The Chip-Chip Gatherers

by Shiva Naipaul

  There was justice in these charges. Mrs Bholai regarded it as her prime duty to protect her children from the evils surrounding them in the Settlement. She had attempted to erect what could only be described as a sanitary screen behind the shelter of which she hoped they would be safe from the noxious influences beleagureing them. If they ventured beyond its protection they were immediately hauled back to safety. The enemy to be repulsed was within as well as without. Mrs Bholai sought to preserve her children from the insidious influences emanating from their father and to monopolize their affections. They were forbidden to serve or even appear in the grocery. ‘Leave that to your father,’ she advised them. ‘He is the two pound of butter, half-pound of salt man.’ At every opportunity she spirited them away to stay with their cousins in San Fernando and imbibe a healthier nourishment. ‘I does hardly have a chance to talk to them,’ he objected. To which Moon had replied: ‘What you have to talk to them about, shopkeeper?’ They had been snatched away from him in order to be bred for a mysterious but higher purpose. In this task, he had no part to play.

  3

  ‘You asleep, Ramsaran?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. I can’t sleep either.’ Julian coughed. ‘Who could sleep after what happen – except my father?’

  They could hear Mr Bholai snoring in the front bedroom. A clock ticked loudly on the dresser, its luminescent dial as if suspended in empty space. There were no cars on the road so late at night.

  ‘You intend to go and see your grandmother?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wilbert said.

  ‘It would be very strange if you didn’t go to see her. She might be offended.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Wilbert said. ‘I suppose I had better.’

  ‘It would also give you a chance to meet Sita – the cause of all the trouble. You must be curious.’

  Julian’s laughter floated across the darkness from the other side of the room. Wilbert turned to face him but could see little apart from the formless shape under the blanket.

  ‘I not curious,’ he said. His voice was muffled and sullen.

  ‘But she might be coming to live with you and your father.’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about that. Is only a rumour. It have no truth in it.’

  ‘How you so sure?’

  ‘Because I would have been among the first to know. My father would have tell me.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you Sushila was coming though.’

  ‘Who say that?’

  ‘Basdai. She was saying how he bawl you up the day she bring Sushila to see him.’ He laughed. ‘Your grandmother have a very big mouth.’

  Wilbert listened to the clock ticking, Mr Bholai’s snores blending in with it. He was curious about Sita after all that he had heard; a curiosity intensified by the suggestion that she might be coming to join her mother. However, it was not mere curiosity which was uppermost in his mind. It was resentment. He resented having to be told this by other people; he resented that the suggestion (with all its unsavoury implications) could actually be made. His pride as the son of Egbert Ramsaran had been hurt in a tender spot. What was worse was the appalling suspicion that these rumours were not without foundation. Wilbert realized with something approaching horror that he had lost faith in his father. The man of iron will was being exposed as a sham. It was a betrayal. He recalled what his father had once said to him about weakness. ‘For once you take away the whip and start being softhearted, once they feel you have water instead of blood in your veins, they going to be crawling all over you like ants over sugar.’ He was right. The ants were crawling over the man of iron will. They were eating him up; sucking him dry. Wilbert was profoundly sickened.

  ‘When you go to visit your grandmother,’ Julian said, ‘you think you could do me a small favour?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want you to give Sita a book for me. I promise to lend it to her but I’m not going to see her until the Library Van come again.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Wilbert agreed reluctantly.

  For another hour, he listened to the ticking of the clock, watching the progress of the minute hand around the face of the luminous dial.

  Basdai’s hut was set well back from the main road. Wilbert walked slowly down the track leading to it, carrying the book Julian had given him. The sun burned down fiercely on his head and the earth was cracked and white. Phulo, who was stringing out washing on a line, was the first to see him. Drying her hands on the front of her dress, she came forward to meet him. She was barefooted and her untidy hair was bundled under a fluttering scarf.

  ‘Ma!’ she shouted. ‘We have a visitor.’

  ‘What visitor?’ Basdai shouted querulously from somewhere inside the hut. ‘I have no time for visitors.’

  ‘You will have time for this one. Come and see for yourself.’

  Basdai appeared in the doorway of the hut, shielding her eyes from the glare. Her wizened face creased into a smile when she recognized Wilbert. In one hand she held a basinful of rice which she had been ‘picking’.

