A House for Mr. Biswas

by V. S. Naipaul

  He was strained and irritable when he went back to Hanuman House. The aggrieved and aggressive stares he received in the hall reminded him of his morning triumph. All his joy at that had turned into disgust at his condition. The campaign against the Tulsis, which he had been conducting with such pleasure, now seemed pointless and degrading. Suppose, Mr Biswas thought in the long room, suppose that at one word I could just disappear from this room, what would remain to speak of me? A few clothes, a few books. The shouts and thumps in the hall would continue; the puja would be done; in the morning the Tulsi Store would open its doors.

  He had lived in many houses. And how easy it was to think of those houses without him! At this moment Pundit Jairam would be at a meeting or he would be eating at home, looking forward to an evening with his books. Soanie stood in the doorway, darkening the room, waiting for the least gesture of command. In Tara’s back verandah Ajodha sat relaxed in his rockingchair, his eyes closed, listening perhaps to That Body of Yours being read by Rabidat, who sat at an awkward angle, trying to hide the smell of drink and tobacco on his breath. Tara was about, harrying the cowman (it was milking-time) or harrying the yard boy or the servant girl, harrying somebody. In none of these places he was being missed because in none of these places had he ever been more than a visitor, an upsetter of routine. Was Bipti thinking of him in the back trace? But she herself was a derelict. And, even more remote, that house of mud and grass in the swamplands: probably pulled down now and ploughed up. Beyond that, a void. There was nothing to speak of him.

  He heard footsteps and Shama came into the room with a brass plate loaded with rice, curried potatoes, lentils and coconut chutney.

  ‘How often you want me to tell you that I hate those blasted brass plates?’

  She put the plate on the floor.

  He walked round it. ‘Nobody ever teach you hygiene at school? Rice, potatoes. All that damn starch.’ He tapped his belly. ‘You want to blow me up?’ At the sight of Shama his depression had turned to anger, but he spoke jocularly.

  ‘I always say,’ Shama said, ‘that you must complain only when you start providing your own food.’

  He went to the window, washed his hands, gargled and spat.

  Someone shouted from below, ‘Up there! Look what you doing!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Shama said, running to the window. ‘I know this was bound to happen one day. You spit on somebody.’

  He looked out with interest. ‘Who it is? The old she-fox, or one of the gods?’

  ‘You spit on Owad.’ They heard him complaining.

  Mr Biswas took another mouthful of water and gargled. Then, with cheeks puffed out, he leaned as far out of the window as he could.

  ‘Don’t think I not seeing you,’ the god shouted. ‘I marking what you doing, Mr Biswas. But I standing up right here and if you spit on me again I going to tell Ma.’

  ‘Tell, you little son of a bitch,’ Mr Biswas muttered, spitting.

  ‘Man!’

  ‘O God!’ the god exclaimed.

  ‘You lucky little monkey,’ Mr Biswas said. He had missed.

  ‘Man!’ Shama cried, and dragged him from the window.

  He walked slowly around the brass plate.

  ‘Walk,’ Shama said. ‘You walk until you tired. But wait until you provide your own food before you start criticizing the food other people give you.’

  ‘Who give you that message to give me? Your mother?’ He pulled his top teeth behind his lower teeth, but his long floursack pants prevented him from looking menacing.

  ‘Nobody didn’t give me any message to give you. It is just something I think of myself.’

  ‘You think of it yourself, eh?’

  He had seized the brass plate, spilling rice on the floor, and was rushing to the Demerara window. Going to throw the whole damned thing out, he had decided. But his violence calmed him, and at the window he had another thought: throw the plate out and you could kill somebody. He arrested his hurling gesture, and merely tilted the plate. The food slipped off easily, leaving a few grains of rice sticking to streaks of lentils and oily, bubble-ridden trails of curry.

  ‘O God! Oo – Go-o-od!’

  It began as a gentle cry and rose rapidly to a sustained bawling which aroused sympathetic shrieks from babies all over the house. All at once the bawling was cut off, and seconds later – it seemed much later – Mr Biswas heard a deep, grating, withdrawing snuffle. ‘I going to tell Ma,’ the god cried. ‘Ma, come and see what your son-in-law do to me. He cover me down with his dirty food.’ After a sirenlike intake of breath the bawling continued.

