These features were not easy to write. In the days of Mr. Burnett once he had got a slant and an opening sentence, everything followed. Sentence generated sentence, paragraph led to paragraph, and his articles had a flow and a unity. Now, writing words he did not feel, he was cramped, and the time came when he was not sure what he did feel. He had to note down ideas and juggle them into place. He wrote and rewrote, working extremely slowly, nagged by continual headaches, completing his articles only to meet the Thursday deadline. The results were laboured, dead, incapable of giving pleasure except to the people written about. He didn’t look forward to Sunday. He was up early as usual, but the paper remained on the front steps until Shama or one of the children brought it in. He avoided turning to his article for as long as possible. It was always a surprise, when he did turn to it, to see how photographs and layout concealed the dullness of the matter. Even then he did not read through what he had written, but glanced at odd paragraphs, looking for cuts and changes that would indicate editorial disapproval. He said nothing to Shama, but he lived now in constant expectation of the sack. He knew his work was not good.
At the office the authorities remained aloof. There was no criticism, but no reassurance. The new regime was still a forbidden subject and reporters still did not mix easily. Of Mr. Burnett’s favourites only the former news editor was generally accepted; he had, indeed, become an office character. He had grown haggard with worry. He lived in Barataria and came up every morning by bus through the packed, narrow and dangerous Eastern Main Road. He had developed a fear that he would die in a road accident and leave his wife and baby daughter unprovided for. All travel terrified him; morning and evening he had to travel; and every day he laid out stories of accidents, with photographs of “the twisted wreckage”. He spoke continually of his fear, ridiculed it and allowed himself to be ridiculed. But as the afternoon wore on his agitation became more marked, and at the end he was quite frantic, anxious to go home, yet fearing to leave the office, the only place where he felt safe.
Untended, the rose trees grew straggly and hard. A blight made their stems white and gave them sickly, ill-formed leaves. The buds opened slowly to reveal blanched, tattered blooms covered with minute insects; other insects built bright brown domes on the stems. The lily-pond collapsed again and the lily-roots rose brown and shaggy out of the thick, muddy water, which was white with bubbles. The children’s interest in the garden was spasmodic, and Shama, claiming that she had learned not to interfere with anything of Mr. Biswas’s, planted some zinnias and marigolds of her own, the only things, apart from an oleander tree and some cactus, that had flourished in the garden of Hanuman House.
The war was beginning to have its effects. Prices were rising everywhere. Mr. Biswas’s salary was increased, but the increases were promptly absorbed. And when his salary reached thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents a fortnight the Sentinel started giving COLA, a cost-of-living allowance. Henceforth it was COLA that went up; the salary remained stationary.
“Psychology,” Mr. Biswas said. They make it sound like a tea party at the orphanage, eh?” He raised his voice. “All right, kiddies? Got your cake? Got your icecream? Got your cola?”
The shorter the money became, the worse the food, the more meticulously Shama kept her accounts, filling reporter’s notebook after reporter’s notebook. These she never threw away; they lay in a swollen, grubby pile on the kitchen shelf.
There were fights in shops for hoarded, weevil-ridden flour. The police kept a sharp eye on stall holders in markets, and a number of vegetable growers and small farmers were fined and imprisoned for selling above the scheduled price. Flour continued to be scarce and full of weevils; and Shama’s food became worse.
To Mr. Biswas’s complaints she said, “I walk miles every Saturday to save a cent here and a cent there.”
And soon, food forgotten, they were quarrelling. Their quarrels lasted from day to day, from week to week, quarrels differing only in words from those they had had at The Chase.
“Trapped!” Mr. Biswas would say. “You and your family have got me trapped in this hole.”
“Yes,” Shama would say. “I suppose if it wasn’t for my family you would have a grass roof over your head.”
“Family! Family! Put me in one poky little barrackroom and pay me twenty dollars a month. Don’t talk to me about your family.”
“I tell you, if it wasn’t for the children-”
And often, in the end, Mr. Biswas would leave the house and go for a long night walk through the city, stopping at some empty shack of a cafй to eat a tin of salmon, trying to stifle the pain in his stomach and only making it worse; while below the weak electric bulb the sleepy-eyed Chinese shopkeeper picked and sucked his teeth, his slack, bare arms resting on a glasscase in which flies slept on stale cakes. Up to this time the city had been new and held an expectation which not even the deadest two o”clock sun could destroy. Anything could happen: he might meet his barren heroine, the past could be undone, he would be remade. But now not even the thought of the Sentinel’s presses, rolling out at that moment reports of speeches, banquets, funerals (with all names and decorations carefully checked), could keep him from seeing that the city was no more than a repetition of this: this dark, dingy cafй, the chipped counter, the flies thick on the electric flex, the empty Coca Cola cases stacked in a corner, the cracked glasscase, the shopkeeper picking his teeth, waiting to close.
And in the house, while he was out, the children would come out of bed and go to Shama. She would take down her bloated reporter’s notebooks and try to explain how she had spent the money given her.
At school one day Anand asked the boy who shared his desk, “Your father and mother does quarrel?”
“What about?”
“Oh, about anything. About food, for instance.”
“Nah. But suppose he ask her to go to town and buy something. And suppose she don’t buy it. Boy!”
One evening, after a quarrel had flared up and died without being concluded, Anand went to Mr. Biswas’s room and said, “I have a story to tell you.”
Something in his manner warned Mr. Biswas. He put down his book, settled a pillow against the head of the bed and smiled.
“Once upon a time there was a man-” Anand’s voice broke.
“Yes?” Mr. Biswas said, in a mocking friendly voice, still smiling, scraping his lower lip with his teeth.
“Once upon a time there was a man who-” His voice broke again, his father’s smile confused him, he forgot what he had planned to say and abandoning grammar, added quickly, “Who, whatever you do for him, wasn’t satisfied.”
Mr. Biswas burst out laughing, and Anand ran out of the room, trembling with rage and humiliation, to the kitchen, where Shama comforted him.
For many days Anand didn’t speak to Mr. Biswas and, in secret revenge, didn’t drink milk at the Dairies, but iced coffee. Mr. Biswas was effusive towards Savi and Myna and Kamla, and relaxed with Shama. The atmosphere in the house was less heavy and Shama, now Anand’s defender, took much pleasure in urging Anand to speak to his father.
“Leave him, leave him,” Mr. Biswas said. “Leave the storyteller.”
Anand became steadily more morose. When he came home after private lessons one afternoon he refused to eat or talk. He went to his room, lay down on the bed and, despite Shama’s coaxings, stayed there.