House for Mister Biswas Part 32

'But what happening these days? They are not teaching as they used to when I was a boy.'

He found fault with all the textbooks.

'Readers by Captain Cutteridge! Listen to this. Page sixty-five, lesson nineteen. Some of Our Animal Friends.' He read in a mincing voice: '"What should we do without our animal friends? The cow and the goat give us milk and we eat their flesh when they are killed." You hear the savage? And listen. "Many boys and girls have to tie up their goats before going to school in the morning, and help to milk them in the afternoon." Anand, you tie up your goat this morning? Well, you better hurry up. Is nearly milking time. That is the sort of stuff they fulling up the children head with these days. When I was a boy it used to be the Royal Reader Royal Reader and and Blackie's Tropical Reader. Nesfield's Grammar!' Blackie's Tropical Reader. Nesfield's Grammar!' he exclaimed. 'I used to use Macdougall's.' And he sent Anand hunting for the Macdougall's, a typographical antique, its battered boards hinged with strips of blue tape. he exclaimed. 'I used to use Macdougall's.' And he sent Anand hunting for the Macdougall's, a typographical antique, its battered boards hinged with strips of blue tape.

From time to time he called for their exercise books, said he was horrified, and set himself up as their teacher for a few days. He cured Anand of a leaning towards fancy lettering and got him to abridge the convolutions of his C and J and S. With Savi he could do nothing. As a teacher he was exacting and short-tempered, and when Shama went to Hanuman House she was able to tell her sisters with pride, 'The children are afraid of him.'

And, partly to have peace on Sundays, and partly because the combination of the word 'Sunday' with the word 'school' suggested denial and a spoiling of pleasure, he sent Anand and Savi to Sunday school. They loved it. They were given cakes and soft drinks and taught hymns with catchy tunes.

At home one day Anand began singing, 'Jesus loves me, yes I know.'

Mrs Tulsi was offended. 'How do you know that Jesus loves you?'

' 'Cause the Bible tells me so,' Anand said, quoting the next line of the hymn.

Mrs Tulsi took this to mean that, without provocation, Mr Biswas was resuming his religious war.

'Roman cat, your mother,' he told Shama. 'I thought a good Christian hymn would remind her of happy childhood days as a baby Roman kitten.'

But the Sunday school stopped. In its place, and also to counter the influence of Captain Cutteridge, Mr Biswas began reading novels to his children. Anand responded but Savi was again a disappointment.

'I can't see Savi ever eating prunes and drinking milk from the Dairies,' Mr Biswas said. 'Let her go on. All I see her doing is fighting to make up accounts like her mother.'

Unmoved by Mr Biswas's insults, Shama continued to write up her accounts, continued to wrestle once a fortnight with the rent money, and continued to serve eviction notices. Unknown to her family and almost unknown to herself, Shama had become a creature of terror to Mrs Tulsi's tenants. To get the rents she often had to serve eviction notices, particularly on 'old creole woman from 42'. It amused Mr Biswas to read the stern, grammatical injunctions in Shama's placid handwriting, and he said, 'I don't see how that could frighten anybody.'

Shama conducted her exciting operations without any sense that they were exciting. She was unwilling to risk serving notices personally. So late at night, when the tenant was almost certain to be in bed, Shama went out with her notice and pot of glue and pasted the notice on the two leaves of the door, so that the tenant, opening his door in the morning, would tear the notice and would not be able to claim that it had not been served.

Mr Biswas learned shorthand, though of a purely personal sort. He read all the books he could get on journalism, and in his enthusiasm bought an expensive American volume called Newspaper Management, Newspaper Management, which turned out to be an exhortation to newspaper proprietors to invest in modern machinery. He discovered, and became addicted to, the extensive literature aimed at people who want to become writers; again and again he read how ma.n.u.scripts were to be presented and was warned not to ring up the busy editors of London or New York newspapers. He bought which turned out to be an exhortation to newspaper proprietors to invest in modern machinery. He discovered, and became addicted to, the extensive literature aimed at people who want to become writers; again and again he read how ma.n.u.scripts were to be presented and was warned not to ring up the busy editors of London or New York newspapers. He bought Short Stories: How to Write Them Short Stories: How to Write Them by Cecil Hunt and by Cecil Hunt and How to Write a Book, How to Write a Book, by the same author. by the same author.

