A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [15]
Pratap and Prasad awoke when it was still dark, as they always did. They did not talk about what had happened and Bipti insisted that they should go to the buffalo pond as usual. As soon as it was light she went out to the garden. The flower-beds had been dug up; dew lay on the upturned earth which partially buried uprooted plants, already limp and quailing. The vegetable patch had not been forked, but tomato plants had been cut down, stakes broken and pumpkins slashed.
‘Oh, wife of Raghu!’ a man called from the road, and she saw Dhari jump across the gutter.
Absently, he picked a dew-wet leaf from the hibiscus shrub, crushed it in his palm, put it in his mouth and came towards her, chewing.
Her anger rose. ‘Get out! At once! Do you call yourself a man? You are a shameless vagabond. Shameless and cowardly.’
He walked past her, past the hut, to the garden. Chewing, he considered the damage. He was in his working clothes, his cutlass in its black leather sheath at his waist, his enamel food-carrier in one hand, his calabash of water hanging from his shoulder.
‘Oh, wife of Raghu, what have they done?’
‘I hope you found something to make you happy, Dhari.’
He shrugged, looking down at the ruined flower-beds. ‘They will keep on looking, maharajin.’
‘Everybody knows you lost your calf. But that was an accident. What about –’
‘Yes, yes. My calf. Accident.’
‘I will remember you for this, Dhari. And Raghu’s sons won’t forget you either.’
‘He was a great diver.’
‘Savage! Get out!’
‘Willingly.’ He spat out the hibiscus leaf on to a flowerbed. ‘I just wanted to tell you that these wicked men will come again. Why don’t you help them, maharajin?’
There was no one Bipti could ask for help. She distrusted the police, and Raghu had no friends. Moreover, she didn’t know who might be in league with Dhari.
That night they gathered all Raghu’s sticks and cutlasses and waited. Mr Biswas closed his eyes and listened, but as the hours passed he found it hard to remain alert.
He was awakened by whispers and movement in the hut. Far away, it seemed, someone was singing a slow, sad wedding song. Bipti and Prasad were standing. Cutlass in hand, Pratap moved in a frenzy between the window and the door, so swiftly that the flame of the oil lamp blew this way and that, and once, with a plopping sound, disappeared. The room sank into darkness. A moment later the flame returned, rescuing them.
The singing drew nearer, and when it was almost upon them they heard, mingled with it, chatter and soft laughter.
Bipti unbolted the window, pushed it open a crack, and saw the garden ablaze with lanterns.
‘Three of them,’ she whispered. ‘Lakhan, Dhari, Oumadh.’
Pratap pushed Bipti aside, flung the window wide open and screamed, ‘Get out! Get out! I will kill you all.’
‘Shh,’ Bipti said, pulling Pratap away and trying to close the window.
‘Raghu’s son,’ a man said from the garden.
‘Don’t sh me,’ Pratap screamed, turning on Bipti. Tears came to his eyes and his voice broke into sobs. ‘I will kill them all.’
‘Noisy little fellow,’ another man said.
‘I will come back and kill you all,’ Pratap shouted. ‘I promise you.’
Bipti took him in her arms and comforted him, like a child, and in the same gentle, unalarmed voice said, ‘Prasad, close the window. And go to sleep.’
‘Yes, son.’ They recognized Dhari’s voice. ‘Go to sleep. We will be here every night now to look after you.’
Prasad closed the window, but the noise stayed with them: song, talk, and unhurried sounds of fork and spade. Bipti sat and stared at the door, next to which, on the ground, Pratap sat, a cutlass beside him, its haft carved into a pair of Wellingtons. He was motionless. His tears