island, with n.o.body to claim him. The snake-charmer was all right until his snake bit him. We gave him a good funeral. I hunted high and low to get a Hindu priest to say the last few words, but no luck. I was going to do the job myself, but I couldn't dress the part, not being able to tie the headpiece or the tailpiece. Now and then I see a copy of the Sentinel. Sentinel. Why don't you give America a try? Why don't you give America a try?

Though the letter was a joke and nothing in it was to be taken seriously, Mr Biswas was moved that Mr Burnett had written at all. He immediately began to reply, and went on for pages, writing detailed denigrations of the new members of the staff. He thought he was being light and detached, but when at lunchtime he re-read what he had written he saw how bitter he appeared, how much he had revealed of himself. He tore the letter up. From time to time, until he died, he thought of writing. But he never wrote. And Mr Burnett never wrote again.

The school term ended and the children, forgetting the disappointment of the previous year, talked excitedly of going to Hanuman House for Christmas. Shama spent hours in the back verandah sewing clothes on an old hand machine which, mysteriously, was hers, how or since when no one knew. The broken wooden handle was swathed in red cotton and looked as though it had bled profusely from a deep wound; the chest, waist, rump and hind quarters of the animal-like machine, and its wooden stall, were black with oil and smelled of oil; and it was a wonder that cloth emerged clean and unmangled from the clanking, champing and chattering which Shama called forth from the creature by the touch of a finger on its b.l.o.o.d.y bandaged tail. The back verandah smelled of machine oil and new cloth and became dangerous with pins on the floor and pins between floorboards. Anand marvelled at the delight of his sisters in the tedious operations, and marvelled at their ability to put on dresses bristling with pins and not be p.r.i.c.ked. Shama made him two s.h.i.+rts with long tails, the fas.h.i.+on among the boys at school (even exhibition pupils have their unscholarly moments) being for billowing s.h.i.+rts, barely tucked into the trousers.

But none of the clothes Shama made then were worn at Hanuman House.

One afternoon Mr Biswas came back from the Sentinel Sentinel and as soon as he pushed his cycle through the front gate he saw that the rose garden at the side of the house had been destroyed and the ground levelled, red earth mingling with the black. The plants were in a bundle against the corrugated iron fence. The stems, hard and stained and blighted on the outside, yet showed white and wet and full of promise where they had been cleanly gashed; their ill formed leaves had not begun to quail; they still looked alive. and as soon as he pushed his cycle through the front gate he saw that the rose garden at the side of the house had been destroyed and the ground levelled, red earth mingling with the black. The plants were in a bundle against the corrugated iron fence. The stems, hard and stained and blighted on the outside, yet showed white and wet and full of promise where they had been cleanly gashed; their ill formed leaves had not begun to quail; they still looked alive.

He threw his bicycle against the concrete steps.

'Shama!'

He walked briskly, his footsteps resounding, through the drawingroom to the back verandah. The floor was littered with sc.r.a.ps of cloth and tangles of thread.

'Shama!'

She came out of the kitchen, her face taut. Her eyes sought to still his voice.

He took in the table and the sewingmachine, the sc.r.a.ps of cloth, the thread, the pins, the kitchen safe, the rails, the banister. Below, in the yard, standing in a group against the fence, he saw the children. They were looking up at him. Then he saw the back of a lorry, a pile of old corrugated iron sheets, a heap of new scantlings, two Negro labourers with dusty heads, faces and backs. And Seth. Rough and managerial in his khaki uniform and heavy bruised bluchers, the ivory cigarette holder held down in one s.h.i.+rt pocket by the b.u.t.toned flap.

He saw it clearly. For what seemed a long time he contemplated it. Then he was running down the back steps; Seth looked up, surprised; the labourers, stooping on the lorry, looked up; and he was fumbling among the scantlings. He tried to take one up, had misjudged its size, abandoned it, Shama saying from the verandah, 'No, no,' picked up a large stained wet stone from the bleaching-bed and 'Who tell you you could come and cut down my rose trees? Who?' Sc.r.a.ping the words out of his throat so that they didn't seem to come from where he stood, but from someone just behind him. A labourer jumped down from the lorry, there was surprise and even dread in Seth's eyes. 'Pa!' one girl cried, and he hoisted his arm, Shama saying 'Man, man.' His wrist was seized, roughly, by large hot gritty fingers. The stone fell to the ground.

