Read Online A House for Mr. Biswas by V.S. Naipaul - Free Book Online
Authors: V.S. Naipaul
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to him.
He had his bath in the yard, cut a hibiscus twig, crushed one end and cleaned his teeth with it, split the twig and scraped his tongue with the halves. Then he collected marigolds and zinnias and oleanders from the garden for the morning
puja,
and sat without religious fervour before the elaborate shrine. The smell of brass and stale sandalwood paste displeased him; it was a smell he was to recognize later in all temples, mosques and churches, and it was always disagreeable. Mechanically he cleaned the images, the lines and indentations of which were black or cream with old sandalwood paste; it was easier to clean the small smooth pebbles, whose significance had not yet been explained to him. At this stage Pundit Jairam usually came to see that he did not scamp the ritual, but this morning he did not come. Mr Biswas chanted from the prescribed scriptures, applied fresh sandalwood paste to the images and smooth pebbles, decked them with fresh flowers, rang the bell and consecrated the offering of sweetened milk. With the sandalwood marks still wet and tickling on his forehead, he sought out Jairam to offer him some of the milk.
Jairam, bathed and dressed and fresh, was sitting against some pillows in one corner of the verandah, spectacles low down on his nose, a brown Hindi book on his lap. When the verandah shook below Mr Biswas’s bare feet Jairam looked up and then down through his spectacles, and turned a page of his dingy book. Spectacles made him look older, abstracted and benign.
Mr Biswas held the brass jar of milk toward him. ‘Baba.’
Jairam sat up, rearranged a pillow, held a cupped palm, touching the elbow of the outstretched arm with the fingers of his free hand. Mr Biswas poured. Jairam brought the inside of his wrist against his forehead, blessed Mr Biswas, threw the milk into his mouth, passed his wet palm through his thin grey hair, readjusted his spectacles and looked down again at his book.
Mr Biswas went to his room, put on his workaday clothes and came out to breakfast. They ate in silence. Suddenly Jairam pushed his brass plate towards Mr Biswas.
‘Eat this.’
Mr Biswas’s fingers, ploughing through some cabbage, stood still.
‘Of course you won’t eat it. And I will tell you why. Because I have been eating from this plate.’
Mr Biswas’s fingers, feeling dry and dirty, bent and straightened.
‘Soanie!’
Jairam’s wife thumped out from the kitchen and stood between them, with her back to Mr Biswas. He looked at the creases on the edge of her soles and saw that the soles were hard and dirty. This surprised him, because Soanie was always washing the floor and bathing herself.
‘Go and bring the bananas.’
She pulled the veil over her forehead. ‘Don’t you think you had better forget it? It is such a small thing.’
‘Small thing! A whole hand of bananas!’
She went to the kitchen and came back, cradling the bananas.
‘Put them here, Soanie. Mohun, nobody else can touch these bananas now but yourself. When people, out of thegoodness of their hearts, give me gifts, they are for you. Eh?’ Then the edge went out of his voice and he became like the benign, expounding pundit he was in company. ‘We mustn’t waste, Mohun. I have told you that again and again. We mustn’t let these bananas get rotten. You must finish what you have begun. Start now.’
Mr Biswas had been lulled by Jairam’s calm, even manner, and the abruptness of the command took him by surprise. He looked down at his plate and flexed his fingers, the tips of which were stuck with drying shreds of cabbage.
‘Start now.’
Soanie stood in the doorway, blocking the light. Though it was bright day, the room, with bedrooms on one side and the low roof of the verandah on the other, was gloomy.
‘Look. I have peeled one for you.’
The banana hovered in Jairam’s clean hand before Mr Biswas’s face. He took it with his dirty fingers, bit and chewed. Surprisingly, it tasted. But the taste was so
He had his bath in the yard, cut a hibiscus twig, crushed one end and cleaned his teeth with it, split the twig and scraped his tongue with the halves. Then he collected marigolds and zinnias and oleanders from the garden for the morning
puja,
and sat without religious fervour before the elaborate shrine. The smell of brass and stale sandalwood paste displeased him; it was a smell he was to recognize later in all temples, mosques and churches, and it was always disagreeable. Mechanically he cleaned the images, the lines and indentations of which were black or cream with old sandalwood paste; it was easier to clean the small smooth pebbles, whose significance had not yet been explained to him. At this stage Pundit Jairam usually came to see that he did not scamp the ritual, but this morning he did not come. Mr Biswas chanted from the prescribed scriptures, applied fresh sandalwood paste to the images and smooth pebbles, decked them with fresh flowers, rang the bell and consecrated the offering of sweetened milk. With the sandalwood marks still wet and tickling on his forehead, he sought out Jairam to offer him some of the milk.
Jairam, bathed and dressed and fresh, was sitting against some pillows in one corner of the verandah, spectacles low down on his nose, a brown Hindi book on his lap. When the verandah shook below Mr Biswas’s bare feet Jairam looked up and then down through his spectacles, and turned a page of his dingy book. Spectacles made him look older, abstracted and benign.
Mr Biswas held the brass jar of milk toward him. ‘Baba.’
Jairam sat up, rearranged a pillow, held a cupped palm, touching the elbow of the outstretched arm with the fingers of his free hand. Mr Biswas poured. Jairam brought the inside of his wrist against his forehead, blessed Mr Biswas, threw the milk into his mouth, passed his wet palm through his thin grey hair, readjusted his spectacles and looked down again at his book.
Mr Biswas went to his room, put on his workaday clothes and came out to breakfast. They ate in silence. Suddenly Jairam pushed his brass plate towards Mr Biswas.
‘Eat this.’
Mr Biswas’s fingers, ploughing through some cabbage, stood still.
‘Of course you won’t eat it. And I will tell you why. Because I have been eating from this plate.’
Mr Biswas’s fingers, feeling dry and dirty, bent and straightened.
‘Soanie!’
Jairam’s wife thumped out from the kitchen and stood between them, with her back to Mr Biswas. He looked at the creases on the edge of her soles and saw that the soles were hard and dirty. This surprised him, because Soanie was always washing the floor and bathing herself.
‘Go and bring the bananas.’
She pulled the veil over her forehead. ‘Don’t you think you had better forget it? It is such a small thing.’
‘Small thing! A whole hand of bananas!’
She went to the kitchen and came back, cradling the bananas.
‘Put them here, Soanie. Mohun, nobody else can touch these bananas now but yourself. When people, out of thegoodness of their hearts, give me gifts, they are for you. Eh?’ Then the edge went out of his voice and he became like the benign, expounding pundit he was in company. ‘We mustn’t waste, Mohun. I have told you that again and again. We mustn’t let these bananas get rotten. You must finish what you have begun. Start now.’
Mr Biswas had been lulled by Jairam’s calm, even manner, and the abruptness of the command took him by surprise. He looked down at his plate and flexed his fingers, the tips of which were stuck with drying shreds of cabbage.
‘Start now.’
Soanie stood in the doorway, blocking the light. Though it was bright day, the room, with bedrooms on one side and the low roof of the verandah on the other, was gloomy.
‘Look. I have peeled one for you.’
The banana hovered in Jairam’s clean hand before Mr Biswas’s face. He took it with his dirty fingers, bit and chewed. Surprisingly, it tasted. But the taste was so
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