A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [110]
Mr Biswas felt more and more reluctant to tell Tara what he had come for.
Then it was too late. Rabidat, Bhandat’s younger son, came in, and Tara and Mr Biswas fell silent. As far as Tara and Ajodha were concerned, Rabidat was still a bachelor, though it was generally known that, like his brother Jagdat, he was living with a woman of another race and had some children, no one knew how many, by her. He was wearing sandals and brief khaki shorts; his tail-less shirt flapped loose, unbuttoned all the way down, the short sleeves rolled up almost to his armpits. It was as though, unable to hide his prognathous face, he wished to display the rest of himself as well. He had a superb body, well proportioned and well developed and not grossly muscular. He barely nodded to Mr Biswas and ignored Tara. When he sat sprawling on a chair, two thin folds of skin appeared about his middle; they were almost a disfigurement of his neatness. He sucked his teeth, took a film booklet from the bookcase and flicked through it, breathing loudly, his small eyes intent, his prognathous sneer more pronounced. He threw the booklet back on the bookcase and said, ‘How is everything, Mohun?’ Without waiting for an answer he shouted at the kitchen, ‘Food, girl!’ and clamped his mouth shut.
‘Ooh! The married man!’
It was Ajodha, back from the cowpen.
Rabidat rearranged his legs.
Before Mr Biswas could reply, Ajodha stopped smiling and spoke to Rabidat about the behaviour of a certain lorry.
Rabidat shifted in his chair and sucked his teeth, not looking up.
Ajodha raised his voice querulously.
Rabidat explained awkwardly, sulkily, insolently. He seemed to be trying to bite the inside of his lower lip, and his voice, though deep, was blurred.
Abruptly Ajodha lost interest in the lorry and smiled mischievously at Mr Biswas.
Tara got up from the rockingchair and Ajodha sat in it, fanning his face and opening a shirt button to reveal a grey-haired chest. ‘How many children has the married man got now? Seven, eight, a dozen?’
Rabidat smiled uneasily, got up and went to the kitchen.
Mr Biswas thought he would be brave and begin. ‘Late last night,’ he said, ‘some ’larmist bring me a message that my mother was very sick. So I came to see her today and as I was here I thought I would come and see you.’
The servant girl brought a glass of milk for Ajodha. He received it reverentially, holding the glass as though any pressure might cause it to break. He said, ‘Bring Mohun some. You know, Mohun, milk is a food in itself, especially when it is fresh like this.’
The milk was brought and drunk. Mr Biswas welcomed the pause. The absurd story he had just made up didn’t sound convincing, and he hoped he would be allowed to drop it.
‘And how was your mother?’ Tara asked. ‘I heard nothing.’
Oh, she. She was all right. It was just some ‘larmist, that was all.’
Ajodha rocked gently. ‘What about your job, Mohun? Somehow I never felt you were made for a job in the fields. Eh, Tara?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ Mr Biswas said briskly, ‘it was that I wanted to talk to you about. You see, this is a steady job –’
Ajodha said, ‘Mohun, I don’t think you are looking well at all. Eh, Tara? Look at his face. And, eh –’ He broke off with a giggle and said in English, ‘Look, look. He getting a punch.’ He stabbed at Mr Biswas’s belly with a long sharp finger, and when Mr Biswas winced Ajodha gave a little yelping laugh. ‘Pap,’ he said. ‘Your belly soft like pap. Like a woman. All you young people getting bellies these days.’ He winked at Mr Biswas; then, tilting back his head, he said loudly, ‘Even Rabidat got a punch.’
Tara gave a short, chesty laugh.
Rabidat came out of the kitchen, chewing, his mouth full, and mumbled incomprehensibly.
Ajodha grimaced, ‘Take your face back to the kitchen. You know you make me ill when you talk with your mouth full.’
Rabidat swallowed hurriedly. ‘Punch?’ he said, nibbling at his lower lip. ‘I got a punch?’ He pulled his shirt off his shoulders, drew in his