“[…] Then it was that he discovered the solace of Dickens. Without difficulty he transferred characters and settings to people and places he knew. In the grotesques of Dickens everything he feared and suffered from was ridiculed and diminished, so that his own anger, his own contempt became unnecessary, and he was given strength to bear the most difficult part of his day: dressing in the morning, that daily affirmation of faith in oneself, which at times for him was almost like an act of sacrifice.”
- V. S Naipaul, A House for Mr Biswas.
“Non-fiction can distort; facts can be realigned. But fiction
never lies.”
- V. S Naipaul, A Bend in the
River.
One afternoon I learnt that Mr Mohun Biswas, a journalist with the Trinidad Sentinel had died at his Sikkim Street house in Port of Spain. The news put me in a dilemma - a part of me wanted to reach the late journalist’s house without any delay but the other part made me hesitate and think. My indecision was perpetuated by the rain that had continued from the previous night. The rain intensified as I went out to the terrace and pulled the garbage bin towards the door, careful not to let the sheets of water hurtling down from the roof wet my body, especially my head. Newspapers stained with dal and curry, a comb with broken teeth and blackened orange skins spilled out on the drenched mosaic floor.
The
cement wall that hemmed in the terrace was damp from the rain and through the
window I could see a sparsely furnished room softly lit with a bulb. The dim
light illumined the vague outlines of a bed, a study table and two chairs. A
plastic sheet had been carefully placed over the table to protect the stack of books
and files from the rain that seemed to leak through the roof riddled with holes.
After
some time, I re-entered my room and discovered a wet patch on one side of the
ceiling. It was the beginning of summer but the breeze of the fan made me
shiver. My hand reached out towards the fan regulator when suddenly the lights
went out. The darkness was near total and I paused for a while, unbolted the door,
opened it slightly and in the weak glow of a distant streetlight, I could see the
rain pounding on walls and treetops. The lanes and gutters inside the colony
were overflowing with black water.
Mr
Biswas survived an impossible deluge after he had moved to his one-room house
near the barracks. The builder had barely nailed the tin sheets on the wooden
frame when the rainstorm came. He made Anand recite a sloka from a Vedic text after the rains and the wind had blown away
the roof of his house.
I vividly remembered the scene. Mr Biswas and Anand groped in the dark as the rain converged on the room. Outside in the yard, Anand found their dog dead - wet and petrified. The weather stupefied the father and son. They could only see the waters gushing through narrow depressions into the gutter outside in the street. Others who lived in the barracks were either asleep, oblivious to the storm or their wooden houses were sturdy enough to let them rest calmly when the storm raged outside. Their presence did not assure Mr Biswas. He thought they were deluding him.
Like
my own neighbors who seemed not to be bothered about the deluge in the colony.
They were ensconced in their tiny rooms. My neighbors did not seem to share my
fears. It made me puny and defiant at the same time.
In
the evening, the rains stopped for a while. I could hear movement outside in
the street. There was a scuttling of feet and the clanking of pans. The shrill
cry of a vendor pierced the pallid air. Men and women poured into the streets. There
were small crowds outside general stores. People lumbered to buy necessities
for the night. By seven o clock everyone in the colony was inside their rooms,
surrounded by rations and whiskey and cigarettes and waiting for the storm.
They
had correctly sensed the mood of the weather. After the lull, the rains returned
with a hissing sound and scattered the few audacious men who had decided to
stay out as long as possible. As I sat down on my bed, the honking of public
buses on the arterial road across the colony came to me like foghorns in some
distant harbour.
Like
the harbour in Port of Spain where the ships rested after travelling half the
world and replenished their supplies.
The
city where Mr Mohun Biswas had lived and died.
I
wanted to reach out to the family and friends of the late journalist and offer
my condolences but simultaneously, an inner voice asked me if it would be the
proper thing to do. I had admired the man but I did not know him. Gossips,
rumors and novels were the substance out of which I had forged an image of Mr
Biswas. I read many of his essays and weekend columns. I knew him through his
writings on critical issues. I had scanned the literature on his life for words
to articulate my own experiences. But so did many others. Moreover, there were
so many other people who had known him personally. It would be better if I let them
organize his funeral and memorials and prayers. Where would I fit in among the
bereaved family and friends of late Mr Mohun Biswas? But even his sole
biographer only knew him the way I did. They had never met in Trinidad or
London. They had never actually met personally. But they shared the most
intimate relationship. So my best course of action would be a further perusal
of the biographer’s sketch of Mr Biswas’ life and works.
May
sunflowers grow on Mr Biswas’ grave.
