A House for Mr. Biswas

by Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul

  Tara said, “Is this the training and piety your father gave you?”

  They searched. They pulled out Raghu’s box from under the bed and looked for false bottoms; at Bipti’s suggestion they looked for any joint that might reveal a hiding-place in the timber itself. They poked the sooty thatch and ran their hands over the rafters; they tapped the earth floor and the bamboo-and-mud walls; they examined Raghu’s walking-sticks, taking out the ferrules, Raghu’s only extravagance; they dismanded the bed and uprooted the logs on which it stood. They found nothing.

  Bipti said, “I don’t suppose he had any money really.”

  “You are a fool,” Tara said, and it was in this mood of annoyance that she ordered Bipti to pack Dehuti’s bundle and took Dehuti away.

  Because no cooking could be done at their house, they ate at Sadhu’s. The food was unsalted and as soon as he began to chew, Mr. Biswas felt he was eating raw flesh and the nauseous saliva filled his mouth again. He hurried outside to empty his mouth and clean it, but the taste remained. And Mr. Biswas screamed when, back at the hut, Bipti put him to bed and threw Raghu’s blanket over him. The blanket was hairy and prickly; it seemed to be the source of the raw, fresh smell he had been smelling all day. Bipti let him scream until he was tired and fell asleep in the yellow, wavering light of the oil lamp which left the corners in darkness. She watched the wick burn lower and lower until she heard the snores of Pratap, who snored like a big man, and the heavy breathing of Mr. Biswas and Prasad. She slept only fitfully herself. It was quiet inside the hut, but outside the noises were loud and continuous: mosquitoes, bats, frogs, crickets, the poor-me-one. If the cricket missed a chirp the effect was disturbing and she awoke.

  She was awakened from a light sleep by a new noise. At first she couldn’t be sure. But the nearness of the noise and its erratic sequence disturbed her. It was a noise she heard every day but now, isolated in the night, it was hard to place. It came again: a thud, a pause, a prolonged snapping, then a series of gentler thuds. And it came again. Then there was another noise, of bottles breaking, muffled, as though the bottles were full. And she knew the noises came from her garden. Someone was stumbling among the bottles Raghu had buried neck downwards around the flower-beds.

  She roused Prasad and Pratap.

  Mr. Biswas, awaking to hushed talk and a room of dancing shadows, closed his eyes to keep out the danger; at once, as on the day before, everything became dramatic and remote.

  Pratap gave walking-sticks to Prasad and Bipti. Carefully he unbolted the small window, then pushed it out with sudden vigour.

  The garden was lit up by a hurricane lamp. A man was working a fork into the ground among the bottle-borders.

  “Dhari!” Bipti called.

  Dhari didn’t look up or reply. He went on forking, rocking the implement in the earth, tearing the roots that kept the earth firm.

  “Dhari!”

  He began to sing a wedding song.

  “The cutlass!” Pratap said. “Give me the cutlass.”

  “O God! No, no,” Bipti said.

  “I’ll go out and beat him like a snake,” Pratap said, his voice rising out of control. “Prasad? Mai?”

  “Close the window,” Bipti said.

  The singing stopped and Dhari said, “Yes, close the window and go to sleep. I am here to look after you.”

  Violently Bipti pulled the small window to, bolted it and kept her hand on the bolt.

  The digging and the breaking bottles continued. Dhari sang:

  In your daily tasks be resolute.

  Fear no one, and trust in God.

  “Dhari isn’t in this alone,” Bipti said. “Don’t provoke him.” Then, as though it not only belittled Dhari’s behaviour but gave protection to them all, she added, “He is only after your father’s money. Let him look.”

  Mr. Biswas and Prasad were soon asleep again. Bipti and Pratap remained up until they had heard the last of Dhari’s songs and his fork no longer dug into the earth and broke bottles. They did not speak. Only, once, Bipti said, “Your father always warned me about the people of this village.”

  Pratap and Prasad awoke when it was still dark, as they always did. They did not talk about what had happened and Bipti insisted that they should go to the buffalo pond as usual. As soon as it was light she went out to the garden. The flower-beds had been dug up; dew lay on the upturned earth which partially buried uprooted plants, already limp and quailing. The vegetable patch had not been forked, but tomato plants had been cut down, stakes broken and pumpkins slashed.