His salary being increased about this time, he ignored Shama's pleas and bought a secondhand portable typewriter on credit. Then, to make the typewriter pay for itself, he decided to write for English and American periodicals. But he could find nothing to write about. The books he had read didn't help him. And then he saw an advertis.e.m.e.nt for the Ideal School of Journalism, Edgware Road, London, he filled in and cut out the coupon for the free booklet. The booklet came after two months. Printed sheets of various colours fell from it: initialled testimonials from all over the world. The booklet said that the Ideal School not only taught but also marketed; and it wondered whether Mr Biswas might not find it worth his while to take a course in short story writing as well. The princ.i.p.al of the Ideal School (a bespectacled grandfatherly man, from the spotty photograph) had discovered the secret of every plot in the world and his discovery had been accepted by the British Museum in London and the Bodleian Library in Oxford. Mr Biswas was impressed but couldn't spare the money. There had already been a row with Shama when he had used up the salary increase for a further three months to pay for the first two journalism lessons. In due course the first lesson came.

'Even people with outstanding writing ability say they cannot find subjects. But in reality nothing is easier. You are sitting at your desk.' (Mr Biswas read this in bed.) 'You look through your window. But wait. There is an article in that window. The various types of window, the history of the window, windows famous in history, houses without windows. And the story of gla.s.s itself can be fascinating. Already, then, you have subjects for two articles. You look through your window and you see the sky. The weather is always a subject of conversation and there is no reason why you cannot make it the subject of a lively article. The demand for such material is enormous. For your first exercise, then, I want you to write four bright articles on the seasons. You may incorporate as many of these hints as you wish: 'Summer. The crowded trains to the seaside, the c.h.i.n.k of ice in a gla.s.s, the slap offish on the fishmonger's slab...'

'Slap of fish on the fishmonger's slab,' Mr Biswas said. 'The only fish I see is the fish that does come around every morning in a basket on the old fishwoman head.'

'...the tradesmen's blinds, the crack of bat on ball on the village green, the lengthening shadows...'

Mr Biswas wrote the article on summer; and with the help of the hints, wrote other articles on spring, winter and autumn.

'Autumn is with us again!'"Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness," as the celebrated poet John Keats puts it so well. We have chopped up logs for the winter. We have gathered in the corn which soon, before a blazing fire in the depths of winter, we shall enjoy, roasted or boiled on the cob...'

He received a letter of congratulation from the Ideal School and was told that the articles were being submitted without delay to the English Press. In the meantime he was asked to apply himself to the second lesson and write pieces on Guy Fawkes Night, Some Village Superst.i.tions, The Romance of Place-Names ('Your vicar is likely to prove a mine of colourful information'), Characters at the Local.

He was stumped. No hints were given for these exercises and he wrote nothing. He didn't tell Shama. Not long after he received a heavy envelope from England. It contained his articles on the seasons which he had typed out neatly on Sentinel Sentinel paper and in the manner prescribed by the Ideal School. A printed letter was attached. paper and in the manner prescribed by the Ideal School. A printed letter was attached.

