House for Mister Biswas Part 6

'I believe I know your family,' Seth said.

In the gallery outside and in the kitchen there was now a continual commotion. A woman came out of the black doorway with a bra.s.s plate and a blue-rimmed enamel cup. She set them before Mrs Tulsi and, without a word, without looking right or left, hurried back to the blackness of the kitchen. The cup contained milky tea, the plate roti roti and curried beans. Another woman brought similar food in an equally reverential way to Seth. Mr Biswas recognized both women as Shama's sisters; their dress and manner showed that they were married. and curried beans. Another woman brought similar food in an equally reverential way to Seth. Mr Biswas recognized both women as Shama's sisters; their dress and manner showed that they were married.

Mrs Tulsi, scooping up some beans with a shovel of roti, roti, said to Seth, 'Better feed him?' said to Seth, 'Better feed him?'

'Do you want to eat?' Seth spoke as though it would have been amusing if Mr Biswas did want to eat.

Mr Biswas disliked what he saw and shook his head.

'Pull up that chair and sit here,' Mrs Tulsi said and, barely raising her voice, called, 'C, bring a cup of tea for this person.'

'I know your family,' Seth repeated. 'Who's your father again?'

Mr Biswas evaded the question. 'I am the nephew of Ajodha. Pagotes.'

'Of course.' Expertly Seth ejected the cigarette from the holder to the floor and ground it with his bluchers, hissing smoke down from his nostrils and up from his mouth. 'I know Ajodha. Sold him some land. Dhanku's land,' he said, turning to Mrs Tulsi.

'O yes.' Mrs Tulsi continued to eat, lifting her armoured hand high above her plate.

C turned out to be the woman who had served Mrs Tulsi. She resembled Shama but was shorter and st.u.r.dier and her features were less fine. Her veil was pulled decorously over her forehead, but when she brought Mr Biswas his cup of tea she gave him a frank, unimpressed stare. He attempted to glare back but was too slow; she had already turned and was walking away briskly on light bare feet. He put the tall cup to his lips and took a slow, noisy draught, studying his reflection in the tea and wondering about Seth's position in the family.

He put the cup down when he heard someone else come into the hall. This was a tall, slender, smiling man dressed in white. His face was sunburnt and his hands were rough. Breathlessly, with many sighs, laughs and swallows, he reported to Seth on various animals. He seemed anxious to appear tired and anxious to please. Seth looked pleased. C came from the kitchen again and followed the man upstairs; he was obviously her husband.

Mr Biswas took another draught of tea, studied his reflection and wondered whether every couple had a room to themselves; he also wondered what sleeping arrangements were made for the children he heard shouting and squealing and being slapped (by mothers alone?) in the gallery outside, the children he saw peeping at him from the kitchen doorway before being dragged away by ringed hands.

'So you really do like the child?'

It was a moment or so before Mr Biswas, behind his cup, realized that Mrs Tulsi had addressed the question to him, and another moment before he knew who the child was.

He felt it would be graceless to say no. 'Yes,' he said, 'I like the child.'

Mrs Tulsi chewed and said nothing.

Seth said: 'I know Ajodha. You want me to go and see him?'

Incomprehension, surprise, then panic, overwhelmed Mr Biswas. 'The child,' he said desperately. 'What about the child?'

'What about her?' Seth said. 'She is a good child. A little bit of reading and writing even.'

'A little bit of reading and writing ' Mr Biswas echoed, trying to gain time.

Seth, chewing, his right hand working dexterously with roti roti and beans, made a dismissing gesture with his left hand. 'Just a little bit. So much. Nothing to worry about. In two or three years she might even forget.' And he gave a little laugh. He wore false teeth which clacked every time he chewed. and beans, made a dismissing gesture with his left hand. 'Just a little bit. So much. Nothing to worry about. In two or three years she might even forget.' And he gave a little laugh. He wore false teeth which clacked every time he chewed.

