House for Mister Biswas Part 3

During one of Tara's pauses Bipti said, 'Buth suttificate.'

'Oh!' Ghany said, his manner changing. 'Certificate of buth.' It was a familiar problem. He looked legal and said, 'Affidavit. When did the buth take place?'

Bipti told Tara in Hindi, 'I can't really say. But Pundit Sitaram should know. He cast Mohun's horoscope the day after he was born.'

'I don't know what you see in that man, Bipti. He doesn't know know anything.' anything.'

Ghany could follow their conversation. He disliked the way Indian women had of using Hindi as a secret language in public places, and asked impatiently, 'Date of buth?'

'Eighth of June,' Bipti said to Tara. 'It must must be that.' be that.'

'All right,' Ghany said. 'Eighth of June. Who to tell you no?' Smiling, he put a hand to the drawer of his table and pulled it this way and that before it came out. He took out a sheet of foolscap, tore it in half, put back one half into the drawer, pushed the drawer this way and that to close it, put the half-sheet on the dusty blotting-paper, stamped his name on it and prepared to write. 'Name of boy?'

'Mohun,' Tara said.

Mr Biswas became shy. He pa.s.sed his tongue above his upper lip and tried to make it touch the k.n.o.bby tip of his nose.

'Surname?' Ghany asked.

'Biswas,' Tara said.

'Nice Hindu name.' He asked more questions, and wrote. When he was finished, Bipti made her mark and Tara, with great deliberation and much dancing of the pen above the paper, signed her name. F, Z. Ghany struggled with the drawer once more, took out the other half-sheet, stamped his name on it, wrote, and then had everybody sign again.

Mr Biswas was now leaning forward against one of the dusty walls, his feet pushed far back. He was spitting carefully, trying to let his spittle hang down to the floor without breaking.

F. Z. Ghany hung up his name stamp and took down the date stamp. He turned some ratchets, banged hard on the almost dry purple pad and banged hard on the paper. Two lengths of rubber fell apart. 'Blasted thing bust,' he said, and examined it without annoyance. He explained, 'You could print the year all right, because you move that only once a year. But the dates and the months, man, you spinning them round all the time.' He took up the length of rubber and looked at them thoughtfully. 'Here, give them to the boy. Play with them.' He wrote the date with one of his pens and said, 'All right, leave everything to me now. Expensive business, affidavits. Stamps and thing, you know. Ten dollars in all.'

Bipti fumbled with the knot at the end of her veil and Tara paid.

'Any more children without certificate of buth?'

'Three,' Bipti said.

'Bring them,' Ghany said. 'Bring all of them. Any market day. Next week? Is better to straighten these things right away, you know.'

In this way official notice was taken of Mr Biswas's existence, and he entered the new world.

Ought oughts are ought, Ought twos are ought.

The chanting of the children pleased Lal. He believed in thoroughness, discipline and what he delighted to call stick-to-it-iveness, virtues he felt unconverted Hindus particularly lacked.

One twos are two, Two twos are four.

'Stop!' Lal cried, waving his tamarind rod. 'Biswas, ought twos are how much?'

'Two.'

'Come up here. You, Ramguli, ought twos are how much?'

'Ought.'

'Come up. That boy with a shirt that looks like one of his mother bodice. How much?'

'Four.'

'Come up.' He held the rod at both ends and bent it back and forth quickly. The sleeves of his jacket fell down past dirty cuffs and thin wrists black with hair. The jacket was brown but had turned saffron where it had been soaked by Lal's sweat. For all the time he went to school, Mr Biswas never saw Lal wearing any other jacket.

'Ramguli, go back to your desk. All right, the two of you. All-you decide now how much ought twos is?'

'Ought,' they whimpered together.

'Yes, ought twos are ought. You did tell me two.' He caught hold of Mr Biswas, pulled his trousers tight across his bottom, and began to apply the tamarind rod, saying as he beat, 'Ought twos are ought. Ought oughts are ought. One One twos are two.' twos are two.'