'We regret to inform you that your articles have been submitted without success to: Evening Standard, Evening News, The Times, The Tatler, London Opinion, Geographical Magazine, The Field, Country Life. Evening Standard, Evening News, The Times, The Tatler, London Opinion, Geographical Magazine, The Field, Country Life. At least two editors spoke highly of the work but were forced to reject it through lack of s.p.a.ce. We ourselves feel that work of such quality should not be consigned to oblivion. Why not try your local newspaper? That could very well be the beginning of a regular Nature column. Editors are always looking for new ideas, new material, new writers. At any rate let us know what happens. We at the Ideal like to hear of our pupils' successes. In the meantime continue with your exercises.' At least two editors spoke highly of the work but were forced to reject it through lack of s.p.a.ce. We ourselves feel that work of such quality should not be consigned to oblivion. Why not try your local newspaper? That could very well be the beginning of a regular Nature column. Editors are always looking for new ideas, new material, new writers. At any rate let us know what happens. We at the Ideal like to hear of our pupils' successes. In the meantime continue with your exercises.'

'Continue with your exercises!' Mr Biswas said. He thankfully abandoned Guy Fawkes and Characters at the Local, and ignored the expostulations which reached him at regular intervals for the next two years from the Edgware Road.

The typewriter became idle.

'It pay for itself,' Shama said. 'No wonder it now have to rest.'

But soon the machine drew him again; and often, while Shama moved heavily about the back verandah and kitchen, Mr Biswas sat before the typewriter on the green table, inserted a sheet of Sentinel Sentinel paper, typed his name and address at the top righthand corner, as the Ideal School and all the books had recommended, and wrote: paper, typed his name and address at the top righthand corner, as the Ideal School and all the books had recommended, and wrote:

ESCAPE.

by M. Biswas

At the age of thirty-three, when he was already the father of four children...

Here he often stopped. Sometimes he went on to the end of the page; sometimes, but rarely, he typed frenziedly for page after page. Sometimes his hero had a Hindi name; then he was short and unattractive and poor, and surrounded by ugliness, which was anatomized in bitter detail. Sometimes his hero had a Western name; he was then faceless, but tall and broad-shouldered; he was a reporter and moved in a world derived from the novels Mr Biswas had read and the films he had seen. None of these stories was finished, and their theme was always the same. The hero, trapped into marriage, burdened with a family, his youth gone, meets a young girl. She is slim, almost thin, and dressed in white. She is fresh, tender, unkissed; and she is unable to bear children. Beyond the meeting the stories never went.

Sometimes these stories were inspired by an unknown girl in the advertising department of the Sentinel. Sentinel. She often remained unknown. Sometimes Mr Biswas spoke; but whenever the girl accepted his invitation to lunch, a film, the beach his pa.s.sion at once died; he withdrew the invitation and avoided the girl; thus in time creating a legend among the girls of the advertising department, all of whom knew, though he did not suspect, for he kept it as a heavy, shameful secret, that at the age of thirty-three Mohun Biswas was already the father of four children. She often remained unknown. Sometimes Mr Biswas spoke; but whenever the girl accepted his invitation to lunch, a film, the beach his pa.s.sion at once died; he withdrew the invitation and avoided the girl; thus in time creating a legend among the girls of the advertising department, all of whom knew, though he did not suspect, for he kept it as a heavy, shameful secret, that at the age of thirty-three Mohun Biswas was already the father of four children.

Still, at the typewriter, he wrote of his untouched barren heroines. He began these stories with joy; they left him dissatisfied and feeling unclean. Then he went to his room, called for Anand, and to Anand's disgust tried to play with him as with a baby, saying, 'Shompo! Gomp!'

Forgetting that in his strictness, and as part of her training, he had ordered Shama to file all his papers, he thought that these stories were as secret at home as his marriage and four children were at the office. And one Friday, when he found Shama puzzling over her accounts and had scoffed as usual, she said, 'Leave me alone, Mr John Lubbard.'

That was one of the names of his thirty-three-year-old hero.

'Go and take Sybil to the pictures.'

That was from another story. He had got the name from a novel by Warwick Deeping.

'Leave Ratni alone.'

That was the Hindi name he had given to the mother of four in another story. Ratni walked heavily, 'as though perpetually pregnant'; her arms filled the sleeves of her bodice and seemed about to burst them; she sucked in her breath through her teeth while she worked at her accounts, the only reading and writing she did.

