House for Mister Biswas Part 14

He came out through the side gate and wheeled his cycle past the arcade, which was already filling up with the evening crowd of old India-born men who came there to smoke and talk. He cycled to Misir's rickety little wooden house and called at the lighted window.

Misir pushed his head past the lace curtain and said, 'Just the man I want to see. Come in.'

Misir said he had packed his wife and children off to his mother-in-law. Mr Biswas guessed the reason to be a quarrel or a pregnancy.

'Been working like h.e.l.l without them, too,' Misir said. 'Writing stories.'

'For the Sentinel?' Sentinel?'

'Short stories,' Misir said with his old impatience. 'Just sit down and listen.' stories,' Misir said with his old impatience. 'Just sit down and listen.'

Misir's first story was about a man who had been out of work for months and was starving. His five children were starving; his wife was having another baby. It was December and the shops were full of food and toys. On Christmas eve the man got a job. Going home that evening, he was knocked down and killed by a motorcar that didn't stop.

'h.e.l.luva thing,' Mr Biswas said. 'I like the part about the car not stopping.'

Misir smiled, and said fiercely, 'But life is like that. Is not a fairy-story. No once-upon-a-time-there-was-a-rajah nonsense. Listen to this one.'

Misir's second story was about a man who had been out of work for months and was starving. To keep his large family he began selling his possessions, and finally he had nothing left but a two-shilling sweepstake ticket. He didn't want to sell it, but one of his children fell dangerously ill and needed medicine. He sold the ticket for a shilling and bought medicine. The child died; the ticket he had sold won the sweepstake.

'h.e.l.luva thing,' Mr Biswas said. 'What happen?'

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

'h.e.l.l, h.e.l.l, h.e.l.luva 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.'

'G.o.d!' Misir exclaimed in disgust. 'G.o.d!' 'G.o.d!'

'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. n.o.body 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 d.a.m.n 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?' Sentinel?'

'Blasted cent a line still. Why?'

'A d.a.m.n 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 a.s.sert 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 b.u.t.ter,' he said, thinking of the tall smelly tin full of red, runny, rancid b.u.t.ter.

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 Moti's gaze, which came to rest on the tins with half-eaten labels, left there by the man Seebaran had a.s.sisted.

'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 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.' 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.'

Mr Biswas took down the spike from the nail between the shelves where it hung above a faded advertis.e.m.e.nt for Cydrax, a beverage which had not caught the village's fancy. The spike was now a tall, feathery, multi-coloured brush, with the papers at the bottom as brittle and curling as dead leaves.

'Pappa!' Moti said, and became graver and graver as he looked through the papers. He could not look very far because to get at the lower papers he would have had to remove those at the top altogether. He turned away from Mr Biswas and contemplated the blackness outside, staring past the doorway against which the rear wheel of his decrepit bicycle could be seen. Sadly he sucked his Paradise Plum. 'Pity you don't know Seebaran. Seebaran woulda fix you up in two twos. He help out the man before you. Otherwise the man would be a pauper now, man. A pauper. Is a funny thing, but you don't expect to find people getting fat and rich on credit while the poor shopkeeper, who give the credit, not getting enough to eat, wearing rags, watching his children starve, watching them sick.'

Mr Biswas, seeing himself as the hero of one of Misir's stories, could scarcely hide his alarm.

'All right, then, man.' Moti fixed his bicycle clips around his ankles. 'I got to go. Thanks for the chat. I hope everything go all right with you.'

'But you know Seebaran,' Mr Biswas said.

'Know him, yes. But I don't know whether I could just go and ask him to help out a friend of mine. Busy man, you know. Handling nearly all the work in the Petty Civil.'

'Still, you could tell him?'

'Yes,' Moti said, without conviction. 'I could tell him. But Seebaran is a big man. You can't go troubling him with just one or two little things.'

Mr Biswas brushed his hand up and down the papers on the spike. 'It have a lot lot of work here for him,' he said aggressively. 'You tell him.' of work here for him,' he said aggressively. 'You tell him.'

