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By Root 7491 0

a stab of guilt and panic. He was expecting to be summoned to mysterious rooms and told by their secure occupants that his services were no longer required. He sat at his desk – but it belonged to him no more than the columns of the Sentinel he filled – and listened to the noises made by the carpenters. Those were the noises he had heard on his first day in the office; building and rebuilding had gone on without interruption ever since. The newsroom came to its afternoon life. Reporters arrived, took off their jackets, opened notebooks and typed; groups gathered at the green water-cooler and broke up again; at some desks proofs were being corrected, the inner pages laid out. For more than four years he had been part of this excitement. Now, waiting for the summons, he could only observe it.

Getting to believe that by staying in the office he was increasing the risk of dismissal, he left early and cycled home. Fear led to fear. Suppose he had to send the children back to Hanuman House, would there be anyone to receive them? Suppose Mrs Tulsi gave him notice – as Shama did so often to the tenement people – where would he go? How would he live?

The years stretched ahead, dark.

When he got home he mixed and drank some Maclean’s Brand Stomach Powder, undressed, got into bed and began to read Epictetus.

But the days went by and no summons came. And at last it was time for Mr Burnett to leave. Mr Biswas wanted to make some gesture to show his gratitude and sympathy, but he could think of nothing. And after all Mr Burnett was escaping; he was staying behind. The Sentinel reported Mr Burnett’s departure on the society page. There was an unkind photograph of Mr Burnett looking uncomfortable in a dinner jacket, his small eyes popping in the flash of the camera, a cigar stuck in his mouth as if for comic effect. He was reported as being sorry to leave; he had to take up an appointment in America; he had learned much from his association with Trinidad and the Sentinel, and he would take a great interest in the progress of both; he thought the standards of local journalism ‘surprisingly high’. It was left to the other newspapers to reveal the other strings to his bow that Mr Burnett had spoken about. They reported that an Indian troupe, made up of dancers, a fire-walker, a snake-charmer and a man who could rest on a bed of nails, was accompanying Mr Burnett, a former editor of a local newspaper, on his travels to America. One headline was THE CIRCUS MOVES ON.

And the new régime started at the Sentinel The day after Mr Burnett’s departure the newsroom was hung with posters which said DON’T BE BRIGHT, JUST GET IT RIGHT and NEWS NOT VIEWS and FACTS? IF NOT AXE and CHECK IT OR CHUCK IT. Mr Biswas regarded them all as aimed at himself alone, and their whimsicality scared him. The office was subdued and everyone wore a look of earnestness, those who had gone up, those who had gone down. Mr Burnett’s news editor had been made a sub-editor. His bright reporters had been variously scattered. One went to Today’s Arrangements, Invalids and The Weather, one to Shipping, one to Diana’s Diary on the society page, one to Classified Advertisements. Mr Biswas joined Court Shorts.

‘Write?’ he said to Shama. ‘I don’t call that writing. Is more like filling up a form. X, aged so much, was yesterday fined so much by Mr Y at this court for doing that. The prosecution alleged. Electing to conduct his own defence, X said. The magistrate, passing sentence, said.’

But Shama approved of the new régime. She said, ‘It will teach you to have some respect for people and the truth.’

‘Hear you. Hear you! But you don’t surprise me. I expect you to talk like that. But let them wait. New régime, eh. Just see the circulation drop now.’

It was only to Shama that Mr Biswas spoke about the changes. At the office the subject was never mentioned. Mr Burnett’s favourites avoided one another and, fearing intrigue, mixed with no one else. Apart from the posters there had been no directive, but they had all, so far as their new duties permitted writing, changed their styles.