Disarmed, he was without words. Beside the three men he felt his frailty, his baggy linen suit beside Seth's tight khaki clothes and the labourers' working rags. The cuffs of his jacket bore the imprints of dirty fingers; his wrist burned where it had been held.

Seth said, 'You see. You make your children frighten like h.e.l.l' And to the loaders, 'All right, all right.'

The unloading continued.

'Rose trees?' Seth said. 'They did just look like black sage bush to me.'

'Yes,' Mr Biswas said. 'Yes! I know they just look like bush to you. Tough!' he added. 'Tough!' As he turned he stumbled against the bed of bleaching stones.

'Oops!' Seth said.

'Tough!' Mr Biswas repeated, walking away.

Shama followed him.

Heads were withdrawn from the fence on either side. Curtains dropped back into place.

'Thug!' Mr Biswas said, going up the steps.

'Eh, eh,' Seth said, smiling at the children. 'h.e.l.luva temper, man. But my lorries can't sleep in the road.'

From the verandah Mr Biswas, unseen, said, 'This is not the end of this. The old lady will have something to say about this, I guarantee you. And Shekhar.'

Seth laughed. 'The old hen and the big G.o.d, eh?' He looked up at the verandah and said in Hindi, 'Too many people have the idea that everything belongs to the Tulsis. How do you think this house was bought?'

Mr Biswas appeared at the banister of the verandah.

Anand looked away.

'You will be hearing from my solicitor,' Mr Biswas said. 'And those two rakshas rakshas you have with you. They too.' He disappeared again. you have with you. They too.' He disappeared again.

The labourers, unaware of their identification with Hindu mythological forces of evil, unloaded.

Seth winked at the children. 'Your father is a d.a.m.n funny sort of man. Behaving as though he own the place. Let me tell you that when you children born your father couldn't feed you. Ask him. And see the grat.i.tude I get? Everybody defying me these days. Or you don't know?'

'Savi! Myna! Kamla! Anand!' Shama called.

'You know what your father was doing when I pick him up and marry him to your mother? You know? He tell you? He wasn't even catching crab. He was just catching flies.'

'Savi! Anand!'

They hesitated, afraid of Seth, afraid of the house and Mr Biswas.

'Today, look! White suit, collar and tie. And me. Still in the same dirty clothes you see me with since you born. Grat.i.tude, eh? But I will tell you children that if I leave them today, all of them your father, mother and all all of them start catching crab tomorrow, I guarantee you.'

From somewhere in the house Mr Biswas's voice came, raised, indistinct, heated.

Seth moved to the lorry.

'Eh, Ewart?' he said gently to one of the loaders. 'They was nice roses, eh?'

Ewart smiled, his tongue over his top lip, and made sounds which committed him in no way.

Seth jerked his chin toward the house, still the source of angry, indistinct words. He smiled. Then he stopped smiling and said, 'We mustn't pay any mind to these d.a.m.n jacka.s.ses.'

The children moved to the foot of the back steps, where they were hidden from Seth and the loaders.

Mr Biswas's mutterings died away.

Suddenly an obscenity cracked out from the house. The children were quite still. There was silence, even from the lorry. Anand could have wept. Then the corrugated iron sheets jangled again.

A series of resonant crashes came from the kitchen.

'Cut down the rose trees,' Mr Biswas was shouting. 'Cut them down. Break up everything else.'

The children, now below the house, heard his footsteps on the floor above as he went from room to room, pulling things down.

Anand walked under the house to the front, past Mr Biswas's abandoned bicycle. The fence cast a shadow over the pavement and part of the road. Anand leaned against the fence and envied the calm of the other houses in the street, the group of boys and young men, the cricket players, the night chatterers, around the lamp-post.

