The house was always full of sisters on Sunday, when there was communal cooking. Sometimes Shekhar came by himself and then before lunch there were discussions between the brothers and Mrs. Tulsi. The sisters did not feel threatened by these discussions as they had done when Shekhar and Dorothy and Mrs. Tulsi talked. They did not feel excluded. For, with Owad there, these discussions were like the old Hanuman House family councils. So the sisters cooked below the house and sang and were gay. They were even anxious to exaggerate the difference between their brothers and themselves. It was as if by doing so they paid their brothers a correct reverence, a reverence which comforted and protected the sisters by assigning them a place again. They spoke no Hindi, used the grossest English dialect and the coarsest expressions and vied with one another in doing menial jobs and getting themselves dirty. In this way they sealed the family bond for the day.
It was the custom on these Sunday mornings, after the discussions and before lunch, which came before the trip to the sea, for the men to play bridge.
And on this morning Shekhar, despite Anand’s pleas for sophistication, showed his disrelish of Owad’s talk about the extermination of capitalists and what the Russians had done to the Czar, and tried to turn the conversation. It turned, oddly, to modern art.
“I can’t make head or tail of this Picasso,” Shekhar said.
“Picasso is a man I loathe,” Owad said.
“But isn’t he a comrade?” Anand said.
Owad frowned. “And as for Chagall and Rouault and Braque-”
“What do you think of Matisse?” Shekhar asked, using a name he had got from Life and putting a stop to the flow of names he didn’t know.
“He’s all right,” Owad said. “Delicious colour.”
This was unfamiliar language to Shekhar. He said, “That was a nice picture they made. Didn’t do too well, though. The Moon and Sixpence. With George Sanders.”
Owad, concentrating on his cards, didn’t reply.
“These artists are funny fellers,” Shekhar said.
They were playing for matches. Anand scattered his heap and said, “Portrait by Picasso.”
Everyone laughed, except Owad.
“Is a long time now I want to read the book,” Shekhar said. “Isn’t it by Somerset Morgue-hum?”
Anand scattered his matches again.
Owad said, “Why don’t you look in the mirror if you want to see a portrait by Picasso?”
This was clearly one of Owad’s scathing comments. Shekhar smiled and grunted. The watching sisters and their children roared with laughter. Owad acknowledged their approval by smiling at his cards.
Anand felt betrayed. He had adopted all of Owad’s political and artistic views; he had announced himself as a communist at school, he had stated that Eliot was a man he loathed. It was his turn to deal. In his confusion he dealt to himself first. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, looking down and trying to inject a laugh into his voice.
“There is no need to apologize for that,” Owad said sternly. “It is simply a sign of your conceited selfishness and egocentricity.”
The watchers held their breath.
Joviality fled from the table, Shekhar studied his cards. Owad frowned at his. His foot was tapping on the concrete floor. More watchers came.
Anand felt his ears burning. He looked hard at his cards, feeling the silence that had spread to all parts of the house. He was aware of watchers coming, Savi, Myna, Kamla. He was aware of Shama.
Owad breathed heavily and swallowed noisily.
When Shekhar bid his voice was low, as though he wished to take no part in the struggle. Vidiadhar, Shekhar’s partner, bid in a voice choked by saliva; but there was no mistaking the voice of the free, unoffending man.
Anand bid stupidly.
Owad pressed his teeth far below his lower lip, shook his head slowly, tapped his feet, and breathed more loudly. When he bid, his voice, full of anger now, suggested that he was trying to redeem a hopeless situation.
The game dragged on. Anand played worse and worse. Shekhar, as though doing it against his will, gathered in trick after trick.
Owad’s breathing and swallowing made Anand feel choked. His back was cold: his shirt was wet with perspiration.
At last the game was over. Neatly, deliberately, Shekhar noted the score. They waited for Owad to speak. Shuffling the cards, though it was not his turn, breathing heavily, he said, “That’s what we get from your genius.”
