Mr. Biswas was startled by a sound of wailing. It came from Dhari. “Water, water. Oh, the unlucky boy. Not content with eating up his mother and father, he is eating me up as well. Water! Oh, Mohun’s mother, what you have said?”
“Water?” Raghu sounded puzzled.
“The pond, the pond,” Dhari wailed, and Mr. Biswas heard him shouting to the neighbours, “Raghu’s son has drowned my calf in the pond. A nice calf. My first calf. My only calf
Quickly a chattering crowd gathered. Many of them had been to the pond that afternoon; quite a number had seen a calf wandering about, and one or two had even seen a boy.
“Nonsense!” Raghu said. “You are a pack of liars. The boy doesn’t go near water.” He paused and added, “The pundit especially forbade him to go near water in its natural form.”
Lakhan the carter said, “But this is a fine man. He doesn’t seem to care whether his son is drowned or not.”
“How do you know what he thinks?” Bipti said.
“Leave him, leave him,” Raghu said, in an injured, forgiving tone. “Mohun is my son. And if I don’t care whether he is drowned or not, that is my business.”
“What about my calf?” Dhari said.
“I don’t care about your calf. Pratap! Prasad! Dehuti! Have you seen your brother?”
“No, father.”
“No, father.”
“No, father.”
“I will go and dive for him,” Lakhan said.
“You are very anxious to show off,” Raghu said.
“Oh!” Bipti cried. “Stop this bickering-ickering and let us go to look for the boy.”
“Mohun is my son,” Raghu said. “And if anybody is going to dive for him, it will be me. And I pray to God, Dhari, that when I get to the bottom of that pond I find your wretched calf.”
“Witnesses!” Dhari said. “You are all my witnesses. Those words will have to be repeated in court.”
“To the pond! To the pond!” the villagers said, and the news was shouted to those just arriving: “Raghu is going to dive for his son in the pond.”
Mr. Biswas, under his father’s bed, had listened at first with pleasure, then with apprehension. Raghu came into the room, breathing heavily and swearing at the village. Mr. Biswas heard him undress and shout for Bipti to come and rub him down with coconut oil. She came and rubbed him down and they both left the room. From the road chatter and the sound of footsteps rose, and slowly faded.
Mr. Biswas came out from under the bed and was dismayed to find that the hut was dark. In the next room someone began to cry. He went to the doorway and looked. It was Dehuti. From the nail on the wall she had taken down his shirt and two vests and was pressing them to her face.
“Sister,” he whispered.
She heard and saw, and her sobs turned to screams.
Mr. Biswas didn’t know what to do. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he said, but the words were useless, and he went back to his father’s room. Just in time, for at that moment Sadhu, the very old man who lived two houses away, came and asked what was wrong, his words whistling through the gaps in his teeth.
Dehuti continued to scream. Mr. Biswas put his hands into his trouser pockets and, through the holes in them, pressed his fingers on his thighs.
Sadhu led Dehuti away.
Outside, from an unknown direction, a frog honked, then made a sucking, bubbling noise. The crickets were already chirping. Mr. Biswas was alone in the dark hut, and frightened.
The pond lay in swampland. Weeds grew all over its surface and from a distance it appeared to be no more than a shallow depression. In fact it was full of abrupt depths and the villagers liked to think that these were immeasurable. There were no trees or hills around, so that though the sun had gone, the sky remained high and light. The villagers stood silently around the safe edge of the pond. The frogs honked and the poor-me-one bird began to say the mournful words that gave it its name. The mosquitoes were already active; from time to time a villager slapped his arm or lifted a leg and slapped that.
Lakhan the carter said, “He’s been down there too long.”
Bipti frowned.
Before Lakhan could take off his shirt Raghu broke the surface, puffed out his cheeks, spat out a long thin arc of water and took deep resounding breaths. The water rolled off his oiled skin, but his moustache had collapsed over his upper lip and his hair fell in a fringe over his forehead. Lakhan gave him a hand up. “I believe there is something down there,” Raghu said. “But it is very dark.”
Far away the low trees were black against the fading sky; the orange streaks of sunset were smudged with grey, as if by dirty thumbs.
Bipti said, “Let Lakhan dive.”
Someone else said, “Leave it till tomorrow.”
“Till tomorrow?” Raghu said. “And poison the water for everybody?”
Lakhan said, “I will go.”
Raghu, panting, shook his head. “My son. My duty.”
“And my calf,” Dhari said.
Raghu ignored him. He ran his hands through his hair, puffed out his cheeks, put his hands to his sides and belched. In a moment he was in the water again. The pond didn’t permit stylish diving; Raghu merely let himself down. The water broke and rippled. The gleam it got from the sky was fading. While they waited a cool wind came down from the hills to the north; between the shaking weeds the water shimmered like sequins.
Lakhan said, “He’s coming up now. I believe he’s got something.”
They knew what it was from Dhari’s cry. Then Bipti began to scream, and Pratap and Prasad and all the women, while the men helped to lift the calf to the bank. One of its sides was green with slime; its thin limbs were ringed with vinelike weeds, still fresh and thick and green. Raghu sat on the bank, looking down between his legs at the dark water.
Lakhan said, “Let me go down now and look for the boy.”
“Yes, man,” Bipti pleaded. “Let him go.”
Raghu remained where he was, breathing deeply, his dhoti clinging to his skin. Then he was in the water and the villagers were silent again. They waited, looking at the calf, looking at the pond.
Lakhan said, “Something has happened.”
A woman said, “No stupid talk now, Lakhan. Raghu is a great diver.”
“I know, I know,” Lakhan said. “But he’s been diving too long.”
Then they were all still. Someone had sneezed.
They turned to see Mr. Biswas standing some distance away in the gloom, the toe of one foot scratching the ankle of the other.
Lakhan was in the pond. Pratap and Prasad rushed to hustle Mr. Biswas away.
“That boy!” Dhari said. “He has murdered my calf and now he has eaten up his own father.”
Lakhan brought up Raghu unconscious. They rolled him on the damp grass and pumped water out of his mouth and through his nostrils. But it was too late.
“Messages,” Bipti kept on saying. “We must send messages.” And messages were taken everywhere by willing and excited villagers. The most important message went to Bipti’s sister Tara at Pagotes. Tara was a person of standing. It was her fate to be childless, but it was also her fate to have married a man who had, at one bound, freed himself from the land and acquired wealth; already he owned a rumshop and a dry goods shop, and he had been one of the first in Trinidad to buy a motorcar.
Tara came and at once took control. Her arms were encased from wrist to elbow with silver bangles which she had often recommended to Bipti: “They are not very pretty, but one clout from this arm will settle any attacker.” She also wore earrings and a nakphul, a “nose-flower”. She had a solid gold yoke around her neck and thick silver bracelets on her ankles. In spite of all her jewellery she was energetic and capable, and had adopted her husband’s commanding manner. She left the mourning to Bipti and arranged everything else. She had brought her own pundit, whom she continually harangued; she instructed Pratap how to behave during the ceremonies; and she had even brought a photographer.