The Chip-Chip Gatherers

by Shiva Naipaul

  ‘How I know where you get it from?’ she would ask. ‘For all I know it might be thief you thief it and then, before I might realize what happening, the police going to be swarming all over the place searching and questioning.’ It was substantially the same warning given to the parents of Egbert Ramsaran years earlier but the memory had dimmed.

  ‘You could take it or leave it,’ Sushila replied carelessly. ‘I not fussy one way or the other. Is not water off my back.’

  Basdai grasped the bottle more tightly. ‘I’ll take it this time,’ she conceded. ‘But remember, if the police come round here asking question, I not going to lie for you. I going to say straight out is thief you thief it.’ Her conscience soothed, she would hurry away clutching the bottle close to her bosom.

  The duration of Sushila’s stay was as unpredictable as her arrival, varying from barely an hour to almost a week. It was never clear what obscure impulses prompted her descents on the place and her abrupt removals from it. Sushila was not in the habit of divulging her plans and, if questioned, she would merely smile mysteriously and with a shake of her head say: ‘I can’t tell you because I don’t know myself. It depend on how I feel.’ Her visits could be more correctly described as appearances and disappearances rather than arrivals and departures. Without a word or a change of expression, she might suddenly arise and stroll out into the yard casually, as if she were going for a drink of water; and when after ten minutes someone called out for her and received no answer, it was understood she had gone for at least another six weeks.

  It was Sita who, living in constant subjection to the vagaries of an unsympathetic household, received the curses that ought, by right, to have been reserved for her mother. ‘You going to turn out just like that wretch,’ she was informed gleefully. ‘Good blood does never come out of bad blood.’ Happily for her, she was never actually beaten; but it was only fear of what Sushila might do that saved her from the brutalities regularly inflicted on Basdai’s grandchildren. Sushila, perceiving her power, made use of it. The first question she would ask on meeting her daughter (accompanied by a lowering glance at those present) was whether any of them had been mistreating and ‘taking advantage’ of her during her absence. To which Sita invariably replied ‘No’. ‘That’s good,’ her mother replied. ‘Is exactly what I want to hear. I hope it remain like that because the day any of these bitches so much as lay they little finger on you, the Devil go have to pay the price.’ These threats were vague; unenforceable bravado. But Sushila inspired sufficient respect to make them seem real enough.

  Her attentions, while she remained, were devoted chiefly to Sita. It was as if she desired in those few hours or days to erase from her daughter’s mind the memory of her desertion and to compensate for all the maternal laxities of the preceding weeks; to demonstrate by public exhibitions of affection the abiding love she cherished towards her. She was unwilling to let Sita out of her sight or retreat beyond her touch, perpetually kissing, stroking and caressing her. Sushila demanded to be shown what she had been doing at school (she paid the fees) and went into ecstasies that she should be so ‘bright’ and get such good reports. She spent many hours combing and searching through her hair for lice; bathed her; and dressed her, promising to bring her more new clothes from ‘town’ the next time she came. They went for long walks together, brazening the disgust of the Settlement, Sita decked in her city finery and with Sushila’s arms draped in defiant possession about her shoulders. It was an orgy of affection while her visits lasted.

  At the end of each visit, Sita cried. This embarrassed and irritated Sushila. ‘What you crying for, foolish child?’ she chided her with something less than her usual benevolence. ‘Look at the nice dress I bring for you. I’ll bring more from town for you the next time. Now stop your crying and be sensible. Is not as if I going away for good.’ Once, when Sushila had made her apparently casual exit, Sita had run screaming after her to the main road. ‘Don’t leave me here,’ she begged, clinging to her mother’s skirt. ‘Take me away with you. I want to come and live with you.’ Sushila was flustered by this demonstration. ‘What nonsense is all this, child? You can’t come to live with me.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because you can’t. That’s why. Now stop fussing and let go of me. You spoiling my clothes with all those tears. If you don’t behave yourself I won’t bring anything for you the next time I come.’ Sushila’s maternity had melted tracelessly. She flagged down a taxi. Sita was still clinging tenaciously to her skirt. Sushila extracted herself brusquely from her daughter’s grasp and, climbing into the taxi, slammed the door shut. Then she smiled radiantly into Sita’s tearstained face. ‘Be a good girl and stop crying. And if any of them lay they little finger on you …’ The taxi drove off in a cloud of dust and Sushila’s words were swallowed in the roar of the engine as it gathered speed. This incident, witnessed by the Settlement at large, more than counterbalanced Sushila’s maternal pretensions.