  ‘I was wondering when you was going to come and visit your grandmother.’ She kissed him on either cheek. ‘Come inside and sit down. You will get sunstroke in this heat.’

  There were three huts altogether forming a rough semicircle: Basdai’s and those of her two sons and their families. Basdai’s hut occupied the central position in the semi-circle and was of the traditional variety: it was built of plastered mud and had a thatched roof. The other two had pretensions to modernity in that they had galvanized iron roofs. A screen of banana trees fringed the rear of the semi-circle. There were children everywhere, bare-bottomed, dusty and ragged, playing among the chickens which wandered freely in and out of the huts. A kid goat was tethered to a nearby plum tree.

  Wilbert was bundled into Basdai’s verandah and made to sit down on the hammock. Sharma, Basdai’s other and less voluble daughter-in-law, arrived to contribute her quota of welcoming remarks. She was a fat, good-natured woman who smiled at everything that was said. The children crowded round the hammock and stared wide-eyed at Wilbert. He rocked on the hammock not knowing what to do or say.

  ‘If you had come earlier you would have meet your uncles,’ Basdai said. ‘But they out working in the fields. You want me to send one of the children to call them? They wouldn’t like to miss you.’

  ‘I’ll see them another time. I here for a few more days yet.’

  ‘Very true,’ Basdai admitted. ‘Is no hurry.’

  ‘You enjoying yourself with the Bholais?’ Phulo asked.

  Wilbert nodded.

  ‘They is nice people,’ Basdai said. ‘If only Bholai would give credit I would have no complaints.’ She smiled. ‘How you leave your father?’

  ‘Very well.’ He spoke in a mumble.

  ‘I glad to hear that. And … and Sushila. She settling in okay?’

  Wilbert nodded.

  Basdai shooed away a clucking hen. ‘A man need a woman about the place. I was very glad I could find somebody to … that remind me. Where Sita get sheself to? Sita!’ She turned again to Wilbert. ‘Sita is Sushila daughter.’

  Wilbert swayed on the hammock.

  ‘There she is! Where you had get yourself to, girl? Like you didn’t hear Wilbert Ramsaran come to visit we?’

  ‘She don’t hear nothing she don’t want to hear,’ Phulo said.

  ‘I was having a bath.’ Sita approached them from the bathhouse which was discreetly hidden behind the fringe of banana trees, a towel draped over her shoulders. She had combed her wet hair severely back from her temples and tied it in a bun. Wilbert stared at her. She was tall and thin and angular. High cheekbones gave her face a somewhat rigid, austere cast but her lips which were full and well-formed – like her mother’s – softened the austerity. She wore a pleated skirt which reached to her knees and a long-sleeved blouse buttoned up to the neck, and she was the only person present – apart from Wilbert – wearing shoes. The fingers grasping the en
d of the towel were bony and tapering and the skin was stretched tight over the protruding knuckles.

  ‘Say hello to Wilbert,’ Basdai said.

  Sita inclined her head.

  ‘She dumb,’ Phulo said to Wilbert.

  Sita stood erect, paying no attention to Phulo. The children, having lost interest, had melted away and resumed their games in the yard.

  ‘Julian Bholai give me this to give you.’ Wilbert held out the book for her.

  Sita seemed startled by this direct address and stared at the book as if she did not understand what it was and was consequently afraid to touch it.

  ‘Take it,’ Wilbert said. ‘He give it to me to give you.’

  At last Sita took the book. ‘Thanks for bringing it.’ She paused. ‘And thank him for me when you see him.’

  ‘You does read a lot?’ Wilbert asked. He thought he ought to say something, but could think of nothing else.

  ‘Huh!’ Phulo said. ‘Instead of doing she fair share of work like the rest of we …’

  Sita glanced scathingly at her. ‘You finished?’ She turned to Wilbert. ‘I like to read. It stops me from being bored and having to think about the people I’m living with.’ She smiled.

  ‘What she mean,’ Phulo said, ‘is that she like meeting Julian Bholai by the Library Van.’

  ‘That is none of your business,’ Sita retorted with sudden warmth.

