A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [76]
Moti shook his head and took off his bicycle clips. ‘Just give me a cent Paradise Plums.’
Mr Biswas gave him three in a square of white paper.
Moti didn’t go away. He put a Paradise Plum in his mouth and said, ‘I am glad you don’t stock lard. I respect you for it.’ He paused and, closing his eyes, crushed the Paradise Plum between his jaws. ‘I am glad to see a man in your position not giving up his religion for the sake of a few cents. Do you know that these days some Hindu shopkeepers are actually selling salt beef with their own hands? Just for the few extra cents.’
Mr Biswas knew, and regretted the squeamishness which preventéd him from doing the same.
‘And look at that other thing,’ Moti said, talking through the crushed Paradise Plum. ‘Did you hear about the pig?’
‘The Tulsi pig? Doesn’t surprise me at all.’
‘Still, the blessing is that not everyone is like that. You, for instance. And Seebaran. Do you know Seebaran?’
‘Seebaran?’
‘Don’t know Seebaran! L. S. Seebaran? The man who has been handling practically all the work in the Petty Civil.’
‘Oh, him,’ Mr Biswas said, still in the dark.
‘Very strict Hindu. And one of the best lawyers here too, I can tell you. We should be proud of him. The man who was here before you – what’s his name? – anyway, the man before you had a lot to thank Seebaran for. He would be a pauper today if it hadn’t been for Seebaran.’
Moti put another Paradise Plum in his mouth and absently considered the meagrely filled shelves. Mr Biswas followed Moti’s gaze, which came to rest on the tins with half-eaten labels, left there by the man Seebaran had assisted.
‘So everybody going to Dookhie, eh?’ Moti said, more familiar now, and speaking in English. Dookhie was the newest shopkeeper in The Chase. ‘Is a shame. Is a shame the way some people spend their whole life living on credit. Is a form of robbery. Take Mungroo. You know Mungroo?’
Mr Biswas knew him well.
‘A man like Mungroo should be in jail,’ Moti said. ‘I think so too.’
‘Is not,’ Moti said judiciously, closing his eyes and cracking the Paradise Plum, ‘as if he was a pauper and can’t afford to pay. Mungroo richer than you and me could ever hope to be, you hear.’ This was news to Mr Biswas.
‘Man should be in jail,’ Moti repeated.
Mr Biswas was about to say that he hadn’t been fooled by Mungroo when Moti said, ‘He don’t rob the rude and crude shopkeepers, people like himself. He frighten they give him a good dose of licks. No, he does look for nice people with nice soft heart, and is them he does rob. Mungroo see you, he think you look nice, and next day his wife come round for two cents this and three cents that, and she forget that she ain’t got no money, and if you could wait till next pay day. Well, you wrap up the goods in good strong paper-bag, you send she home happy, and you sit down and wait till next day. Next pay day Mungroo forget. His wife forget. They too busy killing chicken and buying rum to remember you. Two-three days later, eh-eh, wife suddenly remember you. She bawling again. She want more trust. Don’t tell me about Mungroo. I know him too good. Man should be in jail, if anybody had the guts to throw him there.’
The account was telescoped and dramatized, but Mr Biswas recognized its truth. He felt exposed, and said nothing.
‘Just show me your accounts,’ Moti said. ‘Just to see how much Mungroo owe you.’
Mr Biswas took down the spike from the nail between the shelves where it hung above a faded advertisement for Cydrax, a beverage which had not caught the village’s fancy. The spike was now a tall, feathery, multi-coloured brush, with the papers at the bottom as brittle and curling as dead leaves.
‘Pappa!’ Moti said, and became graver and graver as he looked through the papers. He could not look very far because to get at the lower papers he would have had to remove those at the top altogether. He turned away from Mr Biswas and contemplated the blackness outside, staring past the