A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [14]
Pratap sucked his teeth. ‘He was a miser, that one. He used to hide his money.’
Tara said, ‘Is this the training and piety your father gave you?’
They searched. They pulled out Raghu’s box from under the bed and looked for false bottoms; at Bipti’s suggestion they looked for any joint that might reveal a hiding-place in the timber itself. They poked the sooty thatch and ran their hands over the rafters; they tapped the earth floor and the bamboo-and-mud walls; they examined Raghu’s walking-sticks, taking out the ferrules, Raghu’s only extravagance; they dismantled the bed and uprooted the logs on which it stood. They found nothing.
Bipti said, ‘I don’t suppose he had any money really.’
‘You are a fool,’ Tara said, and it was in this mood of annoyance that she ordered Bipti to pack Dehuti’s bundle and took Dehuti away.
Because no cooking could be done at their house, they ate at Sadhu’s. The food was unsalted and as soon as he began to chew, Mr Biswas felt he was eating raw flesh and the nauseous saliva filled his mouth again. He hurried outside to empty his mouth and clean it, but the taste remained. And Mr Biswas screamed when, back at the hut, Bipti put him to bed and threw Raghu’s blanket over him. The blanket was hairy and prickly; it seemed to be the source of the raw, fresh smell he had been smelling all day. Bipti let him scream until he was tired and fell asleep in the yellow, wavering light of the oil lamp which left the corners in darkness. She watched the wick burn lower and lower until she heard the snores of Pratap, who snored like a big man, and the heavy breathing of Mr Biswas and Prasad. She slept only fitfully herself. It was quiet inside the hut, but outside the noises were loud and continuous: mosquitoes, bats, frogs, crickets, the poor-me-one. If the cricket missed a chirp the effect was disturbing and she awoke.
She was awakened from a light sleep by a new noise. At first she couldn’t be sure. But the nearness of the noise and its erratic sequence disturbed her. It was a noise she heard every day but now, isolated in the night, it was hard to place. It came again: a thud, a pause, a prolonged snapping, then a series of gentler thuds. And it came again. Then there was another noise, of bottles breaking, muffled, as though the bottles were full. And she knew the noises came from her garden. Someone was stumbling among the bottles Raghu had buried neck downwards around the flower-beds.
She roused Prasad and Pratap.
Mr Biswas, awaking to hushed talk and a room of dancing shadows, closed his eyes to keep out the danger; at once, as on the day before, everything became dramatic and remote.
Pratap gave walking-sticks to Prasad and Bipti. Carefully he unbolted the small window, then pushed it out with sudden vigour.
The garden was lit up by a hurricane lamp. A man was working a fork into the ground among the bottle-borders. ‘Dhari!’ Bipti called.
Dhari didn’t look up or reply. He went on forking, rocking the implement in the earth, tearing the roots that kept the earth firm.
‘Dhari!’
He began to sing a wedding song.
‘The cutlass!’ Pratap said. ‘Give me the cutlass.’
‘O God! No, no,’ Bipti said.
‘I’ll go out and beat him like a snake,’ Pratap said, his voice rising out of control. ‘Prasad? Mai?’
‘Close the window,’ Bipti said.
The singing stopped and Dhari said, ‘Yes, close the window and go to sleep. I am here to look after you.’
Violently Bipti pulled the small window to, bolted it and kept her hand on the bolt.
The digging and the breaking bottles continued. Dhari sang:
In your daily tasks be resolute.
Fear no one, and trust in God.
‘Dhari isn’t in this alone,’ Bipti said. ‘Don’t provoke him.’ Then, as though it not only belittled Dhari’s behaviour but gave protection to them all, she added, ‘He is only after your father’s money. Let him look.’
Mr Biswas and