Tag Archive: culture

A House For Mr. Biswas

The first time I read A House for Mr. Biswas was in preparation for a class study at school and no statement ever resonated more than, “How terrible it would have been. . . to have lived without even attempting to lay claim to one’s portion of the earth; to have lived and died as one has been born, unnecessary and unaccommodated.” As humans we are programmed to want to leave a mark of our existence behind. A person’s legacy is proof of presence, of worth, of being. Mohun Biswas’ life was an unending quest to establish his identity and a sense of belonging. This unfortunately, was always met with failure and dejection as his dreams and aspirations proved to be too great for a reality burdened by the weight of religion, tradition and caste designation.

The life of Mohun Biswas is plagued by uncertainty and dread from the day of his birth. He is “six fingered and born in the wrong way” and as foretold by the pundit, not only would he be a liar, a spendthrift and a lecher, he would also have an unlucky sneeze. All of this was decided on the assumption that Biswas was born at midnight, the inauspicious hour.

It seems as if he is born to suffer the pain of being alive. In part one of the novel he is described as being ‘muddy’ and ‘dusty’. His body was stunted by malnutrition which caused “eczema and sores that swelled and burst and scabbed and burst again, until they stank.” Malnutrition also gives him “a shallow chest, thin limbs and a rising belly.” Mentally and physically, Biswas is completely at odds with this difficult world into which he was born.

Throughout the novel, Biswas is shunted from pillar to post and one cannot ignore his discomfort and resentment at having to be humbled by his destitution. But then again, one also cannot help but think that his predicaments are partly due to his notion that he is better than the everyday rustic Indian peasant. His brothers Pratap and Prasad, though simple and illiterate have made their mark in their small world. As young boys, they have already established themselves as labourers, just like their father and labourers they would continue to be. Mr. Biswas is not cut out to be a labourer, field work is not for him. As the only son who went to school, his mindset is altered. He is going to be a writer and not a labourer, no other alternative would be considered.

This theme of fantasy versus reality runs through the novel and it is very often tied in with alienation, marginalisation, the individual’s attitude to power and authority and family. Mr. Biswas is ambitious. He holds in his mind a clear picture of how his life is to unfold. But with no real plan and no solid purpose, his ambitions remain in his head and only surfaces when he needs to save face or mock those who patronise him. It is this ambition that leads to his alienation from a particular society to which he belongs and from which he is determined to escape.

Marrying into the Tulsi family is as close as he comes to having an identity. With his own family broken and scattered, the Tulsis become something of a surrogate. Yet, as much as Hanuman House becomes Biswas’ home for a while, it is also like a prison and he, merely another inmate. The sons-in-law are hostages by marriage and to survive in this matriarchal regime, the sons-in-law do as is expected of them. Since Biswas isn’t one to suffer pointless rules, he naturally becomes the clown, the buffoon and the rebel.

It all begins when his father Raghu drowns in the pond. As mentioned before, Biswas was gifted with an unlucky sneeze and when Raghu, assuming that his son is lying at the bottom of a murky pond, dives in to retrieve him, he drowns when a perfectly safe Biswas sneezes. He is naturally blamed for this tragedy and not the fact that his father was long past his prime and completely unfit to be diving for such a long period.

Immediately after Raghu’s funeral, Biswas and his family are driven out of their home by unscrupulous neighbours who believed that Raghu was a wealthy miser who hid all his money in bags beneath the earth in the yard. His sister Dehuti is sent to his well-to-do aunt Tara’s house to become a good servant, his brothers have also been assigned to another relation to continue their vocation as field labourers and estate workers. As for his mother Bipti, broken and defeated, she withdraws into herself leaving the young Biswas to process the break-up of his family on his own.

At the end of the first chapter, Naipaul writes, “And so Mr. Biswas came to leave the only house to which he had some right. For the next thirty-five years he was to be a wanderer with no place her could call his own, with no family except that which he was to attempt to create out of the engulfing world of the Tulsis…..it seemed to him that he was really quite alone.”

This cruel deprivation of home and family, like a spectre, haunts Biswas throughout his life thus creating within him this feverish need to establish himself as a person of worth.

Mr. Biswas’ father was a Brahmin (which is considered the highest level in the caste system which is still so prevalent in Indian Hindu society and was brought to Trinidad during indenture), he was also a labourer. This lowers Biswas in the eyes of others except on occasions of religious ceremonies where, being the son of a Brahmin, he is fed and pampered and given gifts of money and clothes. But once the ceremonies are over, he becomes once more only a labourer’s child.