Mr Biswas, released, went crying back to his desk.

'And now you. Before we talk about anything, tell me where you get that bodice from?'

With its flaming red colour and leg-of-mutton sleeves it was obviously a bodice and had, without comment, been recognized as such by the boys, most of whom wore garments not originally designed for them.

'Where you get it from?'

'My sister-in-law.'

'And you thank her?'

There was no reply.

'Anyway, when you see your sister-in-law, I want you to give her a message. I want you' and here Lal seized the boy and started to use the tamarind rod 'I want you to tell her that ought twos don't make four. I want you to tell her that ought oughts are ought, ought twos are ought, one twos are two, and two two twos are four.' twos are four.'

Mr Biswas was taught other things. He learned to say the Lord's Prayer in Hindi from the King George V Hindi Reader, King George V Hindi Reader, and he learned many English poems by heart from the and he learned many English poems by heart from the Royal Reader. Royal Reader. At Lal's dictation he made copious notes, which he never seriously believed, about geysers, rift valleys, watersheds, currents, the Gulf Stream, and a number of deserts. He learned about oases, which Lal taught him to p.r.o.nounce 'osis', and ever afterwards an oasis meant for him nothing more than four or five date trees around a narrow pool of fresh water, surrounded for unending miles by white sand and hot sun. He learned about igloos. In arithmetic he got as far as simple interest and learned to turn dollars and cents into pounds, shilling and pence. The history Lal taught he regarded as simply a school subject, a discipline, as unreal as the geography; and it was from the boy in the red bodice that he first heard, with disbelief, about the Great War. At Lal's dictation he made copious notes, which he never seriously believed, about geysers, rift valleys, watersheds, currents, the Gulf Stream, and a number of deserts. He learned about oases, which Lal taught him to p.r.o.nounce 'osis', and ever afterwards an oasis meant for him nothing more than four or five date trees around a narrow pool of fresh water, surrounded for unending miles by white sand and hot sun. He learned about igloos. In arithmetic he got as far as simple interest and learned to turn dollars and cents into pounds, shilling and pence. The history Lal taught he regarded as simply a school subject, a discipline, as unreal as the geography; and it was from the boy in the red bodice that he first heard, with disbelief, about the Great War.

With this boy, whose name was Alec, Mr Biswas became friendly. The colours of Alec's clothes were a continual surprise, and one day he scandalized the school by peeing blue, a clear, light turquoise. To excited inquiry Alec replied, 'I don't know, boy. I suppose is because I is a Portuguese or something.' And for days he gave solemn demonstrations which filled most boys with disgust at their race.

It was to Mr Biswas that Alec first revealed his secret, and one morning recess, after Alec had given his demonstration, Mr Biswas dramatically unb.u.t.toned and gave his. There was a clamour and Alec was forced to take out the bottle of Dodd's Kidney Pills. In no time the bottle was empty, except for some half a dozen pills which Alec said he had to keep. The pills, like the red bodice, belonged to his sister-in-law. 'I don't know what she going to do when she find out,' Alec said, and to those boys who still begged, he said, 'Buy your own. The drugstore full of them.' And many of them did buy their own, and for a week the school's urinals ran turquoise; and the druggist attributed the sudden rise in sales to the success of the Dodd's Kidney Pills Almanac which, in addition to jokes, carried story after story of the rapid cures the pills had effected on Trinidadians, all of whom had written the makers profusely grateful letters of the utmost articulateness, and been photographed.

With Alec Mr Biswas laid six-inch nails on the railway track at the back of the Main Road and had them flattened to make knives and bayonets. Together they went to Pagotes River and smoked their first cigarettes. They tore off their shirt b.u.t.tons, exchanged them for marbles and with these Alec won more, struggling continually to repair the depredations of Lal, who considered the game low and had forbidden it in the school grounds. They sat at the same desk, talked, were flogged and separated, but always came together again.

