A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [12]
Lakhan brought up Raghu unconscious. They rolled him on the damp grass and pumped water out of his mouth and through his nostrils. But it was too late.
‘Messages,’ Bipti kept on saying. ‘We must send messages.’ And messages were taken everywhere by willing and excited villagers. The most important message went to Bipti’s sister Tara at Pagotes. Tara was a person of standing. It was her fate to be childless, but it was also her fate to have married a man who had, at one bound, freed himself from the land and acquired wealth; already he owned a rumshop and a dry goods shop, and he had been one of the first in Trinidad to buy a motorcar.
Tara came and at once took control. Her arms were encased from wrist to elbow with silver bangles which she had often recommended to Bipti: ‘They are not very pretty, but one clout from this arm will settle any attacker.’ She also wore earrings and a nakphul, a ‘nose-flower’. She had a solid gold yoke around her neck and thick silver bracelets on her ankles. In spite of all her jewellery she was energetic and capable, and had adopted her husband’s commanding manner. She left the mourning to Bipti and arranged everything else. She had brought her own pundit, whom she continually harangued; she instructed Pratap how to behave during the ceremonies; and she had even brought a photographer.
She urged Prasad, Dehuti and Mr Biswas to behave with dignity and to keep out of the way, and she ordered Dehuti to see that Mr Biswas was properly dressed. As the baby of the family Mr Biswas was treated by the mourners with honour and sympathy, though this was touched with a little dread. Embarrassed by their attentions, he moved about the hut and yard, thinking he could detect a new, raw smell in the air. There was also a strange taste in his mouth; he had never eaten meat, but now he felt he had eaten raw white flesh; nauseating saliva rose continually at the back of his throat and he had to keep on spitting, until Tara said, ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you pregnant?’
Bipti was bathed. Her hair, still wet, was neatly parted and the parting filled with red henna. Then the henna was scooped out and the parting filled with charcoal dust. She was now a widow forever. Tara gave a short scream and at her signal the other women began to wail. On Bipti’s wet black hair there were still spots of henna, like drops of blood.
Cremation was forbidden and Raghu was to be buried. He lay in a coffin in the bedroom, dressed in his finest dhoti, jacket and turban, his beads around his neck and down his jacket. The coffin was strewed with marigolds which matched his turban. Pratap, the eldest son, did the last rites, walking round the coffin.
‘Photo now,’ Tara said. ‘Quick. Get them all together. For the last time.’
The photographer, who had been smoking under the mango tree, went into the hut and said, ‘Too dark.’
The men became interested and gave advice while the women wailed.
‘Take it outside. Lean it against the mango tree.’
‘Light a lamp.’
‘It couldn’t be too dark.’
‘What do you know? You’ve never had your photo taken. Now, what I suggest –’
The photographer, of mixed Chinese, Negro and European blood, did not understand what was being said. In the end he and some of the men took the coffin out to the verandah and stood it against the wall.
‘Careful! Don’t let him fall out.’
‘Goodness. All the marigolds have dropped out.’
‘Leave them,’ the photographer said in English. ‘Is a nice little touch. Flowers on the ground.’ He set up his tripod in the yard, just under the ragged eaves of thatch, and put his head under the black cloth.
Tara roused Bipti from her grief, arranged Bipti’s hair and veil, and dried Bipti’s eyes.
‘Five people all together,’ the photographer said to Tara. ‘Hard to know just how to arrange them. It look to me that it would have to be two one side and three the other side. You sure you want all five?’
Tara was firm.
The photographer sucked