It is his aunt Tara’s decision to send him to Pundit Jairam to learn the trade of becoming a pundit, after all, what else could he do? He is unfit for fieldwork and does have a basic education after all. It would be easy for him to learn the important scriptures and ceremonies required to become a respectable pundit. The episode where Jairam forces Biswas to eat the bananas until he becomes sick is a damning statement of the double standard of the pious Brahmins. Jairam would have preferred to let the bananas rot instead of allowing anyone else to eat them. As the son of a labourer, whether he Brahmin or not, Biswas is not at the same level. He is a ‘nobody’ who survives upon the charity of others.

His return to the communal home which he and his mother share is made only worse as Bipti seems less than welcoming. He wants some kind of reassurance that he was not at fault but that is slow in coming. It is Tara and not his mother who shows sympathy and recognises the injury done to him.

Tara’s husband Ajodha owns a garage and a rum shop. The rum shop is run by Ajodha’s brother Bhandat and that is where Biswas is sent next. He would earn money working there but not enough to strike out on his own. He has to live with Bhandat and his wife and his two sons in two rooms and he has to share one of these rooms with Bhandat’s sons. His only possessions are some books and enough clothes to hang on a nail on one wall. One day Bhandat and his family must attend a funeral and Biswas has the two rooms to himself but as the day wears on the thrill is lost. Aimless and purposeless he longs for the day to end.

When Bhandat beats Biswas and accuses him of stealing a dollar, Biswas runs back to the back trace where his mother lives and berates her for sending him away to live with other people but she only rubs salt in his wounds agreeing with what the pundit had said about him on the night of his birth. Just like before, it is Tara and not his mother who sympathises and tries to comfort him. But that only makes things worse. By then, Biswas realises that without his father he is an easy target for cruelty.

It is this particular injustice which makes it easier for the reader to understand why it is so important for Biswas to claim his children when they are at the Tulsi house. It is easier to understand that whilst he shuffles aimlessly through life, he tries his best to help his children establish their identity after he is denied his. What he does not realise in this quest of his to have the perfect life is that he does have a purpose. It may not have been what he envisioned, but his children are living examples of what he had accomplished.

In chapter three, the Tulsis are introduced by way of a description of Hanuman House. It stands “like an alien white fortress.” The Tulsis have the reputation among Hindus as being a pious, landowning, conservative family. It is rumoured that they are still in contact with relatives in India. There is very little that is known about them. The only thing that people saw of them was what was shown. The imposing fortress of a house with the equally forbidding ‘new room’, religious celebrations and the Tulsi Store make up the façade the family uses to impress others. What outsiders do not see is the squalor beyond those walls; the musty hall and sooty kitchen, the furniture-choked landing and the dark cobwebbed loft.

The Tulsi family is like an army. They are everywhere. The marriage which is arranged between Biswas and one of the Tulsi daughters, Shama, takes him by surprise. The full extent of what happens to him doesn’t hit him until later and by then he is trapped. With no job, no money and property of his own, he is expected to become a Tulsi. No other identity would be acceptable especially since he had nothing to offer and it is this identity that he continues to rebel against. The image that the Tulsis have of him conflicts with the image Biswas has of himself. As far as they are concerned he is just the son of a labourer, his caste grants him no special allowances. The Tulsis become the enemy, the indomitable force that threatens his ideal life. The only way he can undermine that force is to mock the hierarchy of the Tulsi clan and insult the “young gods” as he calls his youngest brothers-in-law.

He aligns himself with Punkaj Rai and the Arwacas Aryan Association in challenging arranged marriages and the caste system. He agrees with Punkaj Rai’s idealism, that “birth was unimportant; a man’s caste should be determined only by his actions.” However, Biswas only sees and agrees with one side of this argument.” Biswas is against caste designation and yet he resents the Tulsis’ insensitivity to his Brahmin status. His ungrateful attitude to the people who house, feed and clothe him is anything but admirable. Biswas’ mocking and disrespectful comments about other members of the Tulsi family bring full circle, the whole truth of Pankaj’s statement.

Before marrying Shama he reflects on his loss and the “despair of finding romance in his own dull green land.” What else is there for him? There is nothing but the reality of his limitations; his inherited class identity, a backward colonial society and Hanuman House. Apart from himself, no one else has any great expectations of Biswas and therein lies his greatest conflict. He wants people to see him for what he is capable of but all they see is what he shows them.

Even with all of that, he is still assigned work on the Tulsi sugar estate in Green Vale. As much as he hates field work, in this profession as a driver he must do what is equally distasteful. He must oversee labourers who are not unlike his own grandfather, father and brothers. He must subject the labourers he oversees to the same treatment his father and brothers would have endured. At first he is sympathetic but it doesn’t take him long before he becomes hardened and uncaring, identifying himself with the overseers of old.