'The child ' Mr Biswas said.

Mrs Tulsi stared at him.

'I mean,' said Mr Biswas, 'the child knows?'

'Nothing at all,' Seth said appeasingly.

'I mean,' said Mr Biswas, 'does the child like me?'

Mrs Tulsi looked as though she couldn't understand. Chewing, with lingering squelchy sounds, she raised Mr Biswas's note with her free hand and said, 'What's the matter? You You don't like the child?' don't like the child?'

'Yes,' Mr Biswas said helplessly. 'I like the child.'

'That is the main thing,' Seth said. 'We don't want to force you to do anything. Are we forcing you?'

Mr Biswas remained silent.

Seth gave another disparaging little laugh and poured tea into his mouth, holding the cup away from his lips, chewing and clacking between pours. 'Eh, boy, are we forcing you?'

'No,' Mr Biswas said. 'You are not forcing me.'

'All right, then. What's upsetting you?'

Mrs Tulsi smiled at Mr Biswas. 'The poor boy is shy. I know.'

'I am not not shy and I am shy and I am not not upset,' Mr Biswas said, and the aggression in his voice so startled him that he continued softly, 'It's only that well, it's only that I have no money to start thinking about getting married.' upset,' Mr Biswas said, and the aggression in his voice so startled him that he continued softly, 'It's only that well, it's only that I have no money to start thinking about getting married.'

Mrs Tulsi became as stern as he had seen her in the store that morning. 'Why did you write this then?' She waved the note.

'Ach! Don't worry with him,' Seth said. 'No money! Ajodha's family, and no money!'

Mr Biswas thought it would be useless to explain.

Mrs Tulsi became calmer. 'If your father was worried about money, he wouldn't have married at all.'

Seth nodded solemnly.

Mr Biswas was puzzled by her use of the words 'your father'. At first he had thought she was speaking to Seth alone, but then he saw that the statement had wider, alarming implications.

Faces of children and women peeped out from the kitchen doorway.

The world was too small, the Tulsi family too large. He felt trapped.

How often, in the years to come, at Hanuman House or in the house at Shorthills or in the house in Port of Spain, living in one room, with some of his children sleeping on the next bed, and Shama, the prankster, the server of black cotton stockings, sleeping downstairs with the other children, how often did Mr Biswas regret his weakness, his inarticulateness, that evening! How often did he try to make events appear grander, more planned and less absurd than they were!

And the most absurd feature of that evening was to come. When he had left Hanuman House and was cycling back to Pagotes, he actually felt elated! In the large, musty hall with the sooty kitchen at one end, the furniture-choked landing on one side, and the dark, cobwebbed loft on the other, he had been overpowered and frightened by Seth and Mrs Tulsi and all the Tulsi women and children; they were strange and had appeared too strong; he wanted nothing so much then as to be free of that house. But now the elation he felt was not that of relief. He felt he had been involved in large events. He felt he had achieved status.

His way lay along the County Road and the Eastern Main Road. Both were lined for stretches with houses that were ambitious, incomplete, unpainted, often skeletal, with wooden frames that had grown grey and mildewed while their owners lived in one or two imperfectly enclosed rooms. Through unfinished part.i.tions, patched up with box-boards, tin and canvas, the family clothing could be seen hanging on lengths of string stretched across the inhabited rooms like bunting; no beds were to be seen, only a table and chair perhaps, and many boxes. Twice a day he cycled past these houses, but that evening he saw them as for the first time. From such failure, which until only that morning awaited him, he had by one stroke made himself exempt.

And when that evening Alec asked in his friendly mocking way, 'How the girl, man?' Mr Biswas said happily, 'Well, I see the mother.'

Alec was stupefied. 'The mother? But what the h.e.l.l you gone and put yourself in?'

All Mr Biswas's dread returned, but he said, 'Is all right. I got my eyes open. Good family, you know. Money. Acres and acres of land. No more sign-painting for me.'

