Vidiadhar Naipaul - A House for Mr. Biswas

From the cowpen came the hiss of milk in a bucket and the mumble of conversation. It was Sunday; Ajodha would certainly be in the cowpen. Mr. Biswas didn’t look. He hurried to the back verandah, hoping to see Tara first and to catch her alone.

She was alone, except for the servant girl. She greeted him so warmly that he at once felt ashamed of his mission. His resolve to speak directly came to nothing, for when he asked how she was she replied at length and, instead of asking for money, he had to give sympathy. Indeed, she didn’t look well. Her breathing had grown worse and she couldn’t move about easily; her body had broadened and become slack; her hair had thinned; her eyes had lost their brightness.

The servant girl brought him a cup of tea and Tara followed the girl back to the kitchen.

The top shelves of the bookcase were still packed with the disintegrating volumes of The Book of Comprehensive Knowledge , for which Ajodha had not paid. The lower shelves contained magazines, motor manufacturers’ catalogues and illustrated trilingual souvenir booklets of Indian films. The religious pictures on the walls were crowded out by calendars from the distributors of American and English motor vehicles, and an enormous framed photograph of an Indian actress.

Tara came back to the verandah and said that she hoped Mr. Biswas would stay to dinner. He had intended to; apart from everything else, he liked their food. She sat down in Ajodha’s rockingchair and asked after the children. He told her about the one that was coming. She asked about the Tulsis and he replied as briefly as he could. He knew that, though the two houses had little to do with one another, an antagonism existed between them. The Tulsis, who did puja every day and celebrated every Hindu festival, regarded Ajodha as a man who pursued wealth and comfort and modernity and had alienated himself from the faith. Ajodha and Tara simply thought the Tulsis squalid, and had always made it clear that they considered Mr. Biswas’s marriage into that house a calamity. It was doubly embarrassing to Mr. Biswas to discuss the Tulsis with Tara, since despite his concern for his children he found it hard not to agree with her view, particularly when he was in her clean, uncrowded, comfortable house, waiting for a meal he knew would be good.

The cowman came from the pen, called to the girl in the kitchen and passed her the bucket of milk through the window. Then, at the standpipe in the yard he washed his Wellingtons, took them off, washed his feet and hands and face.

Mr. Biswas felt more and more reluctant to tell Tara what he had come for.

Then it was too late. Rabidat, Bhandat’s younger son, came in, and Tara and Mr. Biswas fell silent. As far as Tara and Ajodha were concerned, Rabidat was still a bachelor, though it was generally known that, like his brother Jagdat, he was living with a woman of another race and had some children, no one knew how many, by her. He was wearing sandals and brief khaki shorts; his tailless shirt flapped loose, unbuttoned all the way down, the short sleeves rolled up almost to his armpits. It was as though, unable to hide his prognathous face, he wished to display the rest of himself as well. He had a superb body, well proportioned and well developed and not grossly muscular. He barely nodded to Mr. Biswas and ignored Tara. When he sat sprawling on a chair, two thin folds of skin appeared about his middle; they were almost a disfigurement of his neatness. He sucked his teeth, took a film booklet from the bookcase and flicked through it, breathing loudly, his small eyes intent, his prognathous sneer more pronounced. He threw the booklet back on the bookcase and said, “How is everything, Mohun?” Without waiting for an answer he shouted at the kitchen, “Food, girl!” and clamped his mouth shut.

“Ooh! The married man!”

It was Ajodha, back from the cowpen.

Rabidat rearranged his legs.

Before Mr. Biswas could reply, Ajodha stopped smiling and spoke to Rabidat about the behaviour of a certain lorry.

Rabidat shifted in his chair and sucked his teeth, not looking up.

Ajodha raised his voice querulously.

Rabidat explained awkwardly, sulkily, insolently. He seemed to be trying to bite the inside of his lower lip, and his voice, though deep, was blurred.

Abruptly Ajodha lost interest in the lorry and smiled mischievously at Mr. Biswas.

Tara got up from the rockingchair and Ajodha sat in it, fanning his face and opening a shirt button to reveal a grey-haired chest. “How many children has the married man got now? Seven, eight, a dozen?”

Rabidat smiled uneasily, got up and went to the kitchen.

Mr. Biswas thought he would be brave and begin. “Late last night,” he said, “some “larmist bring me a message that my mother was very sick. So I came to see her today and as I was here I thought I would come and see you.”

The servant girl brought a glass of milk for Ajodha. He received it reverentially, holding the glass as though any pressure might cause it to break. He said, “Bring Mohun some. You know, Mohun, milk is a food in itself, especially when it is fresh like this.”

The milk was brought and drunk. Mr. Biswas welcomed the pause. The absurd story he hadjust made up didn’t sound convincing, and he hoped he would be allowed to drop it.

“And how was your mother?” Tara asked. “I heard nothing.”

“Oh, she. She was all right. It was just some “larmist, that was all.”

Ajodha rocked gently. “What about your job, Mohun? Somehow I never felt you were made for a job in the fields. Eh, Tara?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Mr. Biswas said briskly, “it was that I wanted to talk to you about. You see, this is a steady job-”

Ajodha said, “Mohun, I don’t think you are looking well at all. Eh, Tara? Look at his face. And, eh-” He broke off with a giggle and said in English, “Look, look. He getting a punch.” He stabbed at Mr. Biswas’s belly with a long sharp finger, and when Mr. Biswas winced Ajodha gave a little yelping laugh. “Pap,” he said. “Your belly soft like pap. Like a woman. All you young people getting bellies these days.” He winked at Mr. Biswas; then, tilting back his head, he said loudly, “Even Rabidat got a punch.”

Tara gave a short, chesty laugh.

Rabidat came out of the kitchen, chewing, his mouth full, and mumbled incomprehensibly.

Ajodha grimaced, “Take your face back to the kitchen. You know you make me ill when you talk with your mouth full.”

Rabidat swallowed hurriedly. “Punch?” he said, nibbling at his lower lip. “I got a punch?” He pulled his shirt off his shoulders, drew in his breath and the definitions of his abdominal muscles became sharper. Above his sneering mouth his small eyes glittered.

Smiling, Ajodha said, “All right, Rabidat. Go back and eat. I was only teasing.” The demonstration had pleased him; he was as proud of Rabidat’s body as of his own. “Good food,” he told Mr. Biswas. “And lots of exercise.” He threw back his shoulders, stuck out his stomach, grabbed Mr. Biswas’s soft hand with his firm, long fingers and said, “Feel that. Come on, feel it.” Mr. Biswas didn’t respond. Ajodha seized one of Mr. Biswas’s fingers and pulled it hard against his stomach. Mr. Biswas felt his finger bend backwards; he wrenched it from Ajodha’s grasp. “There,” Ajodha said. “Hard as steel. You still sleep with a pillow, I imagine?”

Surreptitiously rubbing his paining finger against its neighbour, Mr. Biswas nodded.

“I never use a pillow. Nature didn’t intend us to use pillows. Train your children from the start, Mohun. Don’t let them use pillows. Ooh! Four children!” Ajodha gave another little yelp of laughter, jumped out of his chair, walked to the verandah half-wall and shouted irritably to someone outside. He had heard the cowman preparing to leave and was only bidding him good night; that was the voice he always used with his employees. The cowman replied and Ajodha returned to his chair. “Married man!”