A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [206]
Mr Biswas looked at Bhandat for signs of embarrassment. But Bhandat went on talking undisturbed about the competitions he had entered and lost.
The woman came out again with two tall enamel cups of tea. She put a cup on the table and pushed the plate of cakes towards Mr Biswas, who was now seated on the chair she had pulled out. She gave the other cup to Bhandat, who sat up to receive it, handing her the sheet of paper on which Mr Biswas had written the slogan.
Bhandat sipped his tea, and for a moment he could have been Ajodha. The gesture was the same: the slow bringing of the cup to the lips, the half-closing of the eyes, the lips resting on the brim, the blowing at the tea. Then came the sip with closed eyes, as though the drink had been consecrated; and peace spread across the tormented face.
He opened his eyes: torment returned. ‘It good, eh?’ he said to the woman in English. She glanced hastily at Mr Biswas. She seemed anxious to return behind her screen.
‘He is a big man now,’ Bhandat said. ‘But you know, I did know him when he was a boy so high.’ He gave a hoot. ‘Yes, so high.’
Mr Biswas tried to avoid Bhandat’s gaze by taking one of the yellow cakes and biting at it.
‘Since he was a boy so high. He is a big man now. But I used to put the licks on him good too, you know. Eh, Mohun? Yes, man.’ Bhandat held the cup in his left hand and whipped his right forefinger against his thumb.
This was the moment Mr Biswas had feared. But now that it had come, he found only that he was relieved. Bhandat had not revived the shame: he had removed it.
The cup trembled in Bhandat’s hand. The woman ran to the bed and opened her mouth wide. No words came out of that mouth: only a clacking of the tongue that erupted, at the end, into a shrill croak.
The tea had spilled on the bed, on Bhandat. And Mr Biswas, thinking of deafness, dumbness, insanity, the horror of the sexual act in that grimy room, felt the yellow cake turn to a sweet slippery paste in his mouth. He could neither chew nor swallow. On the bed Bhandat was in a paroxysm of rage, cursing in Hindi, while the woman, unheeding, took the cup from his hand, ran behind the screen and brought out a floursack rag, burned in places, and began rubbing briskly on the sheet and Bhandat’s vest.
‘You awkward barren cow!’ Bhandat screamed in Hindi. ‘Always full to the brim! Always full to the brim!’
As she rubbed, her thin dress shook, revealing the thick coarse hair under her arms, the shape of her graceless body, the outline of one of her undergarments. Mr Biswas forced himself to swallow the paste in his mouth and washed it down with the strong sweet tea. He was glad when the woman rolled up the floursack rag, put it under Bhandat’s vest, and went behind the screen.
Bhandat calmed down at once. He smiled impishly at Mr Biswas and said, ‘She doesn’t understand Hindi.’
Mr Biswas rose to go.
The woman appeared again, and croaked at Bhandat.
‘Stay and eat a proper meal, Mohun,’ Bhandat said. ‘I am not so poor that I can’t afford to feed my child.’
Mr Biswas shook his head and tapped the notebook in his jacket pocket.
The woman withdrew.
‘Antiseptic, fragrant, refreshing and inexpensive, eh? God will thank you for this, Mohun. As for those worthless sons of mine –’ Bhandat smiled. ‘Come and let me kiss you before you go, Mohun.’
Mr Biswas smiled, left Bhandat hooting, and went behind the screen to say good-bye to the woman. A lighted coal-pot stood on a box; on another box there were vegetables and plates. A basin of dirty water rested on the wet, black floor.
He said, ‘I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t promise anything.’
The woman nodded.
‘Is his back, really.’
The words were low but clear. She was not dumb!
He did not wait for an explanation. He hurried out of the room into the lane.