  Shama looked martyred.

  There was considerable commotion below. Several people were shouting at once, babies screamed, there was much subsidiary bawling and chatter, and the hall resounded with agitated movements.

  Heavy footsteps made the stairs shake, rattled the glass panes on doors, drummed across the Book Room, and Govind was in Mr Biswas’s chamber.

  ‘Is you!’ Govind shouted, breathing hard, his handsome face contorted. ‘Is you who spit on Owad.’

  Mr Biswas was frightened.

  He heard more footsteps on the stairs. The bawling drew nearer.

  ‘Spit?’ Mr Biswas said. ‘I ain’t spit on anybody. I just gargle out of the window and throw away some bad food.’

  Shama screamed.

  Govind threw himself on Mr Biswas.

  Caught by surprise, stupefied by fear, Mr Biswas neither shouted nor hit back at Govind, and allowed himself to be pummelled. He was struck hard and often on the jaw, and with every blow Govind said, ‘Is you.’ Vaguely Mr Biswas was aware of women massing in the room, screaming, sobbing, falling upon Govind and himself. He was acutely aware of the god bawling, right in his ear, it seemed: a dry, deliberate, scraping noise. Abruptly the bawling ceased. ‘Yes, is he!’ the god said. ‘Is he. He asking for this a long time now.’ And at every cuff and kick Govind gave, the god grunted, as though he himself had given the blow. The women were above Mr Biswas and Govind, their hair and veils falling loose. One veil tickled Mr Biswas’s nose.

  ‘Stop him!’ Chinta cried. ‘Govind will kill Biswas if you don’t stop him. He is a terrible man, I tell you, when his temper is up.’ She burst into a short, sharp wail. ‘Stop it, stop it. They will send Govind to the gallows if you don’t stop it. Stop it before they make me a widow.’

  Punched on his hollow chest, short-jabbed on his soft, rising belly, Mr Biswas found, to his surprise, that his mind remained quite clear. What the hell is that woman crying for? he thought. She is going to be a widow all right, but what about me? He was trying to encircle Govind with his arms, but was unable to do more than tap him on the back. Govind didn’t appear to notice the taps. Mr Biswas would have been surprised if he had. He wanted to scratch and pinch Govind, but reflected that it would be unmanly to do so.

  ‘Kill him!’ the god shouted. ‘Kill him, Uncle Govind.’

  ‘Owad, Owad,’ Chinta said. ‘How can you say a thing like that?’ She pulled the god to her and pressed his head against her bosom. ‘You too? Do you want to make me a widow?’

  The god allowed himself to be embraced, but twisted his head to see the struggle and kept on shouting, ‘Kill him, Uncle Govind. Kill him.’

  The women were having little effect on Govind. They had succeeded only in lessening the swing of his arms, but his short jabs were powerful. Mr Biswas felt them all. They no longer caused pain.

  ‘Kill him, Uncle Govind!’

  He doesn’t want any encouragement, Mr Biswas thought.

  Neighbours were shouting.

  ‘What happening, Mai? Mai! Mrs Tulsi! Mr Seth! What happening?’

  Their urgent, frightened voices frightened Mr Biswas. Suddenly he heard himself bawling, ‘O God! I dead. I dead. He will kill me.’

  His terror silenced the house.

  It stilled Govind’s arms. It stilled the god, and gave him a fleeting vision of black policemen, courthouses, gallows, graves, coffins.

&
nbsp; The women lifted themselves off Govind and Mr Biswas. Govind, breathing heavily, lifted himself off Mr Biswas.

  How I hate people who breathe like that, Mr Biswas thought. And how that Govind smells! It wasn’t a smell of sweat, but of oil, body oil, associated in Mr Biswas’s mind with the pimples on Govind’s face. How unpleasant it must be, to be married to a man like that!

  ‘Has he killed him?’ Chinta asked. She was calmer; her voice held pride and genuine concern. ‘Talk, brother. Talk. Talk to your sister. Get him to say something, somebody.’

  Now that Govind was off his chest Mr Biswas’s only concern was to make sure that he was properly dressed. He hoped nothing had happened to his pants. He moved a hand down to investigate.

  ‘He is all right,’ Sushila said.