The tears rushed to Anand’s eyes. He jumped up, throwing his chair backwards, and shouted, “I didn’t tell you I was any blasted genius.”
Slap! His right cheek burned; then trembled, even after Owad’s hand was removed, as though the cheek had had to wait before registering the blow. And Owad was standing and Shekhar was bending down, picking up the cards from the dusty floor. And slap! his left cheek burned and trembled heavily. He forgot the watchers, concentrating only on the breathing before, the rising of the white-shirted chest. Owad’s chair was overthrown. And Shekhar, leaning awkwardly on the table, his chair pushed back, was looking at the cards as he let them fall from one palm to another, his brow furrowed, his top lip swelling over the lower.
The table was jerked aside. Anand found himself standing ridiculously upright, half blinded by the shaming tears. Owad was striding energetically to the front steps. And then Anand had time to take in the thrill, the satisfaction of the watchers, the silence of the house, with Govind’s singing in the background, the noise of some children in the street, the roll of a car from the main road.
Shekhar still sat at the table, playing with the cards.
A mumble came from the watchers.
“You!” Anand turned to them. “What the hell are you standing up there for? Puss-puss, puss-puss all the blasted night, talk-talk-talk.”
The effect was unexpected and humiliating. They laughed. Even Shekhar lifted his head and gave his grunting laugh, shaking his shoulders.
Shama’s gravity made her almost absurd.
The watchers broke up. Everyone went back to his task. A lightness that was like gaiety spread through the house.
Shekhar stacked the cards neatly on the table, rose, put his hands on Anand’s shoulders, sighed, and went upstairs.
They heard Owad moving about from room to room.
Anand found Mr. Biswas lying in vest and pants on the bed, his back to the door, papers on his drawn-up knees. He said without turning, “You, boy? Here, see if you can work out these blasted travelling expenses right.” He passed the pad. “What’s the matter, boy?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“All right, just work those figures out. Everybody else making a fortune out of their cars. I sure I losing.”
“Pa.”
“Just a minute, boy. Ought oughts are ought. Two fives are ten. Put down ought. Carry one.” Mr. Biswas was relaxed, and even clowning: he knew that his method of multiplying always amused.
“Pa. We must move.”
Mr. Biswas turned.
“We must move. I can’t bear to live here another day.”
Mr. Biswas heard the distress in Anand’s voice. But he was unwilling to explore it. “Move? All in good time. All in good time. Just waiting for the revolution and my dacha.”
These happy moods of his father were getting rare. And Anand said nothing more.
He did the complicated sums for the travelling expenses. Presently he heard the dry, crisp sounds of the ping-pong ball, the exclamations of Owad and Vidiadhar and Shekhar and the others.
He did not go down to have the lunch to which he had looked forward; and when Shama brought it up he could not eat or drink. Mr. Biswas, his clowning mood persisting, squatted on the chair and pretended to spit on his food, to save it from Anand’s gluttony. He knew this trick infuriated Anand. But Anand did not respond.
Downstairs the men were getting ready to go to the sea. Sons asked their mothers for towels, mothers urged their sons to be careful.
“Not going with them?”
Anand didn’t reply.
Mr. Biswas had withdrawn from these excursions. They were far too energetic, and the example of Owad led to dangerous competitive feats. Instead, after lunch he went for a walk by himself, looking at houses, occasionally making inquiries, but mostly simply looking.
The brightness of their aunts and cousins, their new and excluding chumminess, drove Savi and Kamla and Myna to join Anand in their room, where they lay on the bed, for want of places to sit, and made disjointed, selfconscious conversation.
Anand sipped his orange juice. The ice had melted, the juice gone flat and warm. The girls went for a walk to the Botanical Gardens. Shama had her bath: Anand heard her singing in the open-air bathroom and washing clothes. When she came up her hair was wet and straight, her fingers pinched, but for all her songs her anxiety had not gone.
She said in Hindi, “Go and apologize to your uncle.”