The longer he stays at Green Vale the more that dream of becoming more than a Brahmin son of a labourer recedes. Animosity increases between himself and the labourers and once the sun sets, he retreats like an exile to his crowded, shabby room of the barrack house.

Becoming a reporter-journalist is the closest Biswas ever came to fulfilling his dream of becoming a writer and yet there is something pathetic about the whole thing. His articles are ridiculous and sensationalised, his correspondence course with the London Ideal School of Journalism remains unfinished and the typewriter he buys in anticipation of a successful career remains idle, even his stories remain unfinished.

Even though his job as a reporter becomes tedious and pointless at times, he has made a name for himself and establishes himself as a professional and in so doing attains some freedom from the Tulsis. Eventually though reality takes precedence over fantasy. He realises that his job at the Sentinel is taking him nowhere closer to owning his home so he quits and gets a better paying one at the Welfare Department.

Once his son Anand begins to show promise at school, Biswas begins living through him, transferring all his energy and attention towards helping Anand prepare for his future. He bestows upon his son everything he believes he should have had, delighting in his easy success.

The house Biswas finally owns on Sikkim Street is again a partial fulfillment seeing as he buys the house without previously knowing of its faults. But it is still his. It is the one thing he ever wanted. Ownership of this house represents more than just shelter, it is freedom to do as he pleases, it is his mark upon the world never mind the debt that in his last days he is burdened with – a financial debt that he will pass on to his family. Even in his death, Biswas gets only a partial recognition and not the gallant, self-mocking one he had imagined.

At the end, Biswas’ fantasy just did not match the reality of his society and circumstances. Perhaps had he not been so deceived and burdened by his fantasy he might have recognised his true purpose and left a legacy that wasn’t so tainted by his fear of living in and leaving this world “unnecessary and unaccommodated.”

Works Cited:

Naipaul, V.S. A House for Mr. Biswas. New York, Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. 1961

Weiss, Timothy F. On the Margins: The Art of Exile in V.S. Naipaul. The University of Massachusetts Press, First Edition, 1992


Well it’s been a while. I’ve been, for the most part, uninspired. I took this time to do some reading and then it all started coming back. This one is being posted as part of the Superstition and Folklore Chronicles, however, it’s not exactly superstition, it’s more tradition and culture.

For Hindus, Pitr Paksh (the fortnight of ancestors) started last week. During this time, we pay homage to our ancestors. It is said that the souls of our ancestors, I believe it’s the three preceding generations reside in the realm between heaven and earth. This realm is called pitru-lok and is ruled by Yama, the God of death. During this fortnight, there is a connection with past loved ones as they are remembered and treated with honour. It’s much more complex than this and to explain it fully would require me to read and study the whole Garuda Purana. This is a book which breaks down, step by step, the journey of the soul from death to the unity with God.

I remember being at home back in Trinidad and hearing stories of past uncles, aunts, grandparents and even my father being present at the home. For Hindus, as far as I know and I’ve seen, when a body is brought back to the home, it is taken inside the house for the last time thus making the ancestral home the last earthly place the soul will ever be before it has to move on. I remember also the familiar scents of that person wafting before my nose, the footsteps, the creak on the floor boards, a sigh and the brush of a hand over my forehead as the curtains float above the floor with the wind.

Below is a poem that I’d written when I was seventeen, for want of something better to do. It must have been around this time too. It’s a more playful approach to the walking of spirits amongst the living.


Spirit Games

Night pushes the day away

And the stars wink and blink

The sleepiness out of their tiny eyes

The moon, she will not reveal her

Full beauty tonight

She’s a real tease

I daresay.

Fireflies glow bright

Like flying Christmas lights

While the mosquitoes

Buzz and bite away

I shall not stay outside

But go in and try to hide

From the spirits

That come out to play.

They blow out the candles

And turn the door handles

While making funny noises and sounds

And someone once said

They can wake up the dead

And imitate the cries of hounds

They rattle my windows

And tweak my dog’s nose

Making him bark like mad

But I still won’t go out

And quarrel or shout

At those spirits who are so very bad

I hear soft whispers and laughing

And whistling and tramping

All around the house

Knocks on the door

Creaks from the floor

I don’t think those were made

By a mouse!

And then it gets quiet

So very, very quiet

My heartbeat I’m sure I can hear

I uncover my head

And rise up from my bed

And take a deep breath to

Smother my fear

I pull the curtains aside

And open the windows wide

To see what they’re up to

But there was nothing I could see

But the half naked moon, stars winking at me

 And spirits that had nothing to do.

So bearing in mind

That the good Lord was kind

Enough to keep me from harm

I jumped back into bed

And slept like the dead

Until dawn wrapped me up

In its arm.