  ‘Sorry,’ Phulo said. ‘Sorry to open my mouth in front of your Royal Majesty. I was forgetting my proper place.’

  Sharma laughed her good-natured laugh. ‘The two of them always at each other’s throat – just like if they was lovers.’

  ‘You must stay and eat something with me,’ Basdai said. ‘I nearly finish picking the rice.’

  Wilbert declined the invitation. ‘That would be too much trouble for you.’

  ‘Is no trouble at all.’

  But Wilbert was not to be persuaded. This place depressed him. ‘Another time,’ he promised. He got up from the hammock.

  ‘It was nice meeting you.’ Sita smiled awkwardly.

  Wilbert went out into the sunlit compound. The chickens scurried before him.

  ‘Don’t forget to thank Julian for me.’

  Wilbert waved at Sita. ‘I won’t forget.’

  When he got to the road, he looked back. She was still watching him. Then she waved and disappeared into the pitch black of the hut.

  Julian was waiting for him on the front steps. ‘That didn’t take you long, Ramsaran.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it to take long,’ Wilbert replied.

  ‘You give Sita the book?’

  Wilbert held his empty hands aloft. ‘What else you think I do with it?’

  ‘Why you in such a bad mood? What happen?’ Julian scanned his face.

  ‘Nothing happen and I not in a bad mood.’

  Julian laughed, brushing back his hair from his forehead. ‘Sita say anything?’

  ‘She send to say thanks.’ Wilbert moved on past him.

  Julian hurried after him up the steps. ‘That’s all? Nothing more?’

  ‘Nothing more,’ Wilbert said.

  Julian seemed disappointed. ‘That’s very strange.’

  ‘It had a lot of people there.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t give it to her when she was alone? You give it to her in front of Basdai and everybody?’

  Wilbert nodded.

  Julian was shocked and upset. ‘No wonder she didn’t say much. No wonder! That was a really stupid thing to do. Everybody will hear about it now.’

  Wilbert stopped. ‘Look here. I only do it for you as a favour. Get that into your head. I not your messenger boy. You hear that?’ The peasant roughnesses of his face were accentuated. His jaw muscles twitched. ‘And another thing. Make sure that is the last time you call me stupid.’

  ‘Don’t be so touchy, Ramsaran.’ Julian was conciliatory. ‘It didn’t matter. Let’s forget about it.’

  But Wilbert was not inclined to forget about it. He stored it up for future reference.

  4

  In the rush of attention lavished on their brother, the Bholai girls inevitably took second place. Not, however, that they were neglected or forgotten. But the fact was that love and concern in their case were tempered with a healthy dash of realism. Julian was a child of the gods. He had to please no one but himself. No obstacle could block for long his progression through the world: confronted with his manifold perfections, they would be automatically dispersed. His was to be a protracted and triumphal march through life. Unfortunately, it was not quite the same with the girls. Their success would depend on their ability to please others; or, at least, on their ability to please one other person, since they were expected to discover for themselves suitable husbands. Therefore, Mrs Bholai was more alive to their shortcomings.

  She did not hesitate to ‘speak her mind’ on the subject whenever they did anything to displease her. Mentally, she had paired Wilbert (this was the Wilbert whose aspect was infinitely pleasing) and Shanty and was not averse to dropping heavy hints which embarrassed everyone. When Shanty pouted and grew sullen, she pulled her up sharply. ‘If you going to make somebody a good wife one of these days, you will have to learn to behave yourself better than that. No man would want a woman who does keep she face long long. You not sucking limes, you know. If you don’t believe me, ask Wilbert if he would stand for that kind of behaviour from his wife.’ She smiled genially at Wilbert. ‘You wouldn’t stand for that, would you, Wilbert?’

  Normally, however, she gave more general advice. ‘Marriage is no joke business,’ she lectured frequently. ‘Is a very serious business indeed. You have to be very careful and keep your eyes wide open. The three of you should try and learn from what happen to me. Don’t take as the gospel truth everything you hear a man say because that could land you up in a lot of trouble. I thought I was marrying a man who was going to be a lawyer … but you see what I end up with – two pound of butter, half-pound of salt. You have to keep a steady head on your shoulders for once you make the decision it have no turning back. I not saying you shouldn’t have some love for your husband. But love, like everything else, have it proper time and place.’