Fresh noises came from the yard. It was not Mr Biswas pulling things down, but Seth and Ewart and Ewart's colleague putting up a shed for Seth's lorries at the side of the house, over Mr Biswas's garden.

On the road the shadows of houses and trees quickly lengthened, were distorted, became unrecognizable and finally dissolved into darkness.

Mr Biswas came down the front steps.

'Come with me for a walk.'

Anand would have liked to go, if only because he didn't want to hurt by refusing. But he wanted more to inspect the damage and comfort Shama.

The damage was slight. Mr Biswas had ordered his destruction with economy. The mirror of Shama's dressingtable had been unhinged and thrown on the bed, where it lay intact, reflecting the ceiling. The books had been knocked about a good deal; Selections from Sankaracharya Selections from Sankaracharya had suffered especially. Mrs Tulsi's marble topped tables had all been overturned; the marble tops, cras.h.i.+ng, must have been responsible for some of the more frightening noises. Many of the bra.s.s vases had been dented, and two potted palms had lost their pots without in any way losing their shape. The hatrack was in a semi-rec.u.mbent position against the half-wall of the front verandah, but it had been thrown there gently: a few hooks had snapped, but the gla.s.s was whole. In the kitchen no gla.s.s or china had been thrown, only noisy things like pots and pans and enamel plates. had suffered especially. Mrs Tulsi's marble topped tables had all been overturned; the marble tops, cras.h.i.+ng, must have been responsible for some of the more frightening noises. Many of the bra.s.s vases had been dented, and two potted palms had lost their pots without in any way losing their shape. The hatrack was in a semi-rec.u.mbent position against the half-wall of the front verandah, but it had been thrown there gently: a few hooks had snapped, but the gla.s.s was whole. In the kitchen no gla.s.s or china had been thrown, only noisy things like pots and pans and enamel plates.

When Mr Biswas returned his mood had changed.

'Shama, how how did those marble tops break?' he asked, mimicking Mrs Tulsi. Then he acted himself. 'Break, Mai? What break? Oh, marble top. Yes, Mai. It really break. It did those marble tops break?' he asked, mimicking Mrs Tulsi. Then he acted himself. 'Break, Mai? What break? Oh, marble top. Yes, Mai. It really break. It look look as if it break. Now I wonder how that happened.' He examined the broken hooks of the hatrack. 'Didn't know metal was such a funny thing. Come and look, Savi. Is not smooth inside, you know. Is more like packed sand.' As for the rediffusion set, which he had kicked from room to room and disembowelled, he said, 'I wanted to do that for a long time. The company always saying that they replace sets free.' as if it break. Now I wonder how that happened.' He examined the broken hooks of the hatrack. 'Didn't know metal was such a funny thing. Come and look, Savi. Is not smooth inside, you know. Is more like packed sand.' As for the rediffusion set, which he had kicked from room to room and disembowelled, he said, 'I wanted to do that for a long time. The company always saying that they replace sets free.'

When the engineers saw the battered box and asked what had happened, he said, 'I feel we listen to it too hard.' They left a brand-new set in exchange, of the latest design.

Every night Seth's lorries rested in the shed at the side of the house. Mr Biswas had never thought of Tulsi property as belonging to any particular person. Everything, the land at Green Vale, the shop at The Chase, belonged simply to the House. But the lorries were Seth's.

3. The Shorthills Adventure

DESPITE THE solidity of their establishment the Tulsis had never considered themselves settled in Arwacas or even Trinidad. It was no more than a stage in the journey that had begun when Pundit Tulsi left India. Only the death of Pundit Tulsi had prevented them from going back to India; and ever since they had talked, though less often than the old men who gathered in the arcade every evening, of moving on, to India, Demerara, Surinam. Mr Biswas didn't take such talk seriously. The old men would never see India again. And he could not imagine the Tulsis anywhere else except at Arwacas. Separate from their house, and lands, they would be separate from the labourers, tenants and friends who respected them for their piety and the memory of Pundit Tulsi; their Hindu status would be worthless and, as had happened during their descent on the house in Port of Spain, they would be only exotic. solidity of their establishment the Tulsis had never considered themselves settled in Arwacas or even Trinidad. It was no more than a stage in the journey that had begun when Pundit Tulsi left India. Only the death of Pundit Tulsi had prevented them from going back to India; and ever since they had talked, though less often than the old men who gathered in the arcade every evening, of moving on, to India, Demerara, Surinam. Mr Biswas didn't take such talk seriously. The old men would never see India again. And he could not imagine the Tulsis anywhere else except at Arwacas. Separate from their house, and lands, they would be separate from the labourers, tenants and friends who respected them for their piety and the memory of Pundit Tulsi; their Hindu status would be worthless and, as had happened during their descent on the house in Port of Spain, they would be only exotic.