'All right. I go tell him.' Moti got on his cycle. 'But I ain't promising nothing.'

Savi was asleep when Mr Biswas went to the back room.

'Going to settle Mungroo and the rest of them,' Mr Biswas said to Shama. 'Putting Seebaran on their tail.'

'Who is Seebaran?'

'Who is Seebaran! You mean you don't know Seebaran? The man who handling practically all the work in the Petty Civil.'

'I know all that. I hear what the man was saying too.' 'Why the h.e.l.l you ask me then for?'

'You don't think you better get advice before you start bringing up people?'

'Advice? Who from? The old thug and the old she-fox? I know they know everything. You don't have to tell me that. But they know law?'

'Seth bring up a lot of people.'

'And every time he bring somebody up, he lose. You don't have to tell me that either. Everybody in Arwacas know about Seth and the people he bring up. He don't know everything.'

'He used to study doctor. Doctor or druggist.'

'Used to study doctor! Horse-doctor, if you ask me. He look like a doctor to you? You ever look at his hands? Fat, thick. Can't even hold a pencil properly.'

'He cut open that boil Chanrouti had the other day.'

'And yes. That is another thing I want to tell you, eh. In advance. In advance. advance. I don't want Seth cutting open any boil on any of my children. And I don't want him prescribing any blasted sulphur and condensed milk for any of them either.' I don't want Seth cutting open any boil on any of my children. And I don't want him prescribing any blasted sulphur and condensed milk for any of them either.'

Mungroo was the leader of the village stick-fighters. He was a tall, wiry, surly man, made ferocious in appearance by a large handlebar moustache, for which the villagers called him Moush, then Moach. As a stickman he was a champion. He had reach and skill, and his responses were miraculous. He converted a parry into a lunge so fluently it seemed to be a single action. He fought every duel as though he had rehea.r.s.ed its every development. It was Mungroo who had organized the young men of The Chase into a fighting band, ready to defend the honour of the village on the days of the Christian Carnival and the Muslim Hosein. Under his direction and in his yard they practised a.s.siduously in the evenings by the light of flambeaux. The village boys went to watch this evening practice. So, despite Shama's disapproval, did Mr Biswas.

As much as the game he liked the making of the sticks. Designs were cut into the bark of the poui, poui, which was then roasted in a bonfire; the burnt bark was peeled off, leaving the design burnt into the white wood. There was no scent as pleasant as that of barely roasted which was then roasted in a bonfire; the burnt bark was peeled off, leaving the design burnt into the white wood. There was no scent as pleasant as that of barely roasted poui: poui: faint, yet so lasting it seemed to come from afar, from some immeasurable depth captive within the wood: as faint as the scent of the faint, yet so lasting it seemed to come from afar, from some immeasurable depth captive within the wood: as faint as the scent of the pouis pouis Raghu roasted in the village like this, in a yard like this, in a bonfire like this: bringing sensations, not pictures, of an evening meal being cooked over a fire that shone on a mud wall and kept out the night, of cool, new, unused mornings, of rain m.u.f.fled on a thatched roof and warmth below it: sensations as faint as the scent of the p Raghu roasted in the village like this, in a yard like this, in a bonfire like this: bringing sensations, not pictures, of an evening meal being cooked over a fire that shone on a mud wall and kept out the night, of cool, new, unused mornings, of rain m.u.f.fled on a thatched roof and warmth below it: sensations as faint as the scent of the poui itself, but sadly evanescent, refusing to be seized or to be translated into a concrete memory. itself, but sadly evanescent, refusing to be seized or to be translated into a concrete memory.

Afterwards, the sticks, their heads carved, were soaked in coconut oil in bamboo cylinders, to give them greater strength and resilience. Then Mungroo took the sticks to an old stickman he knew, to have them 'mounted' with the spirit of a dead Spaniard. So that the ritual ended in romance, awe and mystery. For the Spaniards, Mr Biswas knew, had surrendered the island one hundred years before, and their descendants had disappeared; yet they had left a memory of reckless valour, and this memory had pa.s.sed to people who came from another continent and didn't know what a Spaniard was, people who, in their huts of mud and gra.s.s where time and distance were obliterated, still frightened their children with the name of Alexander, of whose greatness they knew nothing.