  Shanty, Mynah and Gita formed a spectrum whose sole unifying trait was their common ancestry. As children, their separate individualities had been submerged by the chorus of giggles which was their chief identifying characteristic. They were thought of and referred to simply as ‘the Bholai girls’. As such, they were interchangeable with each other. Now that they were almost ‘grown up’, closer acquaintance showed how misleading the original impression of uniformity was.

  Shanty, the youngest, was the most immediately striking. She had a rectangular, padded-out appearance which smothered – perhaps ‘blurred’ is the more appropriate word – the natural curves of her body. Her face was round and full, with a pair of narrowing, Chinese-style eyes, a knob of a nose and firm, pouting lips. She was a heavy, earth-bound person. A reddish complexion had given, her a rather inflamed look. Shanty occupied one end of the spectrum.

  Mynah’s was the middling position. She was cleaner complexioned than Shanty. Her skin did not possess the latter’s inflamed opacity; but then, neither did it possess the smooth brown flawlessness of Gita’s. Mynah was distinctly taller than Shanty: her build was not so compressed and was free of that blurred, padded-out appearance. Yet, though her general outline had greater boldness and assurance she lacked, as was implied by her middling status, Gita’s ascetic fineness of feature. Mynah’s nose was just that tiny bit too flat; her lips just that tiny bit too fleshy. Gita was tall and drooping and pale; a ‘bag of skin and bones’, as her mother said. They were types which had failed either by overstatement or uneasy compromise to come to full fruition. Looking at them, one experienced a nagging dissatisfaction such as might be felt on seeing stray bits of paper littering an otherwise clean and tidy room. You have the urge to straighten and adjust. And so it was with the three Bholai girls. You were tempted
to go up to them and start tampering with their lips and eyes and noses. ‘There! That’s how it should be. That’s much better!’

  They differed as well in outlook and temper. Gita did not belie her ascetic appearance. She was of a serious and melancholy disposition; the ‘saint’ of the family. What was worse, she seemed to revel in the martyrdom it entailed. This distressed her mother who assisted her martyrdom by making her the victim of a relentless persecution because of her religious proclivities. Like love, God too clearly had His time and place. He reduced her chances of acquiring a husband. ‘I don’t know how you ever expect to find a man,’ Mrs Bholai railed at her. ‘Who you think would want a woman who always praying to God and looking as if the world just about to come to an end?’ Gita bore it all with maddening patience. ‘You always fretting. Ma,’ she replied with a stock resignation. ‘I can’t change the way I am. You have to take me as I am. Not all of us was born the same.’

  Mrs Bholai could not bring herself to accept this as she could not bring herself to accept so many other things. It was a most distasteful philosophy. ‘Come now, Moon,’ her husband pleaded, ‘it have no point in threatening the child like that. Give she a chance. What you expect she to do? Run out on the road and grab the first man she see passing?’ ‘Keep out of this, Bholai. If I follow you, I would never get any of them off my hands. But let me tell you this straight, Mr Shopkeeper, I not having any old maid living in this house with me. You will have to take Gita with you and go and live somewhere else. I not having any of that nonsense here.’

  Living in this atmosphere of threat and recrimination, Gita responded by emphasizing her religiosity and pursuing her studies with a dedication which none could rival. The fruits of the first were too intangible to assess; but if the fruits of the second were anything to go by, it was obvious – to her mother at any rate – that Gita was a malingerer on both counts. Admittedly, she had evolved a beautiful and ornate handwriting but, that apart, her school reports bore no relation to the hours she spent crouched over her text-books. Even in Bible Studies her marks were mediocre. This stoked Mrs Bholai’s fury. ‘Pretending! That is all you doing. Pretending! Just like Miss Sita who does spend all she time pretending to read book. Except that you does pretend to pray as well. But it seem to me that God don’t hear your so-called prayers. I feel like taking that big Bible you have and knocking your head with it.’ And once, when Gita’s school report was particularly disappointing, she did something which left even her mother speechless with horror. Gita went secretly and bought half a bottle of rum from the Palace of Heavenly Delights and drank most of it. She was found several hours later sprawled in a drunken stupor under her bed.