Mr Biswas recalled with horror and shame the descriptions of the small tender b.r.e.a.s.t.s of his barren heroines.

Shama sucked her teeth loudly.

If she had laughed he would have hit her. But she never looked at him, only at her account books.

He ran to his room, undressed, got his own cigarettes and matches, took down Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus, and got into bed.

It was not long after this that Mr Biswas, painting the kitchen safe and the green table with a tin of yellow paint, yielded to an impulse and painted the typewriter-case and parts of the typewriter as well.

For long the typewriter remained unused, until Anand and Savi began learning to type on it.

But still, in the office, whenever he had cleaned his typewriter or changed the ribbon and wished to test the machine, the sentence he always wrote was: At the age of thirty-three, when he was already the father of four children... At the age of thirty-three, when he was already the father of four children...

So used to thinking of the house as his own, and in his new confidence, he made a garden. He planted rose-bushes at the side of the house, and at the front dug a pond for water-lilies, which spread prodigiously. He acquired more possessions, the most ma.s.sive of which was a combined bookcase and desk, of such weight and st.u.r.diness that three men were required to put it into place in his bedroom, where it stayed until they all moved from Port of Spain to Shorthills. Mice nested in the bookcase, protected and nourished by the ma.s.s of paper with which the bookcase was stuffed: newspapers (Mr Biswas insisted that all the newspapers for a month should be kept, and there were quarrels when a particular issue could not be found); every typewritten letter Mr Biswas had received, from the Sentinel, Sentinel, the Ideal School, people anxious or grateful for publicity; the rejected articles on the seasons, the unfinished Escape stories (at first shamefully glanced at, though later Mr Biswas read them and regretted he had not taken up short story writing seriously). the Ideal School, people anxious or grateful for publicity; the rejected articles on the seasons, the unfinished Escape stories (at first shamefully glanced at, though later Mr Biswas read them and regretted he had not taken up short story writing seriously).

Encouraged by Shama, he took an increasing interest in his personal appearance. In his silk suit and tie he had never ceased to surprise her by his elegance and respectability; and whenever she bought him anything, a shirt, cufflinks, a tiepin, he said, 'Going to buy that gold brooch for you, girl! One of these days.' Sometimes, while he was dressing, he would make an inventory of all the things he was wearing and think, with wonder, that he was then worth one hundred and fifty dollars. Once on the bicycle, he was worth about one hundred and eighty. And so he rode to his reporter's job and its curious status: welcomed, even fawned upon, by the greatest in the land, fed as well as anybody and sometimes even better, yet always, finally, rejected.

'A h.e.l.l of a thing today,' he told Shama. 'As we were leaving Government House H.E. asked me, "Which is your car?" I don't know. I suppose reporters in England must be rich like h.e.l.l'

But Shama was impressed. At Hanuman House she started dropping names, and Padma, Seth's wife, traced a tenuous and intricate family relationship between Seth and the man who had driven the Prince of Wales during his visit to Trinidad.

On herself Shama spent little. Unable to buy the best and, like all the Tulsi sisters, having only contempt for the second-rate in cloth and jewellery, she bought nothing at all and made do with the gifts of cloth she received every Christmas from Mrs Tulsi. Her bodices became patched on the b.r.e.a.s.t.s and under the arms; and the more Mr Biswas complained the more she patched. But though her indifference to clothes seemed at times almost like inverted pride, she did not wholly lose her concern for appearances. At Hanuman House a wedding invitation to Mrs Tulsi was meant for her daughters as well; and one large gift, invariably part of the Tulsi Store stock, went from the House. But now Shama got invitations in her own right and during the Hindu wedding season she borrowed deeply from the rent money, committing herself to almost inextricable entanglement with her accounts, to buy presents, usually water-sets.

'Forget it this time,' Mr Biswas said. 'They must be so used by now to seeing you with a water-set in your hand that I am sure they would believe that you did carry one.'