But when Shama went hurrying to Arwacas to give her news of Seth's blasphemies, she found Hanuman House in commotion. The Tulsis had decided to move on. The clay-brick house was to be abandoned, and everyone was full of talk of the new estate at Shorthills, to the northeast of Port of Spain, among the mountains of the Northern Range.

The High Street was bright and noisy as always at the Christmas season, though because of the war there were few imported goods in the shops. In the Tulsi Store there were no Christmas goods except for the antique black dolls, and no decorations except Mr Biswas's faded, peeling signs. Many shelves were empty; everything that could be of use at Shorthills had been packed.

And Shama's news was stale. The disagreement between Seth and the rest of the family had already turned to open war. He and his wife and children had left Hanuman House and were living in a back street not far away; they were taking no part in the move to Shorthills. The cause of the quarrel remained obscure, each side accusing the other of ingrat.i.tude and treachery, and Seth abusing Shekhar in particular. Neither Mrs Tulsi nor Shekhar had made any statement. Shekhar, besides, was seldom in Arwacas, and it was the sisters who carried on the quarrel. They had forbidden their children to speak to Seth's children; Seth had forbidden his children to speak to the Tulsi children. Only Padma, Seth's wife, was welcome, as Mrs Tulsi's sister, at Hanuman House; she could not be blamed for her marriage and continued to be respected for her age. Since the breach she had paid one clandestine visit to Hanuman House. The sisters regarded her loyalty as a tribute to the lightness of their cause; that she had had to come secretly was proof of Seth's brutality.

The crop season was at hand and the sugarcane fields, managerless, were open to the malice of those who bore the Tulsis grudges. Two fires had already been started and there were rumours that Seth was stirring up fresh trouble, claiming Tulsi property as his own. The husbands of some sisters said they had been threatened.

Yet the talk was less of Seth than of the new estate. Shama heard its glories listed again and again. In the grounds of the estate house there was a cricket field and a swimming pool; the drive was lined with orange trees and gri-gri palms with slender white trunks, red berries and dark green leaves. The land itself was a wonder. The saman trees had lianas so strong and supple that one could swing on them. All day the immortelle trees dropped their red and yellow bird-shaped flowers through which one could whistle like a bird. Cocoa trees grew in the shade of the immortelles, coffee in the shade of the cocoa, and the hills were covered with tonka bean. Fruit trees, mango, orange, avocado pear, were so plentiful as to seem wild. And there were nutmeg trees, as well as cedar, poui, poui, and the and the bois-canot bois-canot which was light yet so springy and strong it made you a better cricket bat than the willow. The sisters spoke of the hills, the sweet springs and hidden waterfalls with all the excitement of people who had known only the hot, open plain, the flat acres of sugarcane and the muddy ricelands. Even if one didn't have a way with land, as they had, if one did nothing, life could be rich at Shorthills. There was talk of dairy farming; there was talk of growing grapefruit. More particularly, there was talk of rearing sheep, and of an idyllic project of giving one sheep to every child as his very own, the foundation, it was made to appear, of fabulous wealth. And there were horses on the estate: the children would learn to ride. which was light yet so springy and strong it made you a better cricket bat than the willow. The sisters spoke of the hills, the sweet springs and hidden waterfalls with all the excitement of people who had known only the hot, open plain, the flat acres of sugarcane and the muddy ricelands. Even if one didn't have a way with land, as they had, if one did nothing, life could be rich at Shorthills. There was talk of dairy farming; there was talk of growing grapefruit. More particularly, there was talk of rearing sheep, and of an idyllic project of giving one sheep to every child as his very own, the foundation, it was made to appear, of fabulous wealth. And there were horses on the estate: the children would learn to ride.