Alec didn't look rea.s.sured. 'How you manage this so quick?'

'Well, I see this girl, you know. I see this girl and she was looking at me, and I was looking at she. So I give she a little of the old sweet talk and I see that she was liking me too. And, well, to cut a long story short, I ask to see the mother. Rich people, you know. Big house.'

But he was worried, and spent much time that evening wondering whether he should go back to Hanuman House. He began feeling that it was he who had acted, and was unwilling to believe that he had acted foolishly. And, after all, the girl was good-looking. And there would be a handsome dowry. Against this he could set only his fear, and a regret he could explain to no one: he would be losing romance forever, since there could be no romance at Hanuman House.

In the morning everything seemed so ordinary that both his fear and regret became unreal, and he saw no reason why he should behave unusually.

He went back to the Tulsi Store and painted a column.

He was invited to lunch in the hall, off lentils, spinach and a mound of rice on a bra.s.s plate. Flies buzzed on fresh food-stains all along the pitchpine table. He disliked the food and disliked eating off bra.s.s plates. Mrs Tulsi, who was not eating herself, sat next to him, stared at his plate, brushed the flies away from it with one hand, and talked.

At one stage she directed his attention to a framed photograph on the wall below the loft. The photograph, blurred at the edges and in many other places, was of a moustached man in turban, jacket and dhoti, with beads around his neck, caste-marks on his forehead and an unfurled umbrella on the crook of his left arm. It was Pundit Tulsi.

'We never had a quarrel,' Mrs Tulsi said. 'Suppose I wanted to go to Port of Spain, and he didn't. You think we'd quarrel about a thing like that? No. We would sit down and talk it over, and he would say, "All right, let us go." Or I would say, "All right, we won't won't go." That's the way we were, you know.' go." That's the way we were, you know.'

She had grown almost maudlin, and Mr Biswas was trying to appear solemn while chewing. He chewed slowly and wondered whether he shouldn't stop altogether; but whenever he stopped eating Mrs Tulsi stopped talking.

'This house,' Mrs Tulsi said, blowing her nose, wiping her eyes with her veil and waving a hand in a fatigued way, 'this house he built it with his own hands. Those walls aren't concrete, you know. Did you know that?'

Mr Biswas went on eating.

'They looked like concrete to you, didn't they?'

'Yes, they looked like concrete.'

'It looks like concrete to everybody. everybody. But everybody is wrong. Those walls are really made of clay bricks. Clay bricks,' she repeated, staring at Mr Biswas's plate and waiting for him to say something. But everybody is wrong. Those walls are really made of clay bricks. Clay bricks,' she repeated, staring at Mr Biswas's plate and waiting for him to say something.

'Clay bricks!' he said. 'I would never have thought that.'

'Clay bricks. And he made every brick himself. Right here. In Ceylon.'

'Ceylon?'

'That is how we call the yard at the back. You haven't seen it? Nice piece of ground. Lots of flower trees. He was a great one for flowers, you know. We still have the brick-factory and everything there as well. There's a lot of people don't know about this house. Ceylon. You'd better start getting to know these names.' She laughed and Mr Biswas felt a little stab of fear. 'And then,' she went on, 'he was going to Port of Spain one day, to make arrangements to take us all back to India. Just for a trip, you know. And this car came and knocked him down, and he died, Died,' she repeated, and waited.

Mr Biswas swallowed hurriedly and said, 'That must have been a blow.'

'It was a blow. Only one daughter married. Two sons to educate. It was a blow. And we had no money, you know.'

This was news to Mr Biswas. He hid his perturbation by looking down at his bra.s.s plate and chewing hard.

'And Seth says, and I agree with him, that with the father dead, one shouldn't make too much fuss about marrying people off. You know' she lifted her heavy braceleted arms and made a clumsy dancer's gesture which amused her a good deal 'drums and dancing and big dowry. We don't believe in that. We leave that to people who want to show off. You know the sort of people. Dressed up to kill all the time. Yet go and see where they come out from. You know those houses in the County Road. Half built. No furniture. No, we are not like that. Then, all this fuss about getting married was more suitable for oldfas.h.i.+oned people like myself. Not for you. Do you think it matters how people get married?'