  “Oh, wife of Raghu!” a man called from the road, and she saw Dhari jump across the gutter.

  Absently, he picked a dew-wet leaf from the hibiscus shrub, crushed it in his palm, put it in his mouth and came towards her, chewing.

  Her anger rose. “Get out! At once! Do you call yourself a man? You are a shameless vagabond. Shameless and cowardly.”

  He walked past her, past the hut, to the garden. Chewing, he considered the damage. He was in his working clothes, his cutlass in its black leather sheath at his waist, his enamel food-carrier in one hand, his calabash of water hanging from his shoulder.

  “Oh, wife of Raghu, what have they done?”

  “I hope you found something to make you happy, Dhari.”

  He shrugged, looking down at the ruined flower-beds. “They will keep on looking, maharajin.”

  “Everybody knows you lost your calf. But that was an accident. What about-”

  “Yes, yes. My calf. Accident.”

  “I will remember you for this, Dhari. And Raghu’s sons won’t forget you either.”

  “He was a great diver.”

  “Savage! Get out!”

  “Willingly.” He spat out the hibiscus leaf on to a flowerbed. “I just wanted to tell you that these wicked men will come again. Why don’t you help them, maharajin?”

  There was no one Bipti could ask for help. She distrusted the police, and Raghu had no friends. Moreover, she didn’t know who might be in league with Dhari.

  That night they gathered all Raghu’s sticks and cutlasses and waited. Mr. Biswas closed his eyes and listened, but as the hours passed he found it hard to remain alert.

  He was awakened by whispers and movement in the hut. Far away, it seemed, someone was singing a slow, sad wedding song. Bipti and Prasad were standing. Cutlass in hand, Pratap moved in a frenzy between the window and the door, so swiftly that the flame of the oil lamp blew this way and that, and once, with a plopping sound, disappeared. The room sank into darkness. A moment later the flame returned, rescuing them.

  The singing drew nearer, and when it was almost upon them they heard, mingled with it, chatter and soft laughter.

  Bipti unbolted the window, pushed it open a crack, and saw the garden ablaze with lanterns.

  “Three of them,” she whispered. “Lakhan, Dhari, Oumadh.”

  Pratap pushed Bipti aside, flung the window wide open and screamed, “Get out! Get out! I will kill you all.”

  “Shh,” Bipti said, pulling Pratap away and trying to close the window.

  “Raghu’s son,” a man said from the garden.

  “Don’t sh me,” Pratap screamed, turning on Bipti. Tears came to his eyes and his voice broke into sobs. “I will kill them all.”

  “Noisy little fellow,” another man said.

  “I will come back and kill you all,” Pratap shouted. “I promise you.”

  Bipti took him in her arms and comforted him, like a child, and in the same gentle, unalarmed voice said, “Prasad, close the window. And go to sleep.”

  “Yes, son.” They recognized Dhari’s voice. “Go to sleep. We will be here every night now to look after you.”

  Prasad closed the window, but the noise stayed with them: song, talk, and unhurried sounds of fork and spade. Bipti sat and stared at the door, next to which, on the ground, Pratap sat, a cutlass beside him, its haft carved into a pair of Wellingtons. He was motionless. His tears had gone, but his eyes were red, and the lids
swollen.

  In the end Bipti sold the hut and the land to Dhari, and she and Mr. Biswas moved to Pagotes. There they lived on Tara’s bounty, though not with Tara, but with some of Tara’s husband’s dependent relations in a back trace far from the Main Road. Pratap and Prasad were sent to a distant relation at Felicity, in the heart of the sugar-estates; they were already broken into estate work and were too old to learn anything else.

  And so Mr. Biswas came to leave the only house to which he had some right. For the next thirty-five years he was to be a wanderer with no place he could call his own, with no family except that which he was to attempt to create out of the engulfing world of the Tulsis. For with his mother’s parents dead, his father dead, his brothers on the estate at Felicity, Dehuti as a servant in Tara’s house, and himself rapidly growing away from Bipti who, broken, became increasingly useless and impenetrable, it seemed to him that he was really quite alone.