  ‘If you love Sita so much,’ Phulo, one of Basdai’s daughters-in-law, caustically observed to her on a later occasion, ‘why don’t you take her to live with you? That is what I can’t understand about this whole business. You say you love she and yet …’

  Sushila was momentarily thrown off balance and did not answer immediately.

  Phulo pursued her advantage. ‘You should hear how the child does cry for you. She does keep me awake all night with the crying and bawling whenever you leave. I feel you don’t love she at all. Is only mouth …’ Phulo became goading: there was no love lost between Sushila and herself.

  Sushila did not recover her composure but she recovered her voice. ‘Who the hell is you to talk to me like that, eh? What business of yours is it what I do or don’t do? Whatever happen between me and Sita is mine and Sita’s business. Not yours. But don’t think I going to leave she here for the rest of you to take advantage of she.’ Sushila cradled Sita. ‘You mustn’t let these foolish people and they idle talk bother you. You hear that? Is just they jealous …’

  ‘Jealous!’ Phulo expostulated. ‘Me jealous! What you have for me to be jealous of? At least my children have a man they could call father …’

  Sushila ignored her. ‘… one day you and me going to live together. I had that plan a long time ago. But is not convenient for me to do that right now. But the time not far off. You is my daughter. Don’t let none of them forget that. My daughter!’ Phulo sniggered. ‘I’ll eat my hat the day that happen.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ Sushila said, ‘you don’t have no hat to eat. You don’t have a damn thing to call your own. You just wait. Soon you will be laughing on the other side of your face.’

  It seemed that Phulo was right. The years slipped by and the ‘day’ did not arrive. Sita had stopped crying and the project appeared to have been shelved. Shelved – but not entirely forgotten because, periodically, Phulo would surface with her uncomfortable reminders to which Sushila responded with the unchanged mixture of promises and insults.

  Sushila was astounded at the suggestion Basdai put to her on her next visit to the Settlement.

  ‘You must be joking,’ she exclaimed. ‘Either that or you going out of your mind. Like I have to stop bringing you all that rum. It must be rotting your brains.’

  Basdai shook her head. ‘I was never so serious in my life,’ she replied. ‘The rum have nothing to do with it.’

  Sushila retreated a step or two and clapping her hands on her hips, surveyed Basdai incredulously. ‘You must be joking! You couldn’t really be serious – if I hear you right the first time, that is.’

  Basdai shook her head again. ‘You hear me right the first time. Is no joke I making with you. I is being serious. How you feel about it? I don’t expect you to make up your mind straight away but …’

  ‘What you take me for?’ Sushila exploded. ‘A servant? A housemaid? If that is the case, you talking to the wrong person. Why pick on me? That is what I would like to know. If you so anxious to find somebody to take Rani place – and frankly I don’t see why you so concer
ned about him – why don’t you ask Phulo? Or one of your daughters? Why ask me? I sure somebody like Phulo would be only too glad to help out.’ Sushila tittered.

  ‘Phulo and my daughters is out of the question – as you well know. They is married women with husbands to look after. You on the other hand …’ Basdai smiled equably.

  ‘Although I have no husband I too have my own life to lead. Imagine you having the nerve to suggest that I take Rani place! I can’t believe it.’

  ‘You not going to be taking Rani place,’ Basdai explained patiently.

  ‘What else you would call it then? And with a man like that to boot! I hear enough about him. They does talk as if he is the devil himself.’

  ‘He is no devil. Take my word.’ Basdai was serene.

  ‘Look at what he do to Rani. If you think …’

  Basdai smiled. ‘What happen to Rani won’t happen to you. For a start, is not as if you going to be married to him. If you don’t like it, you could leave. Anyway,’ she added slyly, ‘I thought you would know well enough how to handle a man like that. You frighten of him?’