'Not really.'

'You remind me a little of him.' him.'

He followed her gaze to other photographs of Pundit Tulsi on the wall. There was one of him flanked by potted palms against the sunset of a photographer's studio. In another photograph he stood, a small indistinct figure, under the arcade of Hanuman House, beyond the High Street that was empty except for a broken barrel which, because it was nearer the camera, stood out in clear detail. (How did they empty the street, Mr Biswas wondered. Perhaps it was a Sunday morning, or perhaps they had roped the populace off.) There was another photograph of him behind the bal.u.s.trade. In every photograph he carried the unfurled umbrella.

'He would have liked you,' Mrs Tulsi said. 'He would have been proud to know that you were going to marry one of his daughters. He wouldn't have let things like your job or your money worry him. He always said that the only thing that mattered was the blood. I can just look at you and see that you come from good blood. A simple little ceremony at the registrar's office is all that you need.'

And Mr Biswas found that he had agreed.

At Hanuman House everything had appeared simple and reasonable. Outside, he was stunned. He had not had time to think about the problems marriage would bring. Now they seemed enormous. What would happen to his mother? Where would he live? He had no money and no job, for sign-writing, while good enough for a boy living with his mother, was hardly a secure profession for a married man. To get a house he would first have to get a job. He needed much time, but the Tulsis were giving him none at all, though they knew his circ.u.mstances. He a.s.sumed that they had decided to give more than a dowry, that they would help with a job or a house, or both. He would have liked to talk things over with Seth and Mrs Tulsi; but they had become unapproachable as soon as notice had been given at the registrar's.

There was no one in Pagotes he could talk to, for pure shame had kept him from telling Tara or Bipti or Alec that he was going to be married. At Hanuman House, in the press of daughters, sons-in-law and children, he began to feel lost, unimportant and even frightened. No one particularly noticed him. Sometimes, during the general feeding, he might be included; but as yet he had no wife to single him out for attention, to do the little services he saw Shama's sisters doing for their husbands: the ready ladle, the queries, the formal concern. Shama he seldom saw, and when he did, she ostentatiously ignored him.

It never occurred to him that he might withdraw. He felt he had committed himself in every legal and moral way. And, telling Bipti one morning that he would be away for a short time on a job, he took some of his clothes and moved to Hanuman House. It was only half a lie: he could not believe that the events he was taking part in had any solidity, and could change him in any way. The days were too ordinary for that; nothing unusual could befall him. And shortly, he knew, he would return, unchanged, to the back trace. As a guarantee of that return, he left most of his clothes and all of his books in the hut; it was partly, too, to guarantee this return that he lied to Bipti.

After a brief ceremony at the registrar's, as make-believe as a child's game, with paper flowers in dissimilar vases on a straw-coloured, official-looking desk, Mr Biswas and Shama were given part of a long room on the top floor of the wooden house.

And now he became cautious. Now he thought of escape. To leave the way clear for that he thought it important to avoid the final commitment. He didn't embrace or touch her. He wouldn't have known, besides, how to begin, with someone who had not spoken a word to him, and whom he still saw with the mocking smile she had given that morning in the store. Not wis.h.i.+ng to be tempted, he didn't look at her, and was relieved when she left the room. He spent the rest of that day imprisoned where he was, listening to the noises of the house.

