A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [17]
Seeing the group of three walking Indians file across the plank over the gutter, F. Z. Ghany got up, spat out the matchstick and greeted them with good-humoured scorn. ‘Maharajin, maharajin, and little boy.’ He made most of his money from Hindus but, as a Muslim, distrusted them.
They climbed the two steps into his office. It became full. Ghany liked it that way; it attracted customers. He took the chair behind the table, sat on it, and left his clients standing.
Tara began to explain about Mr Biswas. She grew prolix, encouraged by the quizzical look on Ghany’s heavy dissipated face.
During one of Tara’s pauses Bipti said, ‘Buth suttificate.’
‘Oh!’ Ghany said, his manner changing. ‘Certificate of buth.’ It was a familiar problem. He looked legal and said, ‘Affidavit. When did the buth take place?’
Bipti told Tara in Hindi, ‘I can’t really say. But Pundit Sitaram should know. He cast Mohun’s horoscope the day after he was born.’
‘I don’t know what you see in that man, Bipti. He doesn’t know anything.’
Ghany could follow their conversation. He disliked the way Indian women had of using Hindi as a secret language in public places, and asked impatiently, ‘Date of buth?’
‘Eighth of June,’ Bipti said to Tara. ‘It must be that.’
‘All right,’ Ghany said. ‘Eighth of June. Who to tell you no?’ Smiling, he put a hand to the drawer of his table and pulled it this way and that before it came out. He took out a sheet of foolscap, tore it in half, put back one half into the drawer, pushed the drawer this way and that to close it, put the half-sheet on the dusty blotting-paper, stamped his name on it and prepared to write. ‘Name of boy?’
‘Mohun,’ Tara said.
Mr Biswas became shy. He passed his tongue above his upper lip and tried to make it touch the knobby tip of his nose.
‘Surname?’ Ghany asked.
‘Biswas,’ Tara said.
‘Nice Hindu name.’ He asked more questions, and wrote. When he was finished, Bipti made her mark and Tara, with great deliberation and much dancing of the pen above the paper, signed her name. F, Z. Ghany struggled with the drawer once more, took out the other half-sheet, stamped his name on it, wrote, and then had everybody sign again.
Mr Biswas was now leaning forward against one of the dusty walls, his feet pushed far back. He was spitting carefully, trying to let his spittle hang down to the floor without breaking.
F. Z. Ghany hung up his name stamp and took down the date stamp. He turned some ratchets, banged hard on the almost dry purple pad and banged hard on the paper. Two lengths of rubber fell apart. ‘Blasted thing bust,’ he said, and examined it without annoyance. He explained, ‘You could print the year all right, because you move that only once a year. But the dates and the months, man, you spinning them round all the time.’ He took up the length of rubber and looked at them thoughtfully. ‘Here, give them to the boy. Play with them.’ He wrote the date with one of his pens and said, ‘All right, leave everything to me now. Expensive business, affidavits. Stamps and thing, you know. Ten dollars in all.’
Bipti fumbled with the knot at the end of her veil and Tara paid.
‘Any more children without certificate of buth?’
‘Three,’ Bipti said.
‘Bring them,’ Ghany said. ‘Bring all of them. Any market day. Next week? Is better to straighten these things right away, you know.’
In this way official notice