“No!” It was the first word he had spoken for a long time.
She petted him. “For my sake.”
“The revolution,” he said.
“You wouldn’t lose anything. He is older than you. And your uncle.”
“Not my uncle. Shooting rice from aeroplanes!”
Shama began to sing softly. She flung her hair down over her face and beat it with a stretched towel. The noises were like muffled sneezes.
The girls came back from their walk. They were brighter and talked more easily.
Then they were silent.
The men had returned. They heard their loud talk, their footsteps; Owad’s voice raised in friendliness, breaking into laughter; the light inquiries from aunts; Shekhar’s goodbyes, his car driving off.
Savi asked Shama in a whisper, “What happened?”
“Nothing has happened,” Shama said coaxingly, not replying to Savi, but repeating her plea to Anand. “He will just go and apologize to your uncle, and that is all. Nothing at all.”
The girls did not want to desert Anand, and they feared going downstairs.
“Remember,” Shama said. “Not a word to your father. You know what he is like.”
She left the room. They heard her talking normally, even jestingly, with one of the aunts, and they admired her for her courage. Then the girls also went down, to face the righteousness of the unpersecuted.
The shower upstairs was going. Owad was in the bathroom, singing a song from an old Indian film. This was part of his virtue: it showed how untainted he had been by England and flattered everyone. For the virtue with which everyone had endowed him in his absence was now found in the smallest things: Anand remembered one sister saying that Owad had brought back from England the shoes and shirts and underclothes he had taken from Trinidad.
“Same shoes after eight years,” Anand muttered. “Blasted liar.”
The bathroom went silent.
Shama came to the room. “Quick. Before they go to the theatre.”
Anand knew the Sunday routine: the bridge, the ping-pong, lunch, the sea, the shower, dinner, then the evening show.
The cousins could be heard assembling in the diningroom. Owad’s voice, smothered by a towel, came from his bedroom.
Anand walked down the back stairs and up the stairs to the back verandah, the same verandah to which he had returned after he had nearly been drowned at Docksite. From the verandah he had a glimpse of the diningroom, where he had pulled the chair from under his father in the presence of Owad.
The cousins saw him. Some aunts saw him. The talk stopped. Faces were turned down, though the aunts continued to look solemn and offended and judicial. Then the talk broke out again. The cousins were playing with cards, idly, waiting for dinner. Vidiadhar, the sweater, was smiling down at the table, licking his lips.
Anand had to wait in the verandah for some time before Owad came out from the bedroom. He came out with his usual heavy brisk steps. As soon as he saw Anand he became stern. And there was silence.
Anand went in, held his hands behind his back.
“I apologize,” Anand said.
Owad continued to look stern.
At last he said, “All right.”
Anand didn’t know what to do. He remained where he was, so that it seemed he was waiting for an invitation to dinner and the theatre. But there was no word. He turned and walked slowly out of the room to the back verandah. As he went down the steps he heard the talk break out, heard the conscientious bustling of the aunts in the kitchen.
Shama was waiting for him in their room. He knew that her pain was as great as his, possibly greater, and he did not wish to increase it. She waited for him to do or say something, so that she could apply the soothing words. But he said nothing.
“You will eat something now?”
He shook his head. How ridiculous were the attentions the weak paid one another in the shadow of the strong!
She went downstairs.
When Owad and the cousins left she came back. He was willing to eat then.
Shortly after, Mr. Biswas returned from his walk. His mood had changed. His face was twisted with pain and Anand had to mix him some stomach powder. He was tired after his walk and wanted to go to bed. He could sleep early on Sundays; on other evenings he came back late from his area.
The light from the diningroom came through the tall ventilation gaps at the top of the partition. He called Shama and told her, “Go and get them to take off that light.”
It was an awkward request at the best of times, though before Owad’s return Shama had sometimes made it successfully. Now she could do nothing.