And it was through this a.s.sociation that Mr Biswas discovered his gift for lettering. When Alec tired of doing inaccurate erotic drawings he designed letters. Mr Biswas imitated these with pleasure and growing success. During an arithmetic test one day, finding himself with an astronomical number of hours in answer to a problem about cisterns, he wrote CANCELLED CANCELLED very neatly across the page and became absorbed in blocking the letters and shadowing them. When the period was over he had done nothing else. very neatly across the page and became absorbed in blocking the letters and shadowing them. When the period was over he had done nothing else.

Lal, who had noted Mr Biswas's industry with approval, flew into a rage. 'Ah! Sign-painter. Come up.'

He didn't flog Mr Biswas. He ordered him to write I AM AN a.s.s I AM AN a.s.s on the blackboard. Mr Biswas outlined stylish, contemptuous letters, and the cla.s.s t.i.ttered approvingly. Lal, racing about the cla.s.sroom, waving his tamarind rod for silence, brushed Mr Biswas's elbow and a stroke was spoilt. Mr Biswas turned this into an additional decoration which pleased him and impressed the cla.s.s. It was too late for Lal to flog Mr Biswas or order him to clean the blackboard. Angrily he pushed him away, and Mr Biswas went back to his desk, smiling, a hero. on the blackboard. Mr Biswas outlined stylish, contemptuous letters, and the cla.s.s t.i.ttered approvingly. Lal, racing about the cla.s.sroom, waving his tamarind rod for silence, brushed Mr Biswas's elbow and a stroke was spoilt. Mr Biswas turned this into an additional decoration which pleased him and impressed the cla.s.s. It was too late for Lal to flog Mr Biswas or order him to clean the blackboard. Angrily he pushed him away, and Mr Biswas went back to his desk, smiling, a hero.

Mr Biswas went to Lal's school for nearly six years and for all that time he was friendly with Alec. Yet he knew little about Alec's home life. Alec never spoke about his mother or father and Mr Biswas knew only that he lived with his sister-in-law, the owner of the red bodice, an unphotographed user of Dodd's Kidney Pills, and, according to Alec, a great beater. Mr Biswas never saw this woman. He never went to Alec's home and Alec never came to his. There was a tacit agreement between them that they would keep their homes secret.

It would have pained Mr Biswas if anyone from the school saw where he lived, in one room of a mud hut in the back trace. He was not happy there and even after five years considered it a temporary arrangement. Most of the people in the hut remained strangers, and his relations with Bipti were unsatisfying because she was shy of showing him affection in a house of strangers. More and more, too, she bewailed her Fate; when she did this he felt useless and dispirited and, instead of comforting her, went out to look for Alec. Occasionally she had ineffectual fits of temper, quarrelled with Tara and muttered for days, threatening, whenever there was anyone to hear, that she would leave and get a job with the road-gang, where women were needed to carry stones in baskets on their heads. Continually, when he was with her, Mr Biswas had to struggle against anger and depression.

At Christmas Pratap and Prasad came from Felicity, grown men now, with moustaches; in their best clothes, their pressed khaki trousers, unpolished brown shoes, blue shirts b.u.t.toned at the collar, and brown hats, they too were like strangers. Their hands were as hard as their rough, sunburnt faces, and they had little to say. When Pratap, with many self-deprecating sighs, half-laughs and pauses which enabled him to deliver a short sentence in easy instalments without in any way damaging its structure, when Pratap told about the donkey he had bought and the current lengths of tasks, Mr Biswas was not really interested. The buying of a donkey seemed to him an act of pure comedy, and it was hard to believe that the dour Pratap was the frantic boy who had rushed about the room in the hut threatening to kill the men in the garden.