'I know what I am doing,' Shama said. 'My children are going to be married one day too.'

'And when they give back all the water-sets poor Savi wouldn't be able to walk, for all the gla.s.ses and jugs. If they remember, that is. At least leave it for a few more years.'

But weddings and funerals had become important to Shama. From weddings she returned tired, heavy-lidded and hoa.r.s.e after the night-long singing, to find a house in confusion: Savi in tears, the kitchen in disorder, Mr Biswas complaining about his indigestion. Pleased at the wedding, the gift that did not disgrace her, the singing, the return home, Shama would say, 'Well, as the saying goes, you never miss the water till the well runs dry.'

And for the following day or two, when she held Mr Biswas and the children absolutely in her power, she would be very gloomy; and it was at these times that she said, 'I tell you, if it wasn't for the children '

And Mr Biswas would sing, 'Going to buy that gold brooch for you, girl!'

As important as weddings and funerals were to Shama, holiday visits became to the children. They went first of all to Hanuman House. But with every succeeding visit they felt more like strangers. Alliances were harder to take up again. There were new jokes, new games, new stories, new subjects of conversation. Too much had to be explained, and Anand and Savi and Myna often ended by remaining together. As soon as they went back to Port of Spain this unity disappeared. Savi returned to bullying Myna; Anand defended Myna; Savi beat Anand; Anand hit back; and Savi complained.

'What!' Mr Biswas said. 'Hitting your sister! Shama, you see the sort of effect one little trip to the monkey house does have on your children?'

It was a two-fold attack, for the children preferred visiting Mr Biswas's relations. These relations had come as a revelation. Not only were they an untapped source of generosity; Savi and Anand had also felt up to then that Mr Biswas, like all the fathers at Hanuman House, had come from nothing, and the only people who had a proper family were the Tulsis. It was pleasant and novel, too, for Savi and Anand and Myna to find themselves flattered and cajoled and bribed. At Hanuman House they were three children among many; at Ajodha's there were no other children. And Ajodha was rich, as they could tell by the house he was building. He offered them money and was absurdly delighted that they should know its value sufficiently well to take it. Anand got an extra six cents for reading That Body of Yours; That Body of Yours; it would have been worth it for the praise alone. They were feted at Pratap's; Bipti was embarra.s.singly devoted and their cousins were shy and admiring and kind. At Prasad's they were again the only children and lived in a mud hut, which they thought quaint: it was like a large doll's house. Prasad didn't give money, but a thick red exercise book, a Shirley Temple fountain pen and a bottle of Waterman's ink. And so, with this encouragement to milk and prunes, the profitable round of holiday visits ended. it would have been worth it for the praise alone. They were feted at Pratap's; Bipti was embarra.s.singly devoted and their cousins were shy and admiring and kind. At Prasad's they were again the only children and lived in a mud hut, which they thought quaint: it was like a large doll's house. Prasad didn't give money, but a thick red exercise book, a Shirley Temple fountain pen and a bottle of Waterman's ink. And so, with this encouragement to milk and prunes, the profitable round of holiday visits ended.

Then came the news that Mrs Tulsi had decided to send Owad abroad to study, to become a doctor.

Mr Biswas was overwhelmed. More and more students were going abroad; but they were items of news, remote. He had never thought that anyone so close to him could escape so easily. Concealing his sadness and envy, he made a show of enthusiasm and offered advice about shipping lines. And at Arwacas some of Mrs Tulsi's retainers defected. Forgetting that they were in Trinidad, that they had crossed the black water from India and had thereby lost all caste, they said they could have nothing more to do with a woman who was proposing to send her son across the black water.

'Water on a duck's back,' Mr Biswas said to Shama. 'The number of times that mother of yours has made herself outcast!'

There was talk about the suitability and adequacy of the food Owad would get in England.

'Every morning in England, you know,' Mr Biswas said, 'the scavengers go around picking up the corpses. And you know why? The food there is not cooked by orthodox Roman Catholic Hindus.'