  Someone bent over him. That smell of oil, Vick’s Vaporub, garlic and raw vegetables told him it was Padma. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, and shook him.

  He turned over on his side, his face to the wall.

  ‘He is all right,’ Govind said, and added in English, ‘Is a good thing all you people did come, otherwise I woulda be swinging on the gallows for this man.’

  Chinta gave a sob.

  Shama had maintained her martyr’s attitude throughout, sitting on the low bench, her skirt draped over her knees, one hand supporting her chin, her staring eyes misting over with tears.

  ‘Spitting on me, eh?’ the god said. ‘Go ahead. Why you don’t spit now? Coming and laughing at our religion. Laughing at me when I do puja. I know the good I doing myself when I do puja, you hear.’

  ‘It’s all right, son,’ Govind said. ‘Nobody can insult you and Mai when I am around.’

  ‘Leave him alone, Govind,’ Padma said. ‘Leave him, Owad.’

  The incident was over. The room emptied.

  Left alone, Shama and Mr Biswas remained as they were, Shama staring through the doorway, Mr Biswas considering the lotuses on the pale green wall.

  They heard the hall return to life. The evening meal, delayed, was being laid out with unusual zest. Babies were consoled with songs, clapping, chuckles and baby-talk. Children were scolded with exceptional good humour. Between everyone downstairs there was for the moment a new bond, and Mr Biswas recognized this bond as himself.

  ‘Go and get me a tin of red salmon,’ he said to Shama, without turning from the wall. ‘And some hops bread.’

  Her throat was tickling. She coughed and tried to hide the swallow by sighing.

  This wearied him further. He got up, his pants hanging loose, and looked at her. She was still staring through the doorway into the Book Room. His face felt heavy. He put a hand to one cheek and worked his jaw. It moved stiffly.

  Tears spilled over from Shama’s big eyes and ran down her cheeks.

  ‘What happen? Somebody beat you too?’

  She shook her tears away, without removing her hand from her chin.

  ‘Go and get me a tin of salmon. Canadian. And get some bread and peppersauce.’

  ‘What happen? You have a craving? You making baby?’

  He would have liked to hit her. But that would have been ridiculous after what had just happened.

  ‘You making baby?’ Shama repeated. She rose, shook down her skirt and straightened it. Loudly, as though trying to catch the attention of the people downstairs, she said, ‘Go and get it yourself. You not going to start ordering me around, you hear.’ She blew her nose, wiped it, and left.

  He was alone. He gave a kick at a lotus on the wall. The noise startled him, his toe hurt, and he aimed another kick at his pile of books. He sent them toppling and marvelled at the endurance and uncomplainingness of inanimate objects. The bent corner of the cover of Bell’s Standard Elocutionist was like a wound silently, accusingly borne. He stooped to pick the books up, then decided it would be a sign of self contempt to do so. Better for them to lie like that for Shama to see and even rearrange. He passed a hand over his face. It felt heavy and dead. Squinting downwards, he could see the rise of cheek. His jaw ached. He was beginning to ache all over. It was odd that the blows had made so little impression at the time. Surprise was a good neutralizer. Perhaps it was the same with animals. Jungle life could be bearable, then; it was part of God’s plan. He went over to the cheap mirror hanging at the side of the window. He had never been able to see properly in it. It was an idiotic place to put a mirror, and he was mad enough to pull it down. He didn’t. He stepped to one side and looked over his shoulder at his reflection. He knew his face felt heavy; he had no idea it looked so absurd. But he had to go out, leave the house for the time being, get his salmon, bread and peppersauce – bad for him, but the suffering would come later. He put on his trousers, and the rattle of the belt buckle was such a precise, masculine sound that he silenced it at once. He put on his shirt and opened the second button to reveal his hollow chest. But his shoulders were fairly broad. He wished he could devote himself to developing his body. How could he, though, with all that bad food from that murky kitchen? They had salmon only on Good Friday: the influence, doubtless, of the orthodox Roman Catholic Hindu Mrs Tulsi. He pulled his hat low over his forehead and thought that in the dark he might just get away with his face.

  As he went down the stairs the chatter became a babel. Past the landing, he waited for the silence, the reanimation.

  It happened as he feared.

  Shama didn’t look at him. Among gay sisters she was the gayest.