  Sushila’s professional pride was offended by the suggestion. ‘No man could frighten me,’ she replied. ‘That have nothing to do with it.’

  ‘That is exactly what I thought,’ Basdai intercepted smoothly. ‘And if no man could frighten you, then you have nothing to worry about. As I was saying, if you don’t like it there …’ Basdai clasped her hands together. ‘Egbert Ramsaran is no devil and you could be the one to prove it. Just think of what it could mean.’

  ‘You mean …’ Sushila’s anger dissolved. She burst out laughing. ‘If I understand you right, what you trying to tell me is …’

  ‘Exactly,’ Basdai said. ‘Exactly.’

  Sushila’s laughter flooded the small hut. ‘What a little schemer you is! So this is what you been planning behind my back. But I haven’t gone crazy as yet – not so crazy anyway.’ She circled round Basdai. ‘I can’t think why I wasting my time standing up here arguing with you. If is a woman Egbert Ramsaran want, let him find one for himself. For a man with so much money, it shouldn’t be hard for him to find somebody to come and jiggle they backside in front of him.’

  Basdai looked pained. ‘You being very crude,’ she said. ‘I didn’t say anything about him wanting another woman to come and …’ Basdai was considering. ‘Whatever happen is up to you. Just try it out for a bit. It won’t kill you. Just a trial. You never know …’

  Curiosity welled in Sushila. ‘Why me though? Who tell you he will …?’

  ‘Don’t worry your head about that.’ Basdai was contemplative. ‘Nobody else would do but you.’

  ‘Like you ask him already?’ Sushila narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  ‘No, no,’ Basdai assured her hastily. She smoothed her voice down to a confidential, entreating level. ‘Just think what it could mean for you. Comfort. Security …’

  ‘If it was comfort and security I wanted, I would have got married long before now.’

  Basdai waved aside her objection. ‘He have a whole house with only Wilbert in it and you always saying you want somewhere for you and Sita to live together. Well, here’s your big chance if you act sensible and stop playing stubborn. If he like you, you could get Sita in there in no time at all.’

  ‘You is a sly one,’ Sushila said laughingly. ‘I never would have thought it. You really surprising me.’

  Basdai was modest. ‘Is not slyness. Is common sense. Think about it. Take your time. But remember is a once in a lifetime chance for you and Sita. What you have to lose?’

  Sushila knitted her brows. ‘One thing still puzzling me though. Why you doing all this? You can’t be doing it for my sake. Or for Sita sake. I find that hard to understand. After all the things you call me in your time, then to want me to go and butter up your precious son-in-law …’

  Basdai radiated a diplomatic discretion. She batted her eyelids sleepily. ‘He might be grateful to me for bringing you there. But I not asking for anything. Even you might be grateful to me for …’

  Sushila smiled reflectively. ‘Is an interesting idea. Give me time. I’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘Take all the time you want,’ Basdai said in an access of generosity. She was well pleased with her progress.

  Later that afternoon, when the sun had cooled and was floating fiery and low over the canefields, Sushila and Sita set off on one of their excursions through the Settlement, following the extended curve of the narrow main road that cut its way like a scythe through the Settlement. The field workers were returning home, pedalling slowly on their bicycles. Women were filling their buckets at the standpipe. Sushila and Sita walked past them in silence, arm in arm, chased forward by their hostile gaze. One of the women muttered something and the rest giggled. Whenever a car approached they stepped on to the verge and waited for it to go by, Sushila holding her head with an erect insolence. The houses threw cool shadows astride their path. Children were playing in the dusty yards among clucking hens. Sushila and Sita were twin objects of curiosity to their parents rocking in their rickety verandahs and fanning themselves with newspapers. In virtually every house they passed, the radio was on. Sushila smiled at each face shielding behind its newspaper and received no sign of recognition in return. Sita tried to walk faster. These expeditions were a torment to her and she could not understand what compulsion led her mother to submit them both to this blatantly unfriendly scrutiny. Things were bad enough as they were: there was no need to make them worse by throwing down a pointless challenge.

