A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [196]
‘Say Rama Rama,’ Savi said. ‘It will keep away anything.’
They said Rama Rama.
‘Is Pa to blame for this,’ Savi said suddenly.
The repetition of Rama Rama comforted them. They became used to the darkness. They could distinguish trees a few yards ahead. The squat concrete box, where behind a steel door estate explosives were kept, was a reassuring white blur on the roadside.
At last they came to the bridge of coconut trunks. The white fretwork along the eaves of the house were visible. In Mrs Tulsi’s room, as always at night, a light burned. They made their way across the dangerous bridge and emerged into the open, grateful at that moment for the tree-cutting of Govind and W. C. Tuttle. The tall wet weeds on the drive stroked their bare legs. They sniffed, alert for the smell of snakes.
They heard a heavy breathing. They could not tell from which direction it came. They stopped muttering Rama Rama, came close together and began to run towards the concrete steps, a distant grey glow. The breathing followed, and a dull, unhurried tramp.
Glancing to his left, Anand saw the mule in the cricket field. It was following them, moving along the snarled fence-wires. They reached the end of the drive. The mule reached the corner of the field and stopped.
They ran up the concrete steps, avoiding the overhanging nutmeg tree. They fumbled with the bolt on the verandah gate and the noise frightened them. They scratched at doors and windows, tapped the wall of Mrs Tulsi’s room, rattled the tall drawingroom doors. They called. There was no reply. Every noise they made seemed to them an explosion. But in the silence and blackness they were only whispering. Their footsteps, their knockings, Anand’s stumbling among the stale cakes and the widow’s corn, sounded only like the scuttling of rats.
Then they heard voices: low and alarmed: one aunt whispering to another, Mrs Tulsi calling for Sushila
Anand shouted: ‘Aunt!’
The voices were silenced. Then they were raised again, this time defiantly. Anand knocked hard on a window. A woman’s voice said, ‘Two of the little people!’ There was an exclamation.
They were thought to be the spirits of Hari and Padma.
Mrs Tulsi groaned and spoke a Hindi exorcism. Inside, doors were opened, the floor pounded. There was loud aggressive talk about sticks, cutlasses and God, while Sushila, the sickroom widow, an expert on the supernatural, asked in a sweet conciliatory voice, ‘Poor little people, what can we do for you?’
‘Fire!’ Anand cried.
‘Fire,’ Savi said.
‘Our house on fire!’
And Sushila, though she had taken part in the whisperings against Savi and Mr Biswas, found herself obliged to continue talking sweetly to Savi and Anand.
The apprehension of the house turned to joyous energy at the news of the fire.
‘But really,’ Chinta said, as she happily got ready, ‘what fool doesn’t know that to set fire to land in the night is to ask for trouble?’
Lights went on everywhere. Babies squealed, were hushed. Mrs Tuttle was heard to say, ‘Put something on your head, man. This dew isn’t good for anyone.’ ‘A cutlass, a cutlass,’ Sharma’s widow called. And the children excitedly relayed the news: ‘Uncle Mohun’s house is burning down!’ Some thrilled alarmists feared that the fire might spread through the woods to the big house itself; and there was speculation about the effects of the fire on the explosives.
The journey to the fire was like an excursion. Once there, the Tulsi party fell to work with a will, cutting, clearing, beating. It became a celebration. Shama, host for the second time to her family, prepared coffee in the kitchen, which was untouched. And Mr Biswas, forgetful of animosities, shouted to everyone, ‘Is all right. Is all right. Everything under control.’
Some eggs were