'Suppose Uncle Owad want more,' Anand said. 'You think they will give it to him?'

'Hear the boy,' Mr Biswas said, squeezing Anand's thin arms. 'Let me tell you, eh, boy, that you and Savi come out of the monkey house as going concerns only because of the little Ovaltine you drink.'

'No wonder the others can hold Anand and beat his little tail,' Shama said.

'Your family are tough,' tough,' Mr Biswas said. He spat the word out and made it an insult. ' Mr Biswas said. He spat the word out and made it an insult. 'Tough,' he repeated.

'Well, I could say one thing. None of us have calves swinging like hammocks.'

'Of course not. Your calves are tough. tough. Anand, look at the back of my hands. No hair. The sign of an advanced race, boy. And look at yours. No hair either. But you never know. With some of your mother's bad blood flowing in your veins you could wake up one morning and find yourself hairy like a monkey.' Anand, look at the back of my hands. No hair. The sign of an advanced race, boy. And look at yours. No hair either. But you never know. With some of your mother's bad blood flowing in your veins you could wake up one morning and find yourself hairy like a monkey.'

Then, after a trip to Hanuman House, Shama reported that the decision to send Owad abroad had reduced Shekhar, the elder G.o.d, married man though he was, to tears.

'Send him some rope and soft candle,' Mr Biswas said.

'He never did want to get married,' Shama said.

'Never did want to get married! Never see anybody skip off so smart to check mother-in-law's money.'

'He wanted to go to Cambridge.'

'Cambridge!' Mr Biswas exclaimed, startled by the word, startled to hear it coming so easily from Shama. 'Cambridge, eh? Well, why the h.e.l.l he didn't go? Why the h.e.l.l the whole pack of you didn't go to Cambridge? Frighten of the bad food?' Mr Biswas exclaimed, startled by the word, startled to hear it coming so easily from Shama. 'Cambridge, eh? Well, why the h.e.l.l he didn't go? Why the h.e.l.l the whole pack of you didn't go to Cambridge? Frighten of the bad food?'

'Seth was against it.' Shama's tone was injured and conspiratorial.

Mr Biswas paused. 'Well, you don't say. You don't don't say!' say!'

'I glad it please somebody.'

She could give no more information, and at last said impatiently, 'You getting like a woman.'

She clearly felt that an injustice had been done. And he knew the Tulsis too well to be surprised that the sisters, who never questioned their own neglected education, cat-in-bag marriage and precarious position, should yet feel concerned that Shekhar, whose marriage was happy and whose business was flourishing, had not had all that he might.

Shekhar was coming to spend a week-end in Port of Spain. His family would not be with him and old Mrs Tulsi would be in Arwacas: the brothers were to be boys together for one last week-end. Mr Biswas waited for Shekhar with interest. He came early on Friday evening. The taxi hooted; Shama switched on the lights in the verandah and the porch; Shekhar ran up the front steps in his white linen suit and breezed through the house on his leather-heeled shoes, charging it with excitement, depositing on the diningtable a bottle of wine, a tin of peanuts, a packet of biscuits, two copies oi Life oi Life and a paper-backed volume of Halevy's and a paper-backed volume of Halevy's History of the English People. History of the English People. Shama greeted him with sadness, Mr Biswas with a solemnity which he hoped could be mistaken for sympathy. Shekhar responded with geniality: the absent geniality of the businessman sparing time from his business, the family man away from his family. Shama greeted him with sadness, Mr Biswas with a solemnity which he hoped could be mistaken for sympathy. Shekhar responded with geniality: the absent geniality of the businessman sparing time from his business, the family man away from his family.

Owad's expensive new suitcases were in the back verandah and Mr Biswas was painting Owad's name on them.

'Sort ofthing to make you feel you you want to go away,' Mr Biswas said. want to go away,' Mr Biswas said.

