A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [77]
He immediately began complaining of the very things that pleased him most. Savi cried, and he spoke as though she were one of Shama’s indulgences. Meals were late, and he exhibited an annoyance which concealed the joy he felt that there was someone to cook meals with him in mind. To these outbursts Shama didn’t reply, as she would have done before. She was morose herself, as though she preferred this bond to the bond of sentimentality.
He liked to watch when the baby was bathed. Shama did this expertly; she might have been bathing babies for years. Her left arm and hand supported the baby’s back and wobbly head; her right hand soaped and washed; finally there was the swift, gentle gesture which transferred the baby from basin to towel. He marvelled that someone who had come out of Hanuman House with hands torn by housework could express so much gentleness through those same hands. Afterwards Savi was rubbed with coconut oil and her limbs exercised, to certain cheerful rhymes. The same things had been done to Mr Biswas and Shama when they were babies; the same rhymes had been said; and possibly the ritual had been evolved a thousand years before.
The anointing was repeated in the evening, when the sun had dropped and the surrounding bush had begun to sing. And it was at this time, some six months later, that Moti came to the shop and rapped hard on the counter.
Moti did not belong to the village. He was a small worried-looking man with grey hair and bad teeth. He was dressed in a dingy clerkish way. His dirty shirt sat neatly on him and the creases on his trousers could just be seen. In his shirt pocket he carried a fountain pen, a stunted pencil and pieces of soiled paper, the equipment and badge of the rural literate.
He asked nervously for a pennyworth of lard.
Mr Biswas’s Hindu instincts didn’t permit him to stock lard. ‘But we have butter,’ he said, thinking of the tall smelly tin full of red, runny, rancid butter.
Moti shook his head and took off his bicycle clips. ‘Just give me a cent Paradise Plums.’
Mr Biswas gave him three in a square of white paper.
Moti didn’t go away. He put a Paradise Plum in his mouth and said, ‘I am glad you don’t stock lard. I respect you for it.’ He paused and, closing his eyes, crushed the Paradise Plum between his jaws. ‘I am glad to see a man in your position not giving up his religion for the sake of a few cents. Do you know that these days some Hindu shopkeepers are actually selling salt beef with their own hands? Just for the few extra cents.’
Mr Biswas knew, and regretted the squeamishness which preventéd him from doing the same.
‘And look at that other thing,’ Moti said, talking through the crushed Paradise Plum. ‘Did you hear about the pig?’
‘The Tulsi pig? Doesn’t surprise me at all.’
‘Still, the blessing is that not everyone is like that. You, for instance. And Seebaran. Do you know Seebaran?’
‘Seebaran?’
‘Don’t know Seebaran! L. S. Seebaran? The man who has been handling practically all the work in the Petty Civil.’
‘Oh, him,’ Mr Biswas said, still in the dark.
‘Very strict Hindu. And one of the best lawyers here too, I can tell you. We should be proud of him. The man who was here before you – what’s his name? – anyway, the man before you had a lot to thank Seebaran for. He would be a pauper today if it hadn’t been for Seebaran.’
Moti put another Paradise Plum in his mouth and absently considered the meagrely filled shelves. Mr Biswas followed Moti’s gaze, which came to rest on the tins with half-eaten labels, left there by the man Seebaran had assisted.
‘So everybody going to Dookhie, eh?’ Moti said, more familiar now, and speaking in English. Dookhie was the newest shopkeeper in The Chase.