“Nobody didn’t give me any message to give you. It is just something I think of myself.”
“You think of it yourself, eh?”
He had seized the brass plate, spilling rice on the floor, and was rushing to the Demerara window. Going to throw the whole damned thing out, he had decided. But his violence calmed him, and at the window he had another thought: throw the plate out and you could kill somebody. He arrested his hurling gesture, and merely tilted the plate. The food slipped off easily, leaving a few grains of rice sticking to streaks of lentils and oily, bubble-ridden trails of curry.
“O God! Oo-Go-o-od!”
It began as a gentle cry and rose rapidly to a sustained bawling which aroused sympathetic shrieks from babies all over the house. All at once the bawling was cut off, and seconds later-it seemed much later-Mr. Biswas heard a deep, grating, withdrawing snuffle. “I going to tell Ma,” the god cried. “Ma, come and see what your son-in-law do to me. He cover me down with his dirty food.” After a sirenlike intake of breath the bawling continued.
Shama looked martyred.
There was considerable commotion below. Several people were shouting at once, babies screamed, there was much subsidiary bawling and chatter, and the hall resounded with agitated movements.
Heavy footsteps made the stairs shake, rattled the glass panes on doors, drummed across the Book Room, and Govind was in Mr. Biswas’s chamber.
“Is you!” Govind shouted, breathing hard, his handsome face contorted. “Is you who spit on Owad.”
Mr. Biswas was frightened.
He heard more footsteps on the stairs. The bawling drew nearer.
“Spit?” Mr. Biswas said. “I ain’t spit on anybody. I just gargle out of the window and throw away some bad food.”
Shama screamed.
Govind threw himself on Mr. Biswas.
Caught by surprise, stupefied by fear, Mr. Biswas neither shouted nor hit back at Govind, and allowed himself to be pummelled. He was struck hard and often on the jaw, and with every blow Govind said, “Is you.” Vaguely Mr. Biswas was aware of women massing in the room, screaming, sobbing, falling upon Govind and himself. He was acutely aware of the god bawling, right in his ear, it seemed: a dry, deliberate, scraping noise. Abruptly the bawling ceased. “Yes, is he!” the god said. “Is he. He asking for this a long time now.” And at every cuff and kick Govind gave, the god grunted, as though he himself had given the blow. The women were above Mr. Biswas and Govind, their hair and veils falling loose. One veil tickled Mr. Biswas’s nose.
“Stop him!” Chinta cried. “Govind will kill Biswas if you don’t stop him. He is a terrible man, I tell you, when his temper is up.” She burst into a short, sharp wail. “Stop it, stop it. They will send Govind to the gallows if you don’t stop it. Stop it before they make me a widow.”
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 Vapo-rub, 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 at her. She was still staring through the doorway into the Book Room. His face felt heavy. He put a hand to one cheek and worked his jaw. It moved stiffly.
Tears spilled over from Shama’s big eyes and ran down her cheeks.
“What happen? Somebody beat you too?”
She shook her tears away, without removing her hand from her chin.
“Go and get me a tin of salmon. Canadian. And get some bread and peppersauce.”
“What happen? You have a craving? You making baby?”
He would have liked to hit her. But that would have been ridiculous after what had just happened.
“You making baby?” Shama repeated. She rose, shook down her skirt and straightened it. Loudly, as though trying to catch the attention of the people downstairs, she said, “Go and get it yourself. You not going to start ordering me around, you hear.” She blew her nose, wiped it, and left.