  Padma said. ‘You better feed Mohun, Shama.’

  Govind didn’t look up. He was smiling, at nothing, it seemed, and was eating in his savage, noisy way, rice and curry spilled all over his hairy hand and trickling down to his wrist. Soon, Mr Biswas knew, he would clean his hand with a swift, rasping lick.

  Mr Biswas, his back to everyone in the hall, said, ‘I not eating any of the bad food from this house.’

  ‘Well, nobody not going to beg you, you hear,’ Shama said.

  He curled the brim of his hat over his eye and went down into the courtyard, lit only by the light from the hall.

  The god said, ‘Anyone see a spy pass through here?’

  Mr Biswas heard the laughter.

  Under the eaves of a bicycle shop across the High Street an oyster stall was yellowly, smokily lit by a flambeau with a thick spongy wick. Oysters lay in a shining heap, many-faceted, grey and black and yellow. Two bottles, stopped with twists of brown paper, contained red peppersauce.

  Postponing the salmon, Mr Biswas crossed the road and asked the man, ‘How the oysters going?’

  ‘Two for a cent.’

  ‘Start opening.’

  The man shouted, released into happy activity. From somewhere in the darkness a woman came running up. ‘Come on,’ the man said. ‘Help open them.’ They put a bucket of water on the stall, washed the oysters, opened them with short blunt knives, and washed them again. Mr Biswas poured peppersauce into the shell, swallowed, held out his hand for another. The peppersauce scalded his lips.

  The oyster man was talking drunkenly, in a mixture of Hindi and English. ‘My son is a helluva man. I feel that something is seriously wrong with him. One day he put a tin can on the fence and come running inside the house. “The gun, Pa,” he said. “Quick, give me the gun.” I give him the gun. He run to the window and shoot. The tin can fall. “Pa,” he say. “Look. I shoot work. I shoot ambition. They dead.” ’ The flambeau dramatized the oyster man’s features, filling hollows with shadow, putting a shine on his temples, above his eyebrows, along his nose, along his cheek-bones. Suddenly he flung down his knife and pulled out a stick from below his stall. He waved the stick in front of Mr Biswas. ‘Anybody!’ he said. ‘Tell anybody to come!’

  The woman didn’t notice. She went on opening oysters, laying them in her scratched, red palms, prising the ugly shells open, cutting the living oysters from their moorings to the pure, just-exposed inside shell.

  ‘Tell anybody,’ the man said. ‘Anybody at all.’

  ‘Stop!’ Mr Biswas said.

&
nbsp; The woman took her hand out of the bucket and replaced a dripping oyster on the heap.

  The man put away his stick. ‘Stop?’ He looked saddened, and ceased to be frightening. He began to count the empty shells.

  The woman disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘Twenty-six,’ the man said. ‘Thirteen cents.’

  Mr Biswas paid. The raw, fresh smell of oysters was now upsetting him. His stomach was full and heavy, but unsatisfied. The peppersauce had blistered his lips. Then the pains began. Nevertheless he went on to Mrs Seeung’s. The high, cavernous café was feebly lit. Flies were asleep everywhere, and Mr Seeung was half-asleep behind the counter, his porcupinish head bent over a Chinese newspaper.

  Mr Biswas bought a tin of salmon and two loaves of bread. The bread looked and smelled stale. He knew that in his present state bread would only bring on nausea, but it gave him some satisfaction that he was breaking one of the Tulsi taboos by eating shop bread, a habit they considered feckless, negroid and unclean. The salmon repelled him; he thought it tasted of tin; but he felt compelled to eat to the end. And as he ate, his distress increased. Secret eating never did him any good.

  Yet what he considered his disgrace was in fact his triumph.

  The next morning Seth summoned him and said in English, ‘I come back late last night from Carapichaima, just looking for my food and my bed and the first thing I hear is that you try to beat up Owad. I don’t think we could stand you here any longer. You want to paddle your own canoe. All right, go ahead and paddle. When you start getting your tail wet, don’t bother to come back to me or Mai, you hear. This was a nice united family before you come. You better go away before you do any more mischief and I have to lay my hand on you.’

  So Mr Biswas moved to The Chase, to the shop. Shama was pregnant when they moved.