As for Dehuti, he hardly saw her, though she lived close, at Tara's. He seldom went there except when Tara's husband, prompted by Tara, held a religious ceremony and needed Brahmins to feed. Then Mr Biswas was treated with honour; stripped of his ragged trousers and shirt, and in a clean dhoti, he became a different person, and he never thought it unseemly that the person who served him so deferentially with food should be his own sister. In Tara's house he was respected as a Brahmin and pampered; yet as soon as the ceremony was over and he had taken his gift of money and cloth and left, he became once more only a labourer's child father's occupation: labourer father's occupation: labourer was the entry in the birth certificate F. Z. Ghany had sent living with a penniless mother in one room of a mud hut. And throughout life his position was like that. As one of the Tulsi sons-in-law and as a journalist he found himself among people with money and sometimes with graces; with them his manner was unforcedly easy and he could summon up luxurious instincts; but always, at the end, he returned to his crowded, shabby room. was the entry in the birth certificate F. Z. Ghany had sent living with a penniless mother in one room of a mud hut. And throughout life his position was like that. As one of the Tulsi sons-in-law and as a journalist he found himself among people with money and sometimes with graces; with them his manner was unforcedly easy and he could summon up luxurious instincts; but always, at the end, he returned to his crowded, shabby room.

Tara's husband, Ajodha, was a thin man with a thin, petulant face which could express benignity rather than warmth, and Mr Biswas was not comfortable with him. Ajodha could read but thought it more dignified to be read to, and Mr Biswas was sometimes called to the house to read, for a penny, a newspaper column of which Ajodha was particularly fond. This was a syndicated American column called That Body of Yours That Body of Yours which dealt every day with a different danger to the human body. Ajodha listened with gravity, concern, alarm. It puzzled Mr Biswas that he should subject himself to this torment, and it amazed him that the writer, Dr Samuel S. Pitkin, could keep the column going with such regularity. But the doctor never flagged; twenty years later the column was still going, Ajodha had not lost his taste for it, and occasionally Mr Biswas's son read it to him, for six cents. which dealt every day with a different danger to the human body. Ajodha listened with gravity, concern, alarm. It puzzled Mr Biswas that he should subject himself to this torment, and it amazed him that the writer, Dr Samuel S. Pitkin, could keep the column going with such regularity. But the doctor never flagged; twenty years later the column was still going, Ajodha had not lost his taste for it, and occasionally Mr Biswas's son read it to him, for six cents.

So, whenever Mr Biswas was in Tara's house, it was as a Brahmin or a reader, with a status distinct from Dehuti's, and he had little opportunity of speaking to her.

Bipti had a specific worry about her children: neither Pratap nor Prasad nor Dehuti was married. She had no plans for Mr Biswas, since he was still young and she a.s.sumed that the education he was receiving was provision and protection enough. But Tara thought otherwise. And just when Mr Biswas was beginning to do stocks and shares, transactions as unreal to Lal as they were to him, and was learning 'Bingen on the Rhine' from Bell's Standard Elocutionist Bell's Standard Elocutionist for the visit of the school inspector, he was taken out of school by Tara and told that he was going to be made a pundit. for the visit of the school inspector, he was taken out of school by Tara and told that he was going to be made a pundit.

It was only when his possessions were being bundled that he discovered he still had the school's copy of the Standard Elocutionist. Standard Elocutionist. It was too late to return it, and he never did. Wherever he went the book went with him, and ended in the blacksmith-built bookcase in the house at Sikkim Street. It was too late to return it, and he never did. Wherever he went the book went with him, and ended in the blacksmith-built bookcase in the house at Sikkim Street.

For eight months, in a bare, s.p.a.cious, unpainted wooden house smelling of blue soap and incense, its floors white and smooth from constant scrubbing, its cleanliness and sanct.i.ty maintained by regulations awkward to everyone except himself, Pundit Jairam taught Mr Biswas Hindi, introduced him to the more important scriptures and instructed him in various ceremonies. Morning and evening, under the pundit's eye, Mr Biswas did the puja puja for the pundit's household. for the pundit's household.