Neither on that day nor on the following days did anyone speak to him of dowry, house or job; and he realized that there had been no discussions because Mrs Tulsi and Seth didn't see that there were any problems to discuss. The organization of the Tulsi house was simple. Mrs Tulsi had only one servant, a Negro woman who was called Blackie by Seth and Mrs Tulsi, and Miss Blackie by everyone else. Miss Blackie's duties were vague. The daughters and their children swept and washed and cooked and served in the store. The husbands, under Seth's supervision, worked on the Tulsi land, looked after the Tulsi animals, and served in the store. In return they were given food, shelter and a little money; their children were looked after; and they were treated with respect by people outside because they were connected with the Tulsi family. Their names were forgotten; they became Tulsis. There were daughters who had, in the Tulsi marriage lottery, drawn husbands with money and position; these daughters followed the Hindu custom of living with their husband's families, and formed no part of the Tulsi organization.

Up to this time Mr Biswas thought he had been especially favoured by the Tulsis. But when he came to see how the family disposed of its daughters, he wondered that Seth and Mrs Tulsi had gone to such trouble on two consecutive days to make marriage attractive to him. They had married Shama to him simply because he was of the proper caste, just as they had married the daughter called C to an illiterate coconut-seller.

Mr Biswas had no money or position. He was expected to become a Tulsi.

At once he rebelled.

Pretending not to know what was expected of him, he finished the signs for the Tulsi Store and decided that the time had come to escape, with Shama or without her. It looked as though it would have to be without her. They still had not spoken; and, following his policy of caution, he had not attempted to establish any relations with her in the long room. He was convinced that she was a thorough Tulsi. And he was glad of his caution when she took to crying openly in the hall, surrounded by sisters, brothers-in-law, nephews and nieces, saying that Mr Biswas had been married less than a fortnight but was already doing his best to break her heart and create trouble in the family.

In a tremendous temper Mr Biswas began packing his brushes and clothes.

'Yes, take up your clothes and go,' Shama said. 'You came to this house with nothing but a pair of cheap khaki trousers and a dirty old s.h.i.+rt.'

He left Hanuman House and went back to Pagotes.

He felt unchanged, unmarried. He had simply had a good fright, but had managed things well and escaped.

In Pagotes, however, he found that his marriage was not a secret. Bipti welcomed him with tears of joy. She said she had always known that he wouldn't let her down. She had never said it, but she had always felt he would marry into a good family. She could now die happily. If she lived she had something to brighten her old age. Mr Biswas must not reproach himself for his secrecy; he was not to worry about her at all; he had his own life to live.

And despite his protests she put on her best clothes and went to Arwacas the next day. She came back overwhelmed by the graciousness of Mrs Tulsi, the diffidence of Shama and the splendour of Hanuman House.

She described a house he hardly knew. She spoke of a drawingroom with two tall thronelike mahogany chairs, potted palms and ferns in huge bra.s.s vases on marble topped tables, religious paintings, and many pieces of Hindu sculpture. She spoke of a prayer-room above that, which, with its slender columns, was like a temple: a low, cool, white room, empty except for the shrine in the centre.

She had seen only the upper floors of the concrete or rather, clay-brick, building. He didn't tell her that that part of the house was reserved for visitors, Mrs Tulsi, Seth and Mrs Tulsi's two younger sons. And he thought it better to keep silent about the old wooden house which the family called 'the old barracks'.

He spent two days in hiding at the back trace, not caring to face Alec or Bhandat's boys. On the third day he felt the need of greater comfort than Bipti could give, and that evening he went to Tara's. He entered by the side gate. From the cowpen came a familiar early evening sound: the unhurried stir and rustle of cows in stalls laid with fresh straw. The back verandah outside Tara's kitchen was warm with light. He heard the steady drone of someone reading aloud.

He found Ajodha rocking slowly, his head thrown back, frowning, his eyes closed, his eyelids palpitating with anguish while Bhandat's younger boy read That Body of Yours. That Body of Yours.

Bhandat's boy stopped reading when he saw Mr Biswas. His eyes became bright with amus.e.m.e.nt and his prognathous smile was a sneer.

Ajodha opened his eyes and gave a shriek of malicious delight. 'Married man!' he cried in English. 'Married man!'

Mr Biswas smiled and looked sheepish.