A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [12]
She urged Prasad, Dehuti and Mr Biswas to behave with dignity and to keep out of the way, and she ordered Dehuti to see that Mr Biswas was properly dressed. As the baby of the family Mr Biswas was treated by the mourners with honour and sympathy, though this was touched with a little dread. Embarrassed by their attentions, he moved about the hut and yard, thinking he could detect a new, raw smell in the air. There was also a strange taste in his mouth; he had never eaten meat, but now he felt he had eaten raw white flesh; nauseating saliva rose continually at the back of his throat and he had to keep on spitting, until Tara said, ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you pregnant?’
Bipti was bathed. Her hair, still wet, was neatly parted and the parting filled with red henna. Then the henna was scooped out and the parting filled with charcoal dust. She was now a widow forever. Tara gave a short scream and at her signal the other women began to wail. On Bipti’s wet black hair there were still spots of henna, like drops of blood.
Cremation was forbidden and Raghu was to be buried. He lay in a coffin in the bedroom, dressed in his finest dhoti, jacket and turban, his beads around his neck and down his jacket. The coffin was strewed with marigolds which matched his turban. Pratap, the eldest son, did the last rites, walking round the coffin.
‘Photo now,’ Tara said. ‘Quick. Get them all together. For the last time.’
The photographer, who had been smoking under the mango tree, went into the hut and said, ‘Too dark.’
The men became interested and gave advice while the women wailed.
‘Take it outside. Lean it against the mango tree.’
‘Light a lamp.’
‘It couldn’t be too dark.’
‘What do you know? You’ve never had your photo taken. Now, what I suggest –’
The photographer, of mixed Chinese, Negro and European blood, did not understand what was being said. In the end he and some of the men took the coffin out to the verandah and stood it against the wall.
‘Careful! Don’t let him fall out.’
‘Goodness. All the marigolds have dropped out.’
‘Leave them,’ the photographer said in English. ‘Is a nice little touch. Flowers on the ground.’ He set up his tripod in the yard, just under the ragged eaves of thatch, and put his head under the black cloth.
Tara roused Bipti from her grief, arranged Bipti’s hair and veil, and dried Bipti’s eyes.
‘Five people all together,’ the photographer said to Tara. ‘Hard to know just how to arrange them. It look to me that it would have to be two one side and three the other side. You sure you want all five?’
Tara was firm.
The photographer sucked his teeth, but not at Tara. ‘Look, look. Why nobody ain’t put anything to chock up the coffin and prevent it from slipping?’
Tara had that attended to.
The photographer said, ‘All right then. Mother and biggest son on either side. Next to mother, young boy and young girl. Next to big son, smaller son.’
There was more advice from the men.
‘Make them look at the coffin.’
‘At the mother.’
‘At the youngest boy.’
The photographer settled the matter by telling Tara, ‘Tell them to look at me.’
Tara translated, and the photographer went under his cloth. Almost immediately he came out again. ‘How about making the mother and the biggest boy put their hands on the edge of the coffin?’
This was done and the photographer went back under his cloth.
‘Wait!’ Tara cried, running out from the hut with a fresh garland of marigolds. She hung it around Raghu’s neck and said