Jairam's children had all been married and he lived alone with his wife, a crushed, hard-working woman whose only duty now was to look after Jairam and his house. She didn't complain. Among Hindus Jairam was respected for his knowledge. He also held scandalous views which, while being dismissed as contentious, had nevertheless brought him much popularity. He believed in G.o.d, fervently, but claimed it was not necessary for a Hindu to do so. He attacked the custom some families had of putting up a flag after a religious ceremony; but his own front garden was a veritable grove of bamboo poles with red and white pennants in varying stages of decay. He ate no meat but spoke against vegetarianism: when Lord Rama went hunting, did they think it was just for the sport?

He was also working on a Hindi commentary on the Ramayana, Ramayana, and parts of this commentary were dictated to Mr Biswas to extend his own knowledge of the language. So that Mr Biswas could see and learn, Jairam took him on his rounds; and wherever he went with the pundit Mr Biswas, invested with the sacred thread and all the other badges of caste, found himself, as in Tara's house, the object of regard. It was his duty on these occasions to do the mechanical side of Jairam's offices. He took around the bra.s.s plate with the lighted camphor; the devout dropped a coin on the plate, brushed the flame with their fingers and took their fingers to their forehead. He took around the consecrated sweetened milk with strips of the tulsi leaf floating on its surface, and doled it out a teaspoonful at a time. When the ceremonies were over and the feeding of Brahmins began, he was seated next to Pundit Jairam; and when Jairam had eaten and belched and asked for more and eaten again it was Mr Biswas who mixed the bicarbonate of soda for him. Afterwards Mr Biswas went to the shrine, a platform of earth decorated with flour and planted with small banana trees, and pillaged it for the coins that had been offered, hunting carefully everywhere, showing no respect for the burnt offerings or anything else. The coins, dusted with flour or earth or ash, wet with holy water or warm from the sacred fire, he took to Pundit Jairam, who might then be engaged in some philosophical disputation. Jairam would wave Mr Biswas away without looking at him. As soon as they got home, however, Jairam asked for the money, counted it, and felt Mr Biswas all over to make sure he hadn't kept anything back. Mr Biswas also had to bring home all the gifts Jairam received, usually lengths of cotton, but sometimes c.u.mbersome bundles of fruit and vegetables. and parts of this commentary were dictated to Mr Biswas to extend his own knowledge of the language. So that Mr Biswas could see and learn, Jairam took him on his rounds; and wherever he went with the pundit Mr Biswas, invested with the sacred thread and all the other badges of caste, found himself, as in Tara's house, the object of regard. It was his duty on these occasions to do the mechanical side of Jairam's offices. He took around the bra.s.s plate with the lighted camphor; the devout dropped a coin on the plate, brushed the flame with their fingers and took their fingers to their forehead. He took around the consecrated sweetened milk with strips of the tulsi leaf floating on its surface, and doled it out a teaspoonful at a time. When the ceremonies were over and the feeding of Brahmins began, he was seated next to Pundit Jairam; and when Jairam had eaten and belched and asked for more and eaten again it was Mr Biswas who mixed the bicarbonate of soda for him. Afterwards Mr Biswas went to the shrine, a platform of earth decorated with flour and planted with small banana trees, and pillaged it for the coins that had been offered, hunting carefully everywhere, showing no respect for the burnt offerings or anything else. The coins, dusted with flour or earth or ash, wet with holy water or warm from the sacred fire, he took to Pundit Jairam, who might then be engaged in some philosophical disputation. Jairam would wave Mr Biswas away without looking at him. As soon as they got home, however, Jairam asked for the money, counted it, and felt Mr Biswas all over to make sure he hadn't kept anything back. Mr Biswas also had to bring home all the gifts Jairam received, usually lengths of cotton, but sometimes c.u.mbersome bundles of fruit and vegetables.