Mr. Biswas lost his temper. He ordered Shama and Anand to get sheets of cardboard, and with these he tried to block the gaps at the top of the partition, jumping from the bed to the ledge on the partition. Of the three sections he put up two fell down almost at once.
“Uncle Podger,” Savi said.
He was about to lose his temper with her as well; but, as if in answer to the commotion, the light in the diningroom went out. He lay down on the bed in the dark and was soon asleep, grinding his teeth, and making strange contented smacking sounds with his mouth.
Anand sat in the darkness. Shama came to the room and got into the fourposter. Anand did not want to go downstairs. He lay on the bed beside his father and remained quite still.
He was disturbed by chatter and heavy footsteps, and made wide awake by the light coming in through the two open sections above the partition. Some aunts who had been waiting up below the house were now heard moving about the kitchen. The chatter continued, and laughter.
Mr. Biswas stirred and groaned. “Good God!”
Anand felt Shama awake and anxious. Listened to in this way, the chatter was as unbearable as the dripping of a water-tap.
“God!” Mr. Biswas cried.
There was a moment’s silence in the diningroom.
“Other people in this house,” Mr. Biswas shouted.
The visiting sisters and the readers and learners could be heard awakening downstairs.
Softly, as though speaking only to the people with him, Owad said, “Don’t we all know it, old man.” There were giggles.
The giggles maddened Mr. Biswas. “Go to France!” he cried.
“And you can go to hell.” It was Mrs. Tulsi. Her words, evenly spaced, were cold and firm and clear.
“Ma!” Owad said.
Mr. Biswas didn’t know what to say. Surprise was followed by shock, shock by anger.
Shama got up from the fourposter and said, “Man, man.”
“Let him go to hell,” Mrs. Tulsi said, almost conversationally. Her voice was followed by a groan, a creaking of a bed-spring and a shuffling on the floor.
Lights went on downstairs, lit up the yard and reflected through the jalousied door into Mr. Biswas’s room.
“Go to hell?” Mr. Biswas said. “Go to hell? To prepare the way for you? Praying to God, eh? Cleaning up the old man’s grave.”
“For God’s sake, Biswas,” Owad called, “hold your damned tongue.”
&
nbsp; “You don’t talk to me about God. Red and blue cotton! Shooting rice from aeroplanes!”
The girls came into the room.
Savi said, “Pa, stop being stupid. For God’s sake, stop it.”
Anand was standing between the two beds. The room was like a cage.
“Let him go to hell,” Mrs. Tulsi sobbed. “Let him get out.”
“Neighbour! Neighbour!” a woman cried shrilly from next door. “Anything wrong, neighbour?”
“I can’t stand this,” Owad shouted. “I can’t stand it. I don’t know what I’ve come back to.” His footsteps were heard pounding across the drawingroom. He mumbled loudly, angrily, indistinctly.
“Son, son,” Mrs. Tulsi said.
They heard him going down the steps, heard the gate click and shiver.
Mrs. Tulsi began to wail.
“Neighbour! Neighbour!”
A wonderful sentence formed in Mr. Biswas’s mind, and he said, “Communism, like charity, should begin at home.”
Mr. Biswas’s door was pushed open, fresh light and shadows confused the patterns on the walls, and Govind came into the room, his trousers unbelted, his shirt unbuttoned.
“Mohun!”
His voice was kind. Mr. Biswas was overwhelmed to tears. “Communism, like charity,” he said to Govind, “should begin at home.”
“We know, we know,” Govind said.
Sushila was comforting Mrs. Tulsi. Her wail broke up into sobs.
“I am giving you notice,” Mr. Biswas shouted. “I curse the day I step into your house.”
“Man, man.”
“You curse the day,” Mrs. Tulsi said. “Coming to us with no more clothes than you could hang on a nail.”
This wounded Mr. Biswas. He could not reply at once. “I am giving you notice,” he repeated at last.
“I am giving you notice,” Mrs. Tulsi said.
A House for Mr. Biswas Page 57