Shekhar wasn't drawn. After the wine and peanuts and biscuits had been shared he showed himself almost paternally preoccupied with the arrangements for Owad's journey, and in spite of Mr Biswas's coaxings never once mentioned Cambridge.

'You and your mouth,' Mr Biswas told Shama.

She had no time for argument. She felt honoured at having to entertain her two brothers at once, on such an important occasion, and was determined to do it well. She had prepared all week for the week-end, and shortly after breakfast that morning had begun to cook.

From time to time Mr Biswas went into the kitchen and whispered, 'Who paying for all this? The old she-fox or you? Not me, you hear. n.o.body sending me to Cambridge. Next week, when I eating dry ice, n.o.body sending me food by parcel post from Hanuman House, you hear.'

It was a Hanuman House festival in miniature, and to the children almost like a game of makebelieve. They had the freedom of the kitchen and nibbled and tasted whenever they could. Shekhar bought sweets for them and on Sunday sent them to the one-thirty children's show at the Roxy. And Mr Biswas got on so well with the brothers that he was invaded by the holiday feeling that they were all men together, and he thought himself privileged to be host to the two sons of the family, one of whom was going abroad to become a doctor. He attempted genuinely to contribute to the enthusiasm, talking again about shipping lines and ships as though he had travelled in them all; he hinted at the write-up he was going to give Owad and flattered him by asking him to refuse to see reporters from the other newspapers; he spoke deprecatingly about Anand's achievements and obtained compliments from Shekhar.

Sunday brought the Sunday Sentinel Sunday Sentinel and Mr Biswas's scandalous feature, 'I Am Trinidad's Most Evil Man', one of a series of interviews with Trinidad's richest, poorest, tallest, fattest, thinnest, fastest, strongest men; which was following a series on men with unusual callings: thief, beggar, night-soil remover, mosquito-killer, undertaker, birth-certificate searcher, lunatic-asylum warden; which had followed a series on one-armed, one-legged, one-eyed men; which had come about when, after an M. Biswas interview with a man who had been shot years before in the neck and had to cover up the hole in order to speak, the and Mr Biswas's scandalous feature, 'I Am Trinidad's Most Evil Man', one of a series of interviews with Trinidad's richest, poorest, tallest, fattest, thinnest, fastest, strongest men; which was following a series on men with unusual callings: thief, beggar, night-soil remover, mosquito-killer, undertaker, birth-certificate searcher, lunatic-asylum warden; which had followed a series on one-armed, one-legged, one-eyed men; which had come about when, after an M. Biswas interview with a man who had been shot years before in the neck and had to cover up the hole in order to speak, the Sentinel Sentinel office had been crowded with men with interesting mutilations, offering to sell their story. office had been crowded with men with interesting mutilations, offering to sell their story.

Mr Biswas's article was hilariously received by Owad and Shekhar, particularly as the most evil man was a wellknown Arwacas character. He had committed one murder under great provocation and after his acquittal had developed into a genial bore. The t.i.tle of the interview promised for the following week, with Trinidad's maddest man, aroused further laughter.

After breakfast all the men and this included Anand went for a bathe at the harbour extension at Docksite. The dredging was incomplete, but the sea-wall had been built and in the early morning parts of the sea provided safe, clean bathing, though at every footstep the mud rose, clouding the water. The reclaimed land, raised to the level of the sea-wall, was not as yet real land, only crusted mud, sharp along the cracks which patterned it like a coral fan.

The sun was not out and the high, stationary clouds were touched with red. Ships were blurred in the distance; the level sea was like dark gla.s.s. Anand was left at the edge of the water, near the wall, and the men went ahead, their voices and splashings carrying far in the stillness. All at once the sun came out, the water blazed, and sounds were subdued.

Aware of his unimpressive physique, Mr Biswas began to clown; and, as he did more and more now, he tried to extend his clowning to Anand.

'Duck, boy!' he called. 'Duck and let us see how long you can stay under water.'

'No!' Anand shouted back.