One particularly large gift was a bunch of Gros Michel bananas. They came to Jairam green and were hung in the large kitchen to ripen. In time the green became lighter, spotted, and soft yellow patches appeared. Rapidly the yellow spread and deepened, and the spots became brown and rich. The smell of ripening banana, overcoming the astringent smell of the glutinous sap from the banana stem, filled the house, leaving Jairam and his wife apparently indifferent, but rousing Mr Biswas. He reasoned that the bananas would become ripe all at once, that Jairam and his wife could not possibly eat them all, and that many would grow rotten. He also reasoned a banana or two would not be missed. And one day, when Jairam was out and his wife away from the kitchen, Mr Biswas picked two bananas and ate them. The gaps in the bunch startled him. They were more than noticeable; they offended the eye.

Jairam was no flogger. When he was in a rage he might box Mr Biswas on the ear; but usually he was less intemperate. For a badly conducted puja, puja, for instance, he might make Mr Biswas learn a dozen couplets from the for instance, he might make Mr Biswas learn a dozen couplets from the Ramayana Ramayana by heart, confining him to the house until he had. All that day Mr Biswas wondered what punishment the eating of the bananas would bring, while he copied out Sanskrit verses, which he couldn't understand, on strips of cardboard, having revealed to Jairam his skill in lettering. by heart, confining him to the house until he had. All that day Mr Biswas wondered what punishment the eating of the bananas would bring, while he copied out Sanskrit verses, which he couldn't understand, on strips of cardboard, having revealed to Jairam his skill in lettering.

Jairam came late that evening and his wife fed him. Then, as was his habit every evening after he had eaten and rested, he walked heavily about the bare verandah, talking to himself, going over the arguments he had had that day. First he quoted the opposing view. Then he tested various replies of his own; his voice rose shrill at the end of the final version of the repartee, which he said over and over, breaking off to sing a s.n.a.t.c.h of a hymn. Mr Biswas, lying on his sugarsack and floursack bed, listened. Jairam's wife was washing up the dishes in the kitchen; the waste water ran down a bamboo spout to a gutter, where it fell noisily among the bushes.

Waiting, Mr Biswas fell asleep. When he awoke it was morning and for a moment he had no fears. Then his error returned to him.

He had his bath in the yard, cut a hibiscus twig, crushed one end and cleaned his teeth with it, split the twig and sc.r.a.ped his tongue with the halves. Then he collected marigolds and zinnias and oleanders from the garden for the morning puja, puja, and sat without religious fervour before the elaborate shrine. The smell of bra.s.s and stale sandalwood paste displeased him; it was a smell he was to recognize later in all temples, mosques and churches, and it was always disagreeable. Mechanically he cleaned the images, the lines and indentations of which were black or cream with old sandalwood paste; it was easier to clean the small smooth pebbles, whose significance had not yet been explained to him. At this stage Pundit Jairam usually came to see that he did not scamp the ritual, but this morning he did not come. Mr Biswas chanted from the prescribed scriptures, applied fresh sandalwood paste to the images and smooth pebbles, decked them with fresh flowers, rang the bell and consecrated the offering of sweetened milk. With the sandalwood marks still wet and tickling on his forehead, he sought out Jairam to offer him some of the milk. and sat without religious fervour before the elaborate shrine. The smell of bra.s.s and stale sandalwood paste displeased him; it was a smell he was to recognize later in all temples, mosques and churches, and it was always disagreeable. Mechanically he cleaned the images, the lines and indentations of which were black or cream with old sandalwood paste; it was easier to clean the small smooth pebbles, whose significance had not yet been explained to him. At this stage Pundit Jairam usually came to see that he did not scamp the ritual, but this morning he did not come. Mr Biswas chanted from the prescribed scriptures, applied fresh sandalwood paste to the images and smooth pebbles, decked them with fresh flowers, rang the bell and consecrated the offering of sweetened milk. With the sandalwood marks still wet and tickling on his forehead, he sought out Jairam to offer him some of the milk.

