A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [11]
Sadhu led Dehuti away.
Outside, from an unknown direction, a frog honked, then made a sucking, bubbling noise. The crickets were already chirping. Mr Biswas was alone in the dark hut, and frightened.
*
The pond lay in swampland. Weeds grew all over its surface and from a distance it appeared to be no more than a shallow depression. In fact it was full of abrupt depths and the villagers liked to think that these were immeasurable. There were no trees or hills around, so that though the sun had gone, the sky remained high and light. The villagers stood silently around the safe edge of the pond. The frogs honked and the poor-me-one bird began to say the mournful words that gave it its name. The mosquitoes were already active; from time to time a villager slapped his arm or lifted a leg and slapped that.
Lakhan the carter said, ‘He’s been down there too long.’
Bipti frowned.
Before Lakhan could take off his shirt Raghu broke the surface, puffed out his cheeks, spat out a long thin arc of water and took deep resounding breaths. The water rolled off his oiled skin, but his moustache had collapsed over his upper lip and his hair fell in a fringe over his forehead. Lakhan gave him a hand up. ‘I believe there is something down there,’ Raghu said. ‘But it is very dark.’
Far away the low trees were black against the fading sky; the orange streaks of sunset were smudged with grey, as if by dirty thumbs.
Bipti said, ‘Let Lakhan dive.’
Someone else said, ‘Leave it till tomorrow.’
‘Till tomorrow?’ Raghu said. ‘And poison the water for everybody?’
Lakhan said, ‘I will go.’
Raghu, panting, shook his head. ‘My son. My duty.’
‘And my calf,’ Dhari said.
Raghu ignored him. He ran his hands through his hair, puffed out his cheeks, put his hands to his sides and belched. In a moment he was in the water again. The pond didn’t permit stylish diving; Raghu merely let himself down. The water broke and rippled. The gleam it got from the sky was fading. While they waited a cool wind came down from the hills to the north; between the shaking weeds the water shimmered like sequins.
Lakhan said, ‘He’s coming up now. I believe he’s got something.’
They knew what it was from Dhari’s cry. Then Bipti began to scream, and Pratap and Prasad and all the women, while the men helped to lift the calf to the bank. One of its sides was green with slime; its thin limbs were ringed with vinelike weeds, still fresh and thick and green. Raghu sat on the bank, looking down between his legs at the dark water.
Lakhan said, ‘Let me go down now and look for the boy.’
‘Yes, man,’ Bipti pleaded. ‘Let him go.’
Raghu remained where he was, breathing deeply, his dhoti clinging to his skin. Then he was in the water and the villagers were silent again. They waited, looking at the calf, looking at the pond.
Lakhan said, ‘Something has happened.’
A woman said, ‘No stupid talk now, Lakhan. Raghu is a great diver.’
‘I know, I know,’ Lakhan said. ‘But he’s been diving too long.’
Then they were all still. Someone had sneezed.
They turned to see Mr Biswas standing some distance away in the gloom, the toe of one foot scratching the ankle of the other.
Lakhan was in the pond. Pratap and Prasad rushed to hustle Mr Biswas away.
‘That boy!’ Dhari said. ‘He has murdered my calf and now he has eaten up his own father.’
Lakhan brought up Raghu unconscious. They rolled him on the damp grass and pumped water out of his mouth and through his nostrils. But it was too late.
‘Messages,’ Bipti kept on saying. ‘We must send messages.’ And messages were taken everywhere by willing and excited villagers. The most important message went to Bipti’s sister Tara at Pagotes. Tara was a person of standing. It was her fate to be childless, but it was also her fate to have married a man who had, at one bound, freed himself from the land and acquired wealth; already he owned a rumshop and a dry goods shop, and he had been one of the first in Trinidad to buy a motorcar.
Tara came and at once took control. Her arms were encased from wrist to elbow with silver