Vidiadhar Naipaul - A House for Mr. Biswas

“Rejecting it just for a short time,” Misir said impatiently. “Short short time.”

Shivlochan sat down.

“I think, then, that we could pass a resolution to the effect that peaceful persuasion should be followed by militant conversion. All right?”

“I think so,” Mr. Biswas said.

“I think this would make a good little story,” Misir said. “Going to telephone it in to the Sentinel straight away.”

On the country page of the Sentinel the next day there was an item, two inches high, about the proceedings of the Arwacas Aryan Association, the AAA. Mr. Biswas’s name was mentioned, as was his address.

He left an open and marked copy of the paper on the long table in the hall. And when that evening Shama came up as he was reading Reform the Only Way and said that Seth wanted to see him, Mr. Biswas didn’t argue. Whistling in his soundless way, he put on his trousers and ran down to face the family tribunal.

“I see you have got your name in the papers,” Seth said.

Mr. Biswas shrugged.

The gods swung slowly in the hammock, frowning.

“What are you trying to do? Disgrace the family? Here you have these boys trying to get on in the Catholic college. Do you believe this sort of thing is going to help them in any way?”

The gods looked injured.

“Jealous,” Mr. Biswas said. “Everybody just jealous.”

“What have you got for them to be jealous of?” Mrs. Tulsi asked.

The elder god got up, in tears. “I not going to remain sitting down in this hammock and have any-and-everybody in this house insulting me. Is your fault, Ma. Is your son-in-law. You just bring them in here to eat all the food my father money buy and then to insult your sons.”

It was a grave charge, and Mrs. Tulsi held the boy to her and embraced him and wiped away his tears with her veil.

“It’s all right, son,” Seth said. “I am still here to look after you.” He turned to Mr. Biswas. “All right,” he said in English. “You see what you cause. You want to get the family in trouble. You want to see them go to jail. They feeding you, but you want to see me and Mai go to jail. You want to see the two boys, who ain’t got no father, go through life without a education. All that is all right. This house is like a republic already.”

Sisters and brothers-in-law froze into attitudes of sullen penitence. Seth’s gratuitous remark about the republic was a rebuke to them all; it meant that Mr. Biswas’s behaviour was bringing discredit upon the other brothers-in-law.

“So,” Seth went on. “You want to see girl children educated and choosing their own husband, eh? The same sort of thing that your sister do.”

The sisters and their husbands relaxed.

Mr. Biswas said, “My sister better than anybody here, and better off too. And too besides, she living in a house a lot cleaner.”

Seth rested his elbow on the table and smoked sadly, looking down at his bluchers. “The Black Age,” he said softly in Hindi. “The Black Age has come at last. Sister, we have taken in a serpent. It is my fault. You must blame me.”

“I not asking to stay here, you know,” Mr. Biswas said. “I believe in the old ways too. You make me marry your daughter, you promise to do this and do that. So far I ain’t got nothing. The day you give me what you promise me, I gone.”

“So you want girl children learning to read and write and picking up boy-friends? You want to see them wearing short frocks?”

“I ain’t say a thing about short frocks. I talking about what you promise me.”

“Short frocks. And love letters. Love letters! Remember the love letter you write Shama?”

Shama giggled. The sisters and their husbands, more at ease now, giggled. Mrs. Tulsi gave a short explosive laugh. Only the gods remained stern; but Mrs. Tulsi, still embracing the elder god, coaxed a smile from him.

So the encounter was a defeat. But Mr. Biswas, so far from being cast down, was exhilarated. He had no doubt now that in his campaign against the Tulsis-for that was how he thought of it-he was winning.

Unexpected support came through the Aryan Association.

The Association attracted the attention of Mrs. Weir, the wife of the owner of a small sugar-estate. She didn’t pay her labourers well but was respected by them for her interest in religion and the concern she showed for their spiritual welfare. Most of her labourers were Hindus and Mrs. Weir was particularly interested in Hinduism. It was rumoured that her purpose was an eventual wholesale conversion of Hindus, but Misir denied this. He said he had practically converted her . She did indeed come to an Aryan meeting. And she invited some of the Aryans to tea. Mr. Biswas, Misir, Shivlochan and two others went. Misir talked. Mrs. Weir listened and never disagreed. Misir gave books and pamphlets. Mrs. Weir said she looked forward to reading them. Just before they left, Mrs. Weir presented everyone with copies of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, the Discourses of Epictetus, and a number of other booklets.

For days afterwards Hanuman House was subjected to the propaganda of a little-known Christian sect. Mrs. Weir’s booklets turned up on the long table, in the Tulsi Store, in the kitchen, in bedrooms. A religious picture was nailed on the inside of the latrine-door. When a booklet was found on the prayer-room shrine, Seth summoned Mr. Biswas and said, “The next thing will be for you to start teaching the children hymns. I can’t understand how anyone could have even tried to turn you into a pundit.”

Mr. Biswas said, “Well, since I been in this house I begin to get the feeling that to be a good Hindu you must be a good Roman Catholic first.”

The elder god, seeing himself attacked, got up from the hammock, already prepared to cry.

“Look at him,” Mr. Biswas said. “Little Jack Horner. If he just put his hand in his shirt he pull up a crucifix.”

The elder god did wear a crucifix. It was regarded in the house as an exotic and desirable charm. The elder god wore many charms and it was thought fitting that someone so valuable should be well protected. On the Sunday before examination week he was bathed by Mrs. Tulsi in water consecrated by Hari; the soles of his feet were soaked in lavender water; he was made to drink a glass of Guinness stout; and he left Hanuman House, a figure of awe, laden with crucifix, sacred thread and beads, a mysterious sachet, a number of curious armlets, consecrated coins, and a lime in each trouser pocket.

“You call yourself Hindus?” Mr. Biswas said.

Shama tried to silence Mr. Biswas.

The younger god got out of the hammock and stamped. “I not going to remain in this hammock and hear my brother insulted, Ma. You don’t care.”

“What?” said Mr. Biswas. “I insult somebody? At the Catholic college they make him close his eyes and open his mouth and say Hail Mary. What about that?”

“Man!” Shama said.

The elder god was crying.

The younger god said, “You don’t care, Ma.”

“Biswas!” Seth said. “You want to feel my hand?”

Shama pulled at Mr. Biswas’s shirt and he struggled as though he were being pulled away from a physical fight which he was winning and wanted to continue. But he had noted Seth’s threat and allowed himself to be pushed slowly up the stairs.

Halfway up they heard Seth calling for his wife. “Padma! Come quickly and look after your sister. She is going to faint.”

Someone raced up the steps. It was Chinta. She ignored Mr. Biswas and said accusingly to Shama, “Mai faint.”

Shama looked hard at Mr. Biswas.

“Faint, eh?” Mr. Biswas said.

Chinta didn’t say any more. She hurried on to the concrete house to prepare Mrs. Tulsi’s bedroom, the Rose Room.