A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [13]
Tara had that attended to.
The photographer said, ‘All right then. Mother and biggest son on either side. Next to mother, young boy and young girl. Next to big son, smaller son.’
There was more advice from the men.
‘Make them look at the coffin.’
‘At the mother.’
‘At the youngest boy.’
The photographer settled the matter by telling Tara, ‘Tell them to look at me.’
Tara translated, and the photographer went under his cloth. Almost immediately he came out again. ‘How about making the mother and the biggest boy put their hands on the edge of the coffin?’
This was done and the photographer went back under his cloth.
‘Wait!’ Tara cried, running out from the hut with a fresh garland of marigolds. She hung it around Raghu’s neck and said to the photographer in English, ‘All right. Draw your photo now.’
Mr Biswas never owned a copy of the photograph and he did not see it until 1937, when it made its appearance, framed in passepartout, on the wall of the drawingroom of Tara’s fine new house at Pagotes, a little lost among many other photographs of funeral groups, many oval portraits with blurred edges of more dead friends and relations, and coloured prints of the English countryside. The photograph had faded to the lightest brown and was partially defaced by the large heliotrope stamp of the photographer, still bright, and his smudged sprawling signature in soft black pencil. Mr Biswas was astonished at his own smallness. The scabs of sores and the marks of eczema showed clearly on his knobbly knees and along his very thin arms and legs. Everyone in the photograph had unnaturally large, staring eyes which seemed to have been outlined in black.
Tara was right when she said that the photograph was to be a record of the family all together for the last time. For in a few days Mr Biswas and Bipti, Pratap and Prasad and Dehuti had left Parrot Trace and the family split up for good.
It began on the evening of the funeral.
Tara said, ‘Bipti, you must give me Dehuti.’
Bipti had been hoping that Tara would make the suggestion. In four or five years Dehuti would have to be married and it was better that she should be given to Tara. She would learn manners, acquire graces and, with a dowry from Tara, might even make a good match.
‘If you are going to have someone,’ Tara said, ‘it is better to have one of your own family. That is what I always say. I don’t want strangers poking their noses into my kitchen and bedroom.’
Bipti agreed that it was better to have servants from one’s own family. And Pratap and Prasad and even Mr Biswas, who had not been asked, nodded, as though the problem of servants was one they had given much thought.
Dehuti looked down at the floor, shook her long hair and mumbled a few words which meant that she was far too small to be consulted, but was very pleased.
‘Get her new clothes,’ Tara said, fingering the georgette skirt and satin petticoat Dehuti had worn for the funeral. ‘Get her some jewels.’ She put a thumb and finger around Dehuti’s wrist, lifted her face, and turned up the lobe of her ear. ‘Earrings. Good thing you had them pierced, Bipti. She won’t need these sticks now.’ In the holes in her lobe Dehuti wore pieces of the thin hard spine of the blades of the coconut branch. Tara playfully pulled Dehuti’s nose. ‘Nakphul too. You would like a nose-flower?’
Dehuti smiled shyly, not looking up.
‘Well,’ Tara said, ‘fashions are changing all the time these days. I am just oldfashioned, that is all.’ She stroked her gold nose-flower. ‘It is expensive to be oldfashioned.’
‘She will satisfy you,’ Bipti said. ‘Raghu had no money. But he trained his children well. Training, piety –’
‘Quite,’ Tara said. ‘The time for crying is over, Bipti. How much money did Raghu leave you?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean? Are you trying to keep secrets from