A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [199]
‘All right,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘Puja over. Books now.’
They retired to the bare drawingroom. From time to time they went to the window. The hill was black against a lighter sky. Here and there it showed red and occasionally burst into yellow flame, which seemed unsupported, dancing in the air.
Anand was in a bus, one of those dilapidated, crowded buses that ran between Shorthills and Port of Spain. Something was wrong. He was lying on the floor of the bus and people were looking down at him and chattering. The bus must have been running over a newly-repaired road: the wheels were kicking up pebbles against the wings.
Myna and Kamla stood over him, and he was being shaken by Savi. He lay on his bedding in the drawingroom.
‘Fire!’ Savi said.
‘What o’clock it is?’
‘Two or three. Get up. Quick.’
The chattering, the pebbles against the wings, was the noise of the fire. Through the window he saw that the hill had turned red, and the land was red in places where no fire had been intended.
‘Pa? Ma?’ he asked.
‘Outside. We have to go to the big house to tell them.’
The house appeared to be encircled by the red, unblazing bush. The heat made breathing painful. Anand looked for the two poui trees at the top of the hill. They were black and leafless against the sky.
Hurriedly he dressed.
‘Don’t leave us,’ Myna said.
He heard Mr Biswas shouting outside, ‘Just beat it back. Just beat it back from the kitchen. House safe. No bush around it. Just keep it back from the kitchen.’
‘Savi!’ Shama called. ‘Anand wake?’
‘Don’t leave us,’ Kamla cried.
All four children left the house and walked past the newly-forked land in front to the path that led to the road. Just below the brow of the hill they were surprised by an absolute darkness. Between the path and the road there was no fire.
Myna and Kamla began to cry, afraid of the darkness before them, the fire behind them.
‘Leave them,’ Shama called. ‘And hurry up.’
Savi and Anand picked their way down the earth steps they couldn’t see.
‘You can hold my hand,’ Anand said.
They held hands and worked their way down the hill, into the gully, up the gully and into the road. Trees vaulted the blackness. The blackness was like a weight; it was as if they wore hats that came down to their eyebrows. They didn’t look up, not willing to be reminded that darkness lay above them and behind them as well as in front of them. They fixed their eyes on the road and kicked the loose gravel for the noise. It was chilly.
‘Say Rama Rama,’ Savi said. ‘It will keep away anything.’
They said Rama Rama.
‘Is Pa to blame for this,’ Savi said suddenly.
The repetition of Rama Rama comforted them. They became used to the darkness. They could distinguish trees a few yards ahead. The squat concrete box, where behind a steel door estate explosives were kept, was a reassuring white blur on the roadside.
At last they came to the bridge of coconut trunks. The white fretwork along the eaves of the house were visible. In Mrs Tulsi’s room, as always at night, a light burned. They made their way across the dangerous bridge and emerged into the open, grateful at that moment for the tree-cutting of Govind and W. C. Tuttle. The tall wet weeds on the drive stroked their bare legs. They sniffed, alert for the smell of snakes.
They heard a heavy breathing. They could not tell from which direction it came. They stopped muttering Rama Rama, came close together and began to run