A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [14]
She was awakened from a light sleep by a new noise. At first she couldn’t be sure. But the nearness of the noise and its erratic sequence disturbed her. It was a noise she heard every day but now, isolated in the night, it was hard to place. It came again: a thud, a pause, a prolonged snapping, then a series of gentler thuds. And it came again. Then there was another noise, of bottles breaking, muffled, as though the bottles were full. And she knew the noises came from her garden. Someone was stumbling among the bottles Raghu had buried neck downwards around the flower-beds.
She roused Prasad and Pratap.
Mr Biswas, awaking to hushed talk and a room of dancing shadows, closed his eyes to keep out the danger; at once, as on the day before, everything became dramatic and remote.
Pratap gave walking-sticks to Prasad and Bipti. Carefully he unbolted the small window, then pushed it out with sudden vigour.
The garden was lit up by a hurricane lamp. A man was working a fork into the ground among the bottle-borders. ‘Dhari!’ Bipti called.
Dhari didn’t look up or reply. He went on forking, rocking the implement in the earth, tearing the roots that kept the earth firm.
‘Dhari!’
He began to sing a wedding song.
‘The cutlass!’ Pratap said. ‘Give me the cutlass.’
‘O God! No, no,’ Bipti said.
‘I’ll go out and beat him like a snake,’ Pratap said, his voice rising out of control. ‘Prasad? Mai?’
‘Close the window,’ Bipti said.
The singing stopped and Dhari said, ‘Yes, close the window and go to sleep. I am here to look after you.’
Violently Bipti pulled the small window to, bolted it and kept her hand on the bolt.
The digging and the breaking bottles continued. Dhari sang:
In your daily tasks be resolute.
Fear no one, and trust in God.
‘Dhari isn’t in this alone,’ Bipti said. ‘Don’t provoke him.’ Then, as though it not only belittled Dhari’s behaviour but gave protection to them all, she added, ‘He is only after your father’s money. Let him look.’
Mr Biswas and Prasad were soon asleep again. Bipti and Pratap remained up until they had heard the last of Dhari’s songs and his fork no longer dug into the earth and broke bottles. They did not speak. Only, once, Bipti said, ‘Your father always warned me about the people of this village.’
Pratap and Prasad awoke when it was still dark, as they always did. They did not talk about what had happened and Bipti insisted that they should go to the buffalo pond as usual. As soon as it was light she went out to the garden. The flower-beds had been dug up; dew lay on the upturned earth which partially buried uprooted plants, already limp and quailing. The vegetable patch had not been forked, but tomato plants had been cut down, stakes broken and pumpkins slashed.
‘Oh, wife of Raghu!’ a man called from the road, and she saw Dhari jump across the gutter.
Absently, he picked a dew-wet leaf from the hibiscus shrub, crushed it in his palm, put it in his mouth and came towards her, chewing.
Her anger rose. ‘Get out! At once! Do you call yourself a man? You are a shameless vagabond. Shameless and cowardly.