Well, today is the first day of Doors Open Toronto put on by Great Gulf. So since old man winter has finally shuffled off, I decided to make the most of the long-awaited warmth. I’ve never been to the Distillery District before today. I always planned to go but somehow I could never get there. The 30 minute tour was informative and the guide was friendly. Not much information is given on the actual distillery and the stories about the hauntings are pretty much reported information, but then again, it’s half an hour and it’s free – not too bad.

The atmosphere was festive and apart from the occasional chilly breeze, it was quite hot. It’s a great place for friends and families to visit. I was pleased with the fact that there were a few places where one could sit down and have lunch or just kick back with a beverage.

In case you are wondering, yes – I did go by myself. I don’t know many people who would like to spend the day promenading through narrow brick streets, trying to capture just a sliver of architectural history on a digital camera. But then again, I don’t know many people. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a loner. I enjoy company as much as the next person. I’m just very intolerant of anyone who tries to make me feel inferior and for some reason, I tend to attract such people. I have acquaintances who have their own lives and that’s fine by me.


Strange looking thing

As you enter the Distillery District on Gristmill Lane, this is the first thing that catches your eye. A War of the Worlds sort of alien creature. I would have loved to have seen this at night – in the dark – for the first time.

Distillery - from below

Naturally, my favourite features of this place were the buildings. There is nothing more profound than looking at the past through mirrors in the present. The Distillery District was first a flour mill before it became a brewery. Of course, at that time clean water was scarce and alcohol ranked higher than food.

Distillery building - close shot Distillery Building - From below Distillery Building - long shot DSCF0461 DSCF0464 DSCF0465 DSCF0463 DSCF0474 DSCF0475

I imagine this place must have been quite a hive of activity and more than likely, a place of employment for many. It still is.  Below are two whiskey barrels. The one on the left is charred on the inside and the one on the right is just smoked. I had the pleasure of speaking to a young cooper (barrel maker) who explained that a barrel this size could take up to seven hours to make. These barrels were then charred or smoked on the inside. When the whiskey is poured into them, it’s usually a clear liquid, it’s the burnt insides of the barrels that give the colour to it. Hmm, really did not know that. Quite the conversation starter I would say. By the way, they were charring these barrels on site, hence my curiousity and the young fella did not mind me taking pictures of his barrels.


Whiskey barrel - charred on the inside Whiskey barrel - smoked on the inside

I couldn’t resist. I’ve never seen an anvil before. This was placed next to a bed in the Hastens bed showroom. I say this is one hell of a side table. All it needs now is a lamp and alarm clock.


This creepy looking black and white photo was hung over the bed (the one which had the anvil next to it). I was really hoping to catch the ghost’s reflection in it. You know how they do in the movies? I assume all these people worked at the distillery at one time or the other and perhaps they’re still there – we just don’t see them much.


Some kind of drill

This sign goes with the above picture. It’s a drill press. I don’t know what it was used for. I’ll hazard a guess that it was used to drill a press or press a drill or both…who knows. I was distracted – too busy looking for the chocolate factory. Sorry.

Drill press

And here are more relics of the past.


By then I was hungry and I still hadn’t found the chocolate factory.

A chicken pesto panini and a double shot macchiato distracted me for a little while. It was a nice place. Very clean with good service.


DSCF0489 DSCF0487 DSCF0488 DSCF0485

FINALLY! The chocolate factory.

More goodies There is no place like chocolate Chocolate goodies Chocolate heaven

To be honest, I’ve seen bigger selections elsewhere. But they were nice to allow me to take pictures in there. Once I had purchased a few of these beauties, I armed myself with a lemon gelato and headed out to face the heat. It was hotter by then. I could feel the sun’s heat boring a hole into the crown of my head.

Now walking and eating was never a skill that I developed. I’m a more ‘sit down and munch’ type of person. Somehow, my feet and my mouth just can’t seem to coordinate. Seriously, when it comes to food, my brain is good for nothing else. I cannot be distracted by anything else. DSCF0478Funny looking art.  Wacky looking artFunny looking art from a different angle.

And here is the big clock that everyone seemed to want to take a picture of, including me.




Oh and let’s not forget the ghost chandelier. Apparently the employees of this cafe witnessed it swinging from side to side. Must have been a playful ghost. I would have given anything to see that chandelier start swinging.


That was it. At long last, I’ve seen and experienced the Distillery District. Not bad. I was glad I did it. There is something liberating about travelling or exploring on one’s own and I intend to do more of this. However, next time I’ll wear a hat. A smacking migraine is a small price to pay for adventure, but it’s annoying as hell.



(See my selfie? You can actually see the reflection of my hands holding the camera on my bug glasses. Should have taken off the glasses.)



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