Jairam, bathed and dressed and fresh, was sitting against some pillows in one corner of the verandah, spectacles low down on his nose, a brown Hindi book on his lap. When the verandah shook below Mr Biswas's bare feet Jairam looked up and then down through his spectacles, and turned a page of his dingy book. Spectacles made him look older, abstracted and benign.

Mr Biswas held the bra.s.s jar of milk toward him. 'Baba.'

Jairam sat up, rearranged a pillow, held a cupped palm, touching the elbow of the outstretched arm with the fingers of his free hand. Mr Biswas poured. Jairam brought the inside of his wrist against his forehead, blessed Mr Biswas, threw the milk into his mouth, pa.s.sed his wet palm through his thin grey hair, readjusted his spectacles and looked down again at his book.

Mr Biswas went to his room, put on his workaday clothes and came out to breakfast. They ate in silence. Suddenly Jairam pushed his bra.s.s plate towards Mr Biswas.

'Eat this.'

Mr Biswas's fingers, ploughing through some cabbage, stood still.

'Of course you won't eat it. And I will tell you why. Because I have been eating from this plate.'

Mr Biswas's fingers, feeling dry and dirty, bent and straightened.

'Soanie!'

Jairam's wife thumped out from the kitchen and stood between them, with her back to Mr Biswas. He looked at the creases on the edge of her soles and saw that the soles were hard and dirty. This surprised him, because Soanie was always washing the floor and bathing herself.

'Go and bring the bananas.'

She pulled the veil over her forehead. 'Don't you think you had better forget it? It is such a small thing.'

'Small thing! A whole hand of bananas!'

She went to the kitchen and came back, cradling the bananas.

'Put them here, Soanie. Mohun, n.o.body else can touch these bananas now but yourself. When people, out of the goodness of their hearts, give me gifts, they are for you. Eh?' Then the edge went out of his voice and he became like the benign, expounding pundit he was in company. 'We mustn't waste, Mohun. I have told you that again and again. We mustn't let these bananas get rotten. You must finish what you have begun. Start now.'

Mr Biswas had been lulled by Jairam's calm, even manner, and the abruptness of the command took him by surprise. He looked down at his plate and flexed his fingers, the tips of which were stuck with drying shreds of cabbage.

'Start now.'

Soanie stood in the doorway, blocking the light. Though it was bright day, the room, with bedrooms on one side and the low roof of the verandah on the other, was gloomy.

'Look. I have peeled one for you.'

The banana hovered in Jairam's clean hand before Mr Biswas's face. He took it with his dirty fingers, bit and chewed. Surprisingly, it tasted. But the taste was so localized it gave no pleasure. He then discovered that chewing killed the taste, and chewed deliberately, not tasting, only listening to the loud squelchy sound that filled his head. He had never heard bananas eaten with so much noise.

Presently the banana was finished, except for the hard little cone buried at the heart of the banana skin, open like a huge and ugly forest flower.

'Look, Mohun. I have peeled you another.'

And while he ate that, Jairam slowly peeled another. And another, and another.

When he had eaten seven bananas, Mr Biswas was sick, whereupon Soanie, silently crying, carried him to the back verandah. He didn't cry, not from bravery: he was only bored and uncomfortable. Jairam rose at once and walked heavily to his room, suddenly in a great temper.

Mr Biswas never ate another banana. That morning also marked the beginning of his stomach trouble; ever afterwards, whenever he was excited or depressed or angry his stomach swelled until it was taut with pain.

A more immediate result was that he became constipated. He could no longer relieve himself in the mornings and he was aware of the dishonour he did the G.o.ds by doing the puja puja unrelieved. The call came upon him at unpredictable times, and it was this which led to his departure from Jairam's, and took him back to that other world he had entered at Pagotes, the world signified by Lal's school and the effete rubber-stamps and dusty books of F. Z. Ghany. unrelieved. The call came upon him at unpredictable times, and it was this which led to his departure from Jairam's, and took him back to that other world he had entered at Pagotes, the world signified by Lal's school and the effete rubber-stamps and dusty books of F. Z. Ghany.