  ‘What you hurrying for?’ Sushila held her back. ‘They can’t eat us.’

  Sita slowed her pace and fell in step again beside her mother. Now and again Sushila giggled to herself: she was considering Basdai’s suggestion from all its angles, trying as best she could to weigh up the advantages and disadvantages. The idea, outlandish as it was (doubtless because of that), attracted her more and more. Egbert Ramsaran! The devil himself! Sushila giggled. It would be interesting; amusing even. She had, as Basdai had said, nothing to lose and, with luck, much to gain from the adventure if it were successful; it would infuriate all those watching them go past. They would scarcely be able to contain themselves. She laughed out loud.

  ‘What you laughing at?’ Sita asked.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing. Keep your eyes on the road.’

  They were approaching the ramshackle splendour of the Palace of Heavenly Delights with its multicoloured signs for various drinks glinting in the sun. It heightened Sushila’s festive mood. A hum of drunken conversation drifted out through the swing doors of the greying, wooden building. Two old men, nursing glasses of rum on their knees, were sitting on boxes in the shade of the eaves playing draughts and talking softly. They left off their game to watch the two figures approach and leant forward to exchange whispers.

  ‘Talk all you want,’ Sushila muttered. ‘It never kill anybody yet.’

  The sugarcane fields were visible behind the Palace of Heavenly Delights, blades bending before the wind. Clouds of golden dust swirled in flowing patterns; a shimmering, hazy curtain. Farouk appeared behind the swing doors of his establishment, drying the nape of his neck with a handkerchief, his face oiled with sweat, his curling, jet-black moustache shining. He folded the handkerchief and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

  ‘How you doing, Mistress Sushila?’ he shouted. ‘How long you staying with we this time?’ He smiled genially. His teeth were very white and well formed.

  Sushila waved gaily and tilted her head. She stopped. Farouk lurched nonchalantly towards them.

  ‘How’s business?’ Sushila asked.

  ‘The same,’ Farouk said. ‘Always the same. These bitches around here don’t buy any but the cheapest rum.’ He scrutinized her interestedly, his eyes travelling slowly down the length of her body. ‘And you is the same too. As beautiful as ever.’

  Sushila giggled. ‘Enough of that,’ she said pleasantly.

  Sita stared at the man wh
o people said was her father and then at her mother who held her head erect and unashamed.

  ‘Is a good thing you never get married,’ Farouk said. ‘You’d have been too much for the poor fella.’

  Sushila acknowledged the compliment with a smile of voluptuous approval. ‘You shouldn’t be saying such things in front of my young daughter.’

  Farouk looked at Sita. ‘A budding beauty too.’ He was jocular. ‘Soon she going to be having all the men around here basodee about she – just like you used to have them.’

  ‘Is a long time till that,’ Sushila said with the merest hint of displeasure. ‘You shouldn’t be putting such ideas into her head.’

  Farouk tickled Site under the chin. She shrank back from him.

  ‘I surprised to hear you of all people say that. You wasn’t much older when …’

  ‘I am me. Site is Site.’ Sushila pressed her lips together petulantly. ‘She more interested in getting a good education. Not so, Site?’

  ‘You frighten of the competition?’ Farouk squinted at her jokingly.

  ‘It going to be dark soon,’ Sushila said. ‘We’ll talk about all that another time.’

  They walked on. Ahead of them was the Bholai grocery, dour and businesslike, its solid red doors shut and bolted for the day. Mrs Bholai was rocking on the verandah above the shop, the top of her head visible above the newspaper she was reading. Julian leant over the iron railings, his hair hanging down in front of his face.

  ‘There’s the future Dr Julian Bholai,’ Sushila said, pointing at him.

  Site looked up, catching his eye. Julian grinned sheepishly.

  ‘He’s a good-looking little boy, don’t you think?’ Sushila went on. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Who?’ Site’s mind was on Farouk and the torments of the return journey.

  ‘Julian, stupid. Who else? You know him?’

  ‘No,’ Site said quickly. ‘His mother don’t like me.’