A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [60]
Punched on his hollow chest, short-jabbed on his soft, rising belly, Mr Biswas found, to his surprise, that his mind remained quite clear. What the hell is that woman crying for? he thought. She is going to be a widow all right, but what about me? He was trying to encircle Govind with his arms, but was unable to do more than tap him on the back. Govind didn’t appear to notice the taps. Mr Biswas would have been surprised if he had. He wanted to scratch and pinch Govind, but reflected that it would be unmanly to do so.
‘Kill him!’ the god shouted. ‘Kill him, Uncle Govind.’
‘Owad, Owad,’ Chinta said. ‘How can you say a thing like that?’ She pulled the god to her and pressed his head against her bosom. ‘You too? Do you want to make me a widow?’
The god allowed himself to be embraced, but twisted his head to see the struggle and kept on shouting, ‘Kill him, Uncle Govind. Kill him.’
The women were having little effect on Govind. They had succeeded only in lessening the swing of his arms, but his short jabs were powerful. Mr Biswas felt them all. They no longer caused pain.
‘Kill him, Uncle Govind!’
He doesn’t want any encouragement, Mr Biswas thought.
Neighbours were shouting.
‘What happening, Mai? Mai! Mrs Tulsi! Mr Seth! What happening?’
Their urgent, frightened voices frightened Mr Biswas. Suddenly he heard himself bawling, ‘O God! I dead. I dead. He will kill me.’
His terror silenced the house.
It stilled Govind’s arms. It stilled the god, and gave him a fleeting vision of black policemen, courthouses, gallows, graves, coffins.
The women lifted themselves off Govind and Mr Biswas. Govind, breathing heavily, lifted himself off Mr Biswas.
How I hate people who breathe like that, Mr Biswas thought. And how that Govind smells! It wasn’t a smell of sweat, but of oil, body oil, associated in Mr Biswas’s mind with the pimples on Govind’s face. How unpleasant it must be, to be married to a man like that!
‘Has he killed him?’ Chinta asked. She was calmer; her voice held pride and genuine concern. ‘Talk, brother. Talk. Talk to your sister. Get him to say something, somebody.’
Now that Govind was off his chest Mr Biswas’s only concern was to make sure that he was properly dressed. He hoped nothing had happened to his pants. He moved a hand down to investigate.
‘He is all right,’ Sushila said.
Someone bent over him. That smell of oil, Vick’s Vaporub, garlic and raw vegetables told him it was Padma. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, and shook him.
He turned over on his side, his face to the wall.
‘He is all right,’ Govind said, and added in English, ‘Is a good thing all you people did come, otherwise I woulda be swinging on the gallows for this man.’
Chinta gave a sob.
Shama had maintained her martyr’s attitude throughout, sitting on the low bench, her skirt draped over her knees, one hand supporting her chin, her staring eyes misting over with tears.
‘Spitting on me, eh?’ the god said. ‘Go ahead. Why you don’t spit now? Coming and laughing at our religion. Laughing at me when I do puja. I know the good I doing myself when I do puja, you hear.’
‘It’s all right, son,’ Govind said. ‘Nobody can insult you and Mai when I am around.’
‘Leave him alone, Govind,’ Padma said. ‘Leave him, Owad.’
The incident was over. The room emptied.
Left alone, Shama and Mr Biswas remained as they were, Shama staring through the doorway, Mr Biswas considering the lotuses on the pale green wall.
They heard the hall return to life. The evening meal, delayed, was being laid out with unusual zest. Babies were consoled with songs, clapping, chuckles and baby-talk. Children were scolded with exceptional good humour. Between everyone downstairs there was for the moment a new bond, and Mr Biswas recognized this bond as himself.
‘Go and get me a tin of red salmon,’ he said to Shama, without turning from the wall. ‘And some hops bread.’
Her throat was tickling. She coughed and tried to hide the swallow by sighing.
This wearied him further. He got up, his pants hanging loose, and looked