  2. Before the Tulsis

  Mr. Biswas could never afterwards say exactly where his father’s hut had stood or where Dhari and the others had dug. He never knew whether anyone found Raghu’s money. It could not have been much, since Raghu earned so little. But the ground did yield treasure. For this was in South Trinidad and the land Bipti had sold so cheaply to Dhari was later found to be rich with oil. And when Mr. Biswas was working on a feature article for the magazine section of the Sunday Sentinel -RALEIGH’S DREAM COMES TRUE, said the headline, “But the Gold is Black. Only the Earth is Yellow. Only the Bush Green”-when Mr. Biswas looked for the place where he had spent his early years he saw nothing but oil derricks and grimy pumps, see-sawing, see-sawing, endlessly, surrounded by red No Smoking notices. His grandparents’ house had also disappeared, and when huts of mud and grass are pulled down they leave no trace. His navel-string, buried on that inauspicious night, and his sixth finger, buried not long after, had turned to dust. The pond had been drained and the whole swamp region was now a garden city of white wooden bungalows with red roofs, cisterns on tall stilts, and neat gardens. The stream where he had watched the black fish had been dammed, diverted into a reservoir, and its winding, irregular bed covered by straight lawns, streets and drives. The world carried no witness to Mr. Biswas’s birth and early years.

  As he found at Pagotes.

  “How old you is, boy?” Lai, the teacher at the Canadian Mission school, asked, his small hairy hands fussing with the cylindrical ruler on his roll-book.

  Mr. Biswas shrugged and shifted from one bare foot to the other.

  “How you people want to get on, eh?” Lai had been converted to Presbyterianism from a low Hindu caste and held all unconverted Hindus in contempt. As part of this contempt he spoke to them in broken English. “Tomorrow I want you to bring your buth certificate. You hear?”

  “Buth suttificate?” Bipti echoed the English words. “I don’t have any.”

  “Don’t have any, eh?” Lai said the next day. “You people don’t even know how to born, it look like.”

  But they agreed on a plausible date, Lai completed his roll-book record, and Bipti went to consult Tara.

  Tara took Bipti to a solicitor whose office was a tiny wooden shed standing lopsided on eight unfashioned logs. The distemper on its walls had turned to dust. A sign, obviously painted by the man himself, said that F. Z. Ghany was a solicitor, conveyancer and a commissioner of oaths. He didn’t look like all that, sitting on a broken kitchen chair at the door of his shed, bending forward, picking his teeth with a matchstick, his tie hanging perpendicular. Large dusty books were piled on the dusty floor, and on the kitchen table at his back there was a sheet of green blotting-paper, also dusty, on which there was a highly decorated metal contraption which looked like a toy version of the merry-go-round Mr. Biswas had seen in the playground at St. Joseph on the way to Pagotes. From this toy merry-go-round hung two rubber stamps, and directly below them there was a purple-stained tin. F. Z. Ghany carried the rest of his office equipment in his shirt pocket; it was stiff with pens, pencils, sheets of paper and envelopes. He needed to be able to carry his equipment about; he opened the Pagotes office only on market day, Wednesday; he had other offices, open on other market days, at Tunapuna, Arima, St. Joseph and Tacarigua. “Just give me three or four dog-case or cuss-case every day,” he used to say, “and I all right, you hear.”

  Seeing the group of three walking Indians file across the plank over the gutter, F. Z. Ghany got up, spat out the matchstick and greeted them with good-humoured scorn. “Maharajin, maharajin, and little boy.” He made most of his money from Hindus but, as a Muslim, distrusted them.

  They climbed the two steps into his office. It became full. Ghany liked it that way; it attracted customers. He took the chair behind the table, sat on it, and left his clients standing.

  Tara began to explain about Mr. Biswas. She grew prolix, encouraged by the quizzical look on Ghany’s heavy dissipated face.

  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 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 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 passed his tongue above his upper lip and tried to make it touch the knobby 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 Lai. 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!” Lai 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 Lai’s sweat. For all the time he went to school, Mr. Biswas never saw Lai 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 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 Lai 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 twos are four.”