A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [75]
‘Is for the eggzema,’ the house-player said.
She dipped her finger in condensed milk, in sulphur, then put her finger in her mouth. Hurriedly she repeated the action.
Mrs Tulsi had come out of the black kitchen doorway.
‘Sulphur and condensed milk,’ Mr Biswas said.
‘To sweeten it,’ Mrs Tulsi said. Again she had forgiven him.
‘Sweeten!’ the contortionist whispered loudly. ‘My foot.’ Her achievements gave her unusual licence.
‘Very good for the eczema.’ Mrs Tulsi sat down next to the contortionist, took up her plate and shook back the sulphur from the rim, over which the contortionist had been steadily spilling sulphur on to the table. ‘Have you seen your daughter, Mohun?’
‘Lakshmi?’
‘Lakshmi?’
‘Lakshmi. My daughter. That is the name I choose.’
‘Shama looks well.’ Mrs Tulsi brushed the spilled sulphur off the table on to her palm and shook the palm over the condensed milk, which the contortionist had so far kept virgin. ‘I have put her in the Rose Room. My room.’
Mr Biswas said nothing.
Mrs Tulsi patted the bench. ‘Come and sit here, Mohun.’
He sat beside her.
‘The Lord gives,’ Mrs Tulsi said abruptly in English.
Concealing his surprise, Mr Biswas nodded. He knew Mrs Tulsi’s philosophizing manner. Slowly, and with the utmost solemnity, she made a number of simple, unconnected statements; the effect was one of puzzling profundity.
‘Everything comes, bit by bit,’ she said. ‘We must forgive. As your father used to say’ – she pointed to the photographs on the wall – ‘what is for you is for you. What is not for you is not for you.’
Against his will Mr Biswas found himself listening gravely and nodding in agreement.
Mrs Tulsi sniffed and pressed her veil to her nose. ‘A year ago, who would have thought that you would be sitting here, in this hall, with these children, as my son-in-law and a father? Life is full of these surprises. But they are not really surprising. You are responsible for a life now, Mohun.’ She began to cry. She put her hand on Mr Biswas’s shoulder, not to comfort him, but urging him to comfort her. ‘I let Shama have my room. The Rose Room. I know that you are worried about the future. Don’t tell me. I know.’ She patted his shoulder.
He was trapped by her mood. He forgot the children eating sulphur and condensed milk, and shook his head as if to admit that he had thought profoundly and with despair of the future.
Having trapped him in the mood, she removed her hand, blew her nose and dried her eyes. ‘Whatever happens, you keep on living. Whatever happens. Until the Lord sees fit to take you away.’ The last sentence was in English; it took him aback, and broke the spell. ‘As He did with your dear father. But until that time comes, no matter how they starve you or how they treat you, they can never kill you.’
They, Mr Biswas thought, who are they?
Then Seth stamped into the hall with his muddy bluchers and the children applied themselves with zeal to the sulphur powder.
‘Mohun,’ Seth said. ‘See your daughter? You surprise me, man.’
The contortionist giggled. Mrs Tulsi smiled.
You traitor, Mr Biswas thought, you old she-fox traitor.
‘Well, you are a big man now, Mohun,’ Seth said. ‘Husband and father. Don’t start behaving like a little boy again. The shop gone bust yet?’
‘Give it a little time,’ Mr Biswas said, standing up. ‘After all, is only about four months since Hari bless it.’
The contortionist laughed; for the first time Mr Biswas felt charitably towards this girl. Encouraged, he added, ‘You think we could get him to un-bless it?’
There was more laughter.
Seth shouted for his wife and food.
At the mention of food the children looked up longingly.
‘No food for none of all-you today,’ Seth said. ‘This will teach you to play in dirt and give yourself eggzema.’
Mrs Tulsi was at Mr Biswas’s side. She was solemn again. ‘It comes bit by bit.’ She was whispering now, for sisters were coming out of the kitchen with brass plates and dishes.