Though it was never clear afterwards why this large decision had been taken so suddenly, and puzzling that the last corporate effort of the Tulsis should have been directed towards this uprooting, Shama left for Port of Spain full of enthusiasm. She wanted to be part of her family again, to share the adventure.

'Horses?' Mr Biswas said. 'I bet you when you go there all you find is one old monkey swinging from the liana on the saman tree. I can't understand this craziness that possess your family.'

Shama spoke about the sheep.

'Sheep?' Mr Biswas said. 'To ride?'

She said that Seth was no longer part of the family and that two husbands who had left Hanuman House after disagreements with Seth had rejoined the family for the move to Shorthills.

Mr Biswas didn't listen. 'About those sheep. Savi get one, Anand get one, Myna get one, Kamla get one. Make four in all. What are we going to do with four sheep. Breed more? To sell and kill? Hindus, eh? Feeding and fattening just in order to kill. Or you see the six of us sitting down and making wool from four sheep? You know how to make wool? Any of your family know how to make wool?'

The children did not want to move to a place they didn't know, and they were a little frightened of living with the Tulsis again. Above all, they did not want to be referred to as 'country pupils' at school; the advantages being released fifteen minutes earlier in the afternoon could not make up for the shame. And Mr Biswas turned Shama's propaganda into a joke. He read out 'The Emperor's New Clothes' from Bell's Standard Elocutionist; Bell's Standard Elocutionist; he drove imaginary flocks of sheep through the drawingroom, making bleating noises. As always during the holidays, he announced his arrival by ringing his bicycle bell from the road; then the children walked out in single file to meet him, staggering under imaginary loads. 'Watch it, Savi!' he would call. 'Those tonka beans are heavy like h.e.l.l, you know.' Later he would ask, 'Make a lot of wool today?' And once, when Anand came into the drawingroom just as the lavatory chain was pulled, Mr Biswas said, 'Walking back? What's the matter? Forgot your horse at the waterfall?' he drove imaginary flocks of sheep through the drawingroom, making bleating noises. As always during the holidays, he announced his arrival by ringing his bicycle bell from the road; then the children walked out in single file to meet him, staggering under imaginary loads. 'Watch it, Savi!' he would call. 'Those tonka beans are heavy like h.e.l.l, you know.' Later he would ask, 'Make a lot of wool today?' And once, when Anand came into the drawingroom just as the lavatory chain was pulled, Mr Biswas said, 'Walking back? What's the matter? Forgot your horse at the waterfall?'

Shama sulked.

'Going to buy that gold brooch for you, girl! Anand, Savi, Myna! Come and sing a Christmas carol for your mother.'

They sang 'While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night'.

Shama's gloom, persisting, defeated them all. And that Christmas, the first they spent by themselves, was made more memorable by Shama's gloom. She could not make icecream because she didn't have a freezer, but she did what she could to turn the day into a miniature Hanuman House Christmas. She got up early and waited to be kissed, like Mrs Tulsi. She spread a white cloth on the table and put out nuts and dates and red apples; she cooked an extravagant meal. She did everything punctiliously, but as one martyred. 'Anybody would think you were making another baby,' Mr Biswas said. And in his diary, a Sentinel Sentinel reporter's notebook which he had begun to fill at Mr Biswas's suggestion, as an additional exercise in English Composition and as practice in natural writing, Anand wrote, 'This is the worst Christmas Day I have ever spent;' and, not forgetting the literary purpose of the diary, added, 'I feel like Oliver Twist in the workhouse.' reporter's notebook which he had begun to fill at Mr Biswas's suggestion, as an additional exercise in English Composition and as practice in natural writing, Anand wrote, 'This is the worst Christmas Day I have ever spent;' and, not forgetting the literary purpose of the diary, added, 'I feel like Oliver Twist in the workhouse.'

But Shama never relented.