One night he got up in a panic. The latrine was far from the house and to go there through the dark frightened him. He was frightened, too, to walk through the creaking wooden house, open locks, undo bolts and possibly waken Jairam who was fussy about his sleep and often flew into a rage even when awakened at a time he had fixed. Mr Biswas decided to relieve himself in his room on one of his handkerchiefs. He had scores of these, made from the cotton given him at the ceremonies he attended with Jairam. When the time came to dispose of the handkerchief, he left his room and tiptoed, the floor creaking, through the open doorway to the enclosed verandah at the back. He carefully unbolted the Demerara window, which hung on hinges at the top, and, keeping the window open with his left hand, flung the handkerchief as far as he could with his right. But his hands were short, the window was heavy, there was too little s.p.a.ce for him to manoeuvre, and he heard the handkerchief fall not far off.

Not staying to bolt the window, he hurried back to his bed where for a long time he stayed awake, repeatedly imagining that a fresh call was upon him. He had just fallen asleep, it seemed, when someone was shaking him. It was Soanie.

Jairam stood scowling in the doorway. 'You are no Brahmin,' he said. 'I take you into my house and show you every consideration. I do not ask for grat.i.tude. But you are trying to destroy me. Go and look at your work.'

The handkerchief had fallen on Jairam's cherished oleander tree. Never again could its flowers be used at the puja. puja.

'You will never make a pundit,' Jairam said. 'I was talking the other day to Sitaram, who read your horoscope. You killed your father. I am not going to let you destroy me. Sitaram particularly warned me to keep you away from trees. Go on, pack your bundle.'

The neighbours had heard and came out to watch Mr Biswas as, in his dhoti, with his bundle slung on his shoulder, he walked through the village.

Bipti was not in a welcoming mood when Mr Biswas, after walking and getting rides on carts, came back to Pagotes. He was tired, hungry and itching. He had expected her to welcome him with joy, to curse Jairam and promise that she would never allow him to be sent away again to strangers. But as soon as he entered the yard of the hut in the back trace he knew that he was wrong. She looked so depressed and indifferent, sitting in the sooty open kitchen with another of Ajodha's poor relations, grinding maize; and it did not then surprise him that, instead of being pleased to see him, she was alarmed.

They kissed perfunctorily, and she began to ask questions. He thought her manner was harsh and saw her questions as attacks. His replies were sullen, defensive, angry. Her fury rose and she shouted at him. She said that he was ungrateful, that all her children were ungrateful and didn't appreciate the trouble the rest of the world went to on their behalf. Then her rage spent itself and she became as understanding and protective as he hoped she would have been right at the beginning. But it was not sweet now. She poured water for him to wash his hands, sat him down on a low bench and gave him food not hers to give, for this was the communal food of the house, to which she had contributed nothing but her labour in the cooking and looked after him in the proper way. But she could not coax him out of his sullenness.

He did not see at the time how absurd and touching her behaviour was: welcoming him back to a hut that didn't belong to her, giving him food that wasn't hers. But the memory remained, and nearly thirty years later, when he was a member of a small literary group in Port of Spain, he wrote and read out a simple poem in blank verse about this meeting. The disappointment, his surliness, all the unpleasantness was ignored, and the circ.u.mstances improved to allegory: the journey, the welcome, the food, the shelter.

After the meal he learned that there was another reason for Bipti's annoyance. Dehuti had run away with Tara's yard boy, not only showing ingrat.i.tude to Tara and bringing disgrace to her, for the yard boy is the lowest of the low, but also depriving her at one blow of two trained servants.

'And it was Tara who wanted you to be a pundit,' Bipti said. 'I don't know what we are going to tell her.'