By profession Mungroo was a roadmender. He preferred to say that he worked for the government, and he preferred not to work at all. He made it plain that because he defended the honour of the village, the village owed him a living. He exacted contributions for pitch-oil for the flambeaux, for the 'mounting' fees, and for the expensive costumes the stick-fighters wore on days of battle. At first Mr Biswas contributed willingly. Then Mungroo, the better to devote himself to his art, abandoned the road-gang for weeks at a time and lived on credit from Mr Biswas and other shopkeepers. Mr Biswas admired Mungroo. He felt it would be disloyal to refuse Mungroo credit, unbecoming to remind him of his debts, and dangerous to do either. Mungroo became steadily more demanding. Mr Biswas complained to other customers; they told Mungroo. Mungroo didn't reply, as Mr Biswas had feared, with violence, but with a dignity which, though it struck Mr Biswas as hollow, hurt him as deeply as the silences and sighs of Shama. Mungroo refused to speak to Mr Biswas and spat, casually, whenever he pa.s.sed the shop. Mungroo's bills remained unpaid; and Mr Biswas lost a few more customers.

Earlier than Mr Biswas had expected, Moti returned and said, 'You are a lucky man. Seebaran has decided to help you. I told him you were a friend of mine and a good Hindu, and he's a very strict Hindu himself, as you know. He is going to help you. Even though he's busy.' He took out the papers from his shirt pocket, found the one he wanted and slapped it down on the counter. At the top a mauve stamp, slightly askew, said that L. S. Seebaran was a solicitor and conveyancer. Below that there were many dotted lines between printed sentences. 'Seebaran going to full up those for you as soon as he get your papers,' Moti said, using English, the language of the law.

Unless this sum, Mr Biswas read with a thrill, Mr Biswas read with a thrill, together with One Dollar and Twenty Cents ($1.02c), the cost of this letter, is paid within ten days, legal proceedings shall he inst.i.tuted against you. together with One Dollar and Twenty Cents ($1.02c), the cost of this letter, is paid within ten days, legal proceedings shall he inst.i.tuted against you. And there was another dotted line below that, where L. S. Seebaran was to sign himself yours faithfully. And there was another dotted line below that, where L. S. Seebaran was to sign himself yours faithfully.

'Powerful, powerful, man,' Mr Biswas said. 'Legal proceedings, eh. I didn't know it was so easy to bring people up.'

Moti gave a knowing little grunt.

'One dollar and twenty cents, the cost of this letter,' Mr Biswas said. 'You mean I don't even have to pay that?'

'Not with Seebaran fighting your case for you.'

'One dollar and twenty cents. You mean Seebaran getting that just for fulling up those dotted lines? Education, boy. It have nothing like a profession.'

'You is your own boss, if you is a professional man,' Moti said, his voice touched with a remote sadness.

'But one twenty, man. Five minutes' writing for one twenty.'

'You forgetting that Seebaran had to spend years and years studying all sort of big and heavy books before they allow him to send out papers like this.'

'You know, the thing to do is to have three sons. Make one a doctor, one a dentist, and one a lawyer.'

'Nice little family. If you have the sons. And if you have the money. They don't give trust in those those places.' places.'

Mr Biswas brought out Shama's accounts. Moti asked to see the credit slips again, and his face fell as he looked through them. 'A lot of these ain't signed,' he said.

Mr Biswas had for long thought it discourteous to ask his creditors to do so. He said, 'But they wasn't signed the last time either.'

Moti gave a nervous laugh. 'Don't worry. I know cases where Seebaran recover people money even without paper or anything. But is a lot of work here, you know. You got to show Seebaran that you serious.'

Mr Biswas went to the drawer below the shelves. The drawer was large but not heavy, and pulled out in an easy, awkward way; the wood inside was oily but surprisingly white. 'A dollar and twenty cents?' he said.