Vidiadhar Naipaul - A House for Mr. Biswas

“Helluva thing,” Mr. Biswas said. “What happen?”

“To the man? Why you asking me ? Use your imagination.”

“Hell, hell, helluva thing.”

“People should know about these things,” Misir said. “Know about life. You should start writing some stories yourself

“I just don’t have the time, boy. Have a little property in The Chase now.” Mr. Biswas paused, but Misir didn’t react. “Married man, too, you know. Responsibilities.” He paused again. “Daughter.”

“God!” Misir exclaimed in disgust. “God !”

“Just born.”

Misir shook his head, sympathizing. “Cat in bag, cat in bag. That is all we get from this cat-in-bag business.”

Mr. Biswas changed the subject. “What about the Aryans?”

“Why you asking? You don’t really care. Nobody don’t care. Just tell them a few fairy-stories and they happy. They don’t want to face facts. And this Shivlochan is a damn fool. You know they send Pankaj Rai back to India? Sometimes I stop and wonder what happening to him over there. I suppose the poor man in rags, starving in some gutter, can’t get a job or anything. You know, you could make a good story out of Pankaj.”

“Just what I was going to say. The man was a purist.”

“A born purist.”

“Misir, you still working for the Sentinel ?”

“Blasted cent a line still. Why?”

“A damn funny thing happen today. You know what I see? A pig with two heads.”

“Where?”

“Right here, Hanuman House. From their estate.”

“But Hindus like the Tulsis wouldn’t keep pigs.”

“You would be surprised. Of course it was dead.”

For all his reforming instincts, Misir was clearly disappointed and upset. “Anything for the money these days. Still, is a story. Going to telephone it in straight away.”

And when he left Misir, Mr. Biswas said, “Occupation labourer. This will show them.”

It would be three weeks before Shama returned to The Chase. He put up a hammock for the baby in the gallery and waited. The shop and the back rooms became increasingly disordered, and felt cold, like an abandoned camp. Yet as soon as Shama came with Lakshmi-“Her name is Savi,” Shama insisted, and Savi it remained-those rooms again became the place where he not only lived, but had status without having to assert his rights or explain his worth.

He immediately began complaining of the very things that pleased him most. Savi cried, and he spoke as though she were one of Shama’s indulgences. Meals were late, and he exhibited an annoyance which concealed the joy he felt that there was someone to cook meals with him in mind. To these outbursts Shama didn’t reply, as she would have done before. She was morose herself, as though she preferred this bond to the bond of sentimentality.

He liked to watch when the baby was bathed. Shama did this expertly; she might have been bathing babies for years. Her left arm and hand supported the baby’s back and wobbly head; her right hand soaped and washed; finally there was the swift, gentle gesture which transferred the baby from basin to towel. He marvelled that someone who had come out of Hanuman House with hands torn by housework could express so much gentleness through those same hands. Afterwards Savi was rubbed with coconut oil and her limbs exercised, to certain cheerful rhymes. The same things had been done to Mr. Biswas and Shama when they were babies; the same rhymes had been said; and possibly the ritual had been evolved a thousand years before.

The anointing was repeated in the evening, when the sun had dropped and the surrounding bush had begun to sing. And it was at this time, some six months later, that Moti came to the shop and rapped hard on the counter.

Moti did not belong to the village. He was a small worried-looking man with grey hair and bad teeth. He was dressed in a dingy clerkish way. His dirty shirt sat neatly on him and the creases on his trousers could just be seen. In his shirt pocket he carried a fountain pen, a stunted pencil and pieces of soiled paper, the equipment and badge of the rural literate.

He asked nervously for a pennyworth of lard.

Mr. Biswas’s Hindu instincts didn’t permit him to stock lard. “But we have butter,” he said, thinking of the tall smelly tin full of red, runny, rancid butter.

Moti shook his head and took off his bicycle clips. “Just give me a cent Paradise Plums.”

Mr. Biswas gave him three in a square of white paper.

Moti didn’t go away. He put a Paradise Plum in his mouth and said, “I am glad you don’t stock lard. I respect you for it.” He paused and, closing his eyes, crushed the Paradise Plum between his jaws. “I am glad to see a man in your position not giving up his religion for the sake of a few cents. Do you know that these days some Hindu shopkeepers are actually selling salt beef with their own hands? Just for the few extra cents.”

Mr. Biswas knew, and regretted the squeamishness which prevented him from doing the same.

“And look at that other thing,” Moti said, talking through the crushed Paradise Plum. “Did you hear about the pig?”

“The Tulsi pig? Doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“Still, the blessing is that not everyone is like that. You, for instance. And Seebaran. Do you know Seebaran?”

“Seebaran?”

“Don’t know Seebaran! L. S. Seebaran? The man who has been handling practically all the work in the Petty Civil.”

“Oh, him,” Mr. Biswas said, still in the dark.

“Very strict Hindu. And one of the best lawyers here too, I can tell you. We should be proud of him. The man who was here before you-what’s his name?-anyway, the man before you had a lot to thank Seebaran for. He would be a pauper today if it hadn’t been for Seebaran.”

Moti put another Paradise Plum in his mouth and absently considered the meagrely filled shelves. Mr. Biswas followed Mod’s gaze, which came to rest on the tins with half-eaten labels, left there by the man Seebaran had assisted.

“So everybody going to Dookhie, eh?” Moti said, more familiar now, and speaking in English. Dookhie was the newest shopkeeper in The Chase. “Is a shame. Is a shame the way some people spend their whole life living on credit. Is a form of robbery. Take Mungroo. You know Mungroo?”

Mr. Biswas knew him well.

“A man like Mungroo should be in jail,” Moti said.

“I think so too.”

“Is not,” Moti said judiciously, closing his eyes and cracking the Paradise Plum, “as if he was a pauper and can’t afford to pay. Mungroo richer than you and me could ever hope to be, you hear.” This was news to Mr. Biswas.

“Man should be in jail,” Moti repeated.

Mr. Biswas was about to say that he hadn’t been fooled by Mungroo when Moti said, “He don’t rob the rude and crude shopkeepers, people like himself. He frighten they give him a good dose of licks. No, he does look for nice people with nice soft heart, and is them he does rob. Mungroo see you, he think you look nice, and next day his wife come round for two cents this and three cents that, and she forget that she ain’t got no money, and if you could wait till next pay day. Well, you wrap up the goods in good strong paper-bag, you send she home happy, and you sit down and wait till next day. Next pay day Mungroo forget. His wife forget. They too busy killing chicken and buying rum to remember you. Two-three days later, eh-eh, wife suddenly remember you. She bawling again. She want more trust. Don’t tell me about Mungroo. I know him too good. Man should be in jail, if anybody had the guts to throw him there.”

The account was telescoped and dramatized, but Mr. Biswas recognized its truth. He felt exposed, and said nothing.

“Just show me your accounts,” Moti said. “Just to see how much Mungroo owe you.”