It was a Hanuman House festival in miniature, and to the children almost like a game of makebelieve. They had the freedom of the kitchen and nibbled and tasted whenever they could. Shekhar bought sweets for them and on Sunday sent them to the one-thirty children’s show at the Roxy. And Mr. Biswas got on so well with the brothers that he was invaded by the holiday feeling that they were all men together, and he thought himself privileged to be host to the two sons of the family, one of whom was going abroad to become a doctor. He attempted genuinely to contribute to the enthusiasm, talking again about shipping lines and ships as though he had travelled in them all; he hinted at the write-up he was going to give Owad and flattered him by asking him to refuse to see reporters from the other newspapers; he spoke deprecatingly about Anand’s achievements and obtained compliments from Shekhar.
Sunday brought the Sunday Sentinel and Mr. Biswas’s scandalous feature, “I Am Trinidad’s Most Evil Man”, one of a series of interviews with Trinidad’s richest, poorest, tallest, fattest, thinnest, fastest, strongest men; which was following a series on men with unusual callings: thief, beggar, night-soil remover, mosquito-killer, undertaker, birth-certificate searcher, lunatic-asylum warden; which had followed a series on one-armed, one-legged, one-eyed men; which had come about when, after an M. Biswas interview with a man who had been shot years before in the neck and had to cover up the hole in order to speak, the Sentinel office had been crowded with men with interesting mutilations, offering to sell their story.
Mr. Biswas’s article was hilariously received by Owad and Shekhar, particularly as the most evil man was a wellknown Arwacas character. He had committed one murder under great provocation and after his acquittal had developed into a genial bore. The title of the interview promised for the following week, with Trinidad’s maddest man, aroused further laughter.
After breakfast all the men-and this included Anand-went for a bathe at the harbour extension at Docksite. The dredging was incomplete, but the sea-wall had been built and in the early morning parts of the sea provided safe, clean bathing, though at every footstep the mud rose, clouding the water. The reclaimed land, raised to the level of the sea-wall, was not as yet real land, only crusted mud, sharp along the cracks which patterned it like a coral fan.
The sun was not out and the high, stationary clouds were touched with red. Ships were blurred in the distance; the level sea was like dark glass. Anand was left at the edge of the water, near the wall, and the men went ahead, their voices and splashings carrying far in the stillness. All at once the sun came out, the water blazed, and sounds were subdued.
Aware of his unimpressive physique, Mr. Biswas began to clown; and, as he did more and more now, he tried to extend his clowning to Anand.
“Duck, boy!” he called. “Duck and let us see how long you can stay under water.”
“No!” Anand shouted back.
This abrupt denial of his father’s authority had become part of the clowning.
“You hear the boy?” Mr. Biswas said to Owad and Shekhar. He spoke an obscene Hindi epigram which had always amused them and which they now associated with him.
“You know what I feel like doing?” he said a little later. “See that rowingboat there, by the wall? Let us untie it. By tomorrow morning it will be in Venezuela.”
“And let us throw you in it,” Shekhar said.
They chased Mr. Biswas, caught him, held him above the water while he laughed and squirmed, his calves swinging like hammocks.
“One,” they counted, swinging him. “Two-”
Suddenly he became affronted and angry.
“Three!”
The smooth water slapped his belly and chest and forehead like something hard and hot. Surfacing, his back to them, he took some time to rearrange his hair, in reality wiping away the tears that had come to his eyes. The pause was long enough to tell Owad and Shekhar that he was angry. They were embarrassed; and he was recognizing the unreasonableness of his anger when Shekhar said, “Where is Anand?”
Mr. Biswas didn’t turn. “The boy is all right. Ducking. His grandfather was a champion diver.”
Owad laughed.
“Ducking, hell!” Shekhar said, and began swimming towards the wall.
There was no sign of Anand. In the shadow of the wall the rowingboat barely rocked above its reflection.
Silently Mr. Biswas and Owad watched Shekhar. He dived. Mr. Biswas scooped up a handful of water and let it fall on his head. Some of it ran down his face; some of it sprinkled the sea.
Shekhar reappeared near the sea-wall, shook the water from his head and dived again.
Mr. Biswas began to wade towards the wall. Owad began to swim. Mr. Biswas began to swim.
Shekhar surfaced again, near the rowingboat. There was alarm on his face. He was holding Anand under his left arm and was pulling strongly with his right.
Owad and Mr. Biswas moved towards him. He shouted to them to keep away. All at once he stopped pulling with his right hand, stood up, and was only waist-high in water. Behind him, in shadow, the rowingboat barely moved.
They carried Anand to the top of the wall and rolled him. Then Shekhar did some kneading exercises on his thin back. Mr. Biswas stood by, noticing only the large safetypin-one of Shama’s, doubtless-on Anand’s blue striped shirt, which lay in the small heap of his clothes.
Anand spluttered. His expression was one of anger. He said, “I was walking to the boat.”
“I told you to stay where you were,” Mr. Biswas said, angry too.
“And the bottom of the sea drop away.”
“The dredging,” Shekhar said. He had not lost his look of alarm.
“The sea just drop away,” Anand cried, lying on his back, covering his face with a crooked arm. He spoke as one insulted.
Owad said, “Anyway, you’ve got the record for ducking, Shompo.”
“Shut up!” Anand screamed. He began to cry, rubbing his legs on the hard, cracked ground, then turning over on his belly.
Mr. Biswas took up the shirt with the safetypin and handed it to Anand.
Anand snatched the shirt and said, “Leave me.”
“We shoulda leave you,” Mr. Biswas said, “when you was there, ducking.” As soon as he spoke the last word he regretted it.
“Yes!” Anand screamed. “You shoulda leave me.” He got up and, going to his heap of clothes, began to dress furiously, forcing his clothes over his wet and gritty skin. “I am never going to come out with any of you again.” His eyes were small and red, the lids swollen.
He walked away from them, quickly, his small body silhouetted against the sun, across the weed-ridden mud flat. Unused, his towel remained rolled, a large bundle below his arm.
“Well,” Mr. Biswas said. “Back for a little duck?”
Owad and Shekhar smiled. Then, slowly, they all dressed.
“I never thought the day would come when I would be glad that I was a sea scout,” Shekhar said. “It was just like a hole in the sea, you know. And there was a helluva pull. By tomorrow little Anand would really have been in Venezuela.”
They found Shama anxious to know why Anand had been sent back. He had said nothing and had locked himself in his room.
Savi and Myna burst into tears when they heard.
The lunch was the climax of the week-end festivities, but Anand did not come out of his room. He ate only a slice of water melon which Savi took to him.
Later that afternoon, after Shekhar had left, Shama gave vent to her annoyance. Anand had spoiled the week-end for everybody and she was going to flog him. She was dissuaded only by Owad’s pleas.