“Rokossovsky and Coca-cola-kowsky,” Mr. Biswas said, a little annoyed. “Ugly like hell.”

“Ugly? Vyacheslav Molotov. Does that sound ugly to you, Ma?”

“No, son.”

“Joseph Dugashvili,” Owad said.

“That’s the one I had in mind,” Mr. Biswas said. “Don’t say you think that pretty.”

Owad replied scathingly, “I think so.”

The sisters smiled.

“Gawgle,” Owad said, raising his chin (he was lying in bed) and making a strangulated noise.

Mrs. Tulsi passed her hand from his chin to his Adam’s apple.

“What was that?” Mr. Biswas asked.

“Gogol,” Owad said. “The world’s greatest comic writer.”

“It sounded like a gargle.” Mr. Biswas waited for the applause, but Shama only looked warningly at him.

“You couldn’t say that in Russia,” Chinta said.

This led Owad from the beauty of Russian names to Russia itself. “There is work for everyone and everyone must work. It is distinctly written in the Soviet Constitution-Basdai, pass me that little book there-that he who does not work shall not eat.”

“That is fair,” Chinta said, taking the copy of the Soviet Constitution from Owad, opening it, looking at the title page, closing it, passing it on. “Is exactly the sort of law we want in Trinidad.”

“He who does not work shall not eat,” Mrs. Tulsi repeated slowly.

“I just wish they could send some of my people to Russia,” Miss Blackie said, sucking her teeth, shaking her skirt and shifting in her chair to express the despair to which her people reduced her.

Mr. Biswas said, “How can he, who does not eat, work?”

Owad paid no attention. “In Russia, you know, Ma”-it was his habit to address many of his sentences to her-“they grow cotton of different colours. Red and blue and green and white cotton.”

“Just growing like that?” Shama asked, making up for Mr. Biswas’s irreverence.

“Just growing like that. And you,” Owad said, speaking to a widow who had been trying without success to grow an acre of rice at Shorthills, “you know the labour it is to plant rice. Bending down, up to your knees in muddy water, sun blazing, day in, day out.”

“The backache,” the widow said, arching her back and putting her hand where she ached. “You don’t have to tell me. Just planting that one acre, and I feel like going to hospital.”

“None of that in Russia,” Owad said. “No backache and bending down. In Russia, you know how they plant rice?”

They shook their heads.

“Shoot it from an aeroplane. Not shooting bullets. Shooting rice.”

“From an aeroplane?” the rice-planting widow said.

“From an aeroplane. You could plant your field in a few seconds.”

“Take care you don’t miss,” Mr. Biswas said.

“And you,” Owad said to Sushila. “You should really be a doctor. Your bent is that way.”

“I’ve been telling her so,” Mrs. Tulsi said.

Sushila, who had had enough of nursing Mrs. Tulsi, hated the smell of medicines and asked for nothing more than a quiet dry goods shop to support her old age, nevertheless agreed.

“In Russia you would be a doctor. Free.”

“Doctor like you?” Sushila asked.

“Just like me. No difference between the sexes. None of this nonsense about educating the boys and throwing the girls aside.”

Chinta said, “Vidiadhar always keep on telling me that he want to be a aeronautical engineer.”

This was a lie. Vidiadhar didn’t even know the meaning of the words. He just liked their sound.

“He would be an aeronautical engineer,” Owad said.

“To take out the rice grains from the aeroplane gas-tank,” Mr. Biswas said. “But what about me?”

“You, Mohun Biswas. Welfare Officer. After they have broken people’s lives, deprived them of opportunity, sending you around like a scavenger to pick the pieces up. A typical capitalist trick, Ma.”

“Yes, son.”

“M-m-m-m.” It was Miss Blackie, purring.

“Using you like a tool. You have given us five hundred dollars profit. Here, we give you five dollars charity.”

The sisters nodded.

O God, Mr. Biswas thought, another scorpion trying to do me out of a job.

“But you are not really a capitalist lackey,” Owad said.

“Not really,” Mr. Biswas said.

“You are not really a bureaucrat. You are a journalist, a writer, a man of letters.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Yes, man.”

“In Russia, they see you are a journalist and a writer, they give you a house, give you food and money and tell you, ‘Go ahead and write.’ “

“Really really?” Mr. Biswas said. “A house, just like that?”

“Writers get them all the time. A dacha, a house in the country.”

“Why,” asked Mrs. Tulsi, “don’t we all go to Russia?”

“Ah,” Owad said. “They fought for it. You should hear what they did to the Czar.”

“M-m-m-m.” Miss Blackie said, and the sisters nodded gravely.

“You,” Mr. Biswas said, now full of respect, “are you a member of the Communist Party?”

Owad only smiled.

And his reaction was equally cryptic when Anand asked how, as a communist working for the revolution, he could take a job in the government medical service. “The Russians have a proverb,” Owad said. “A tortoise can pull in its head and go through a cesspit and remain clean.”

By the end of the week the house was in a ferment. Everyone was waiting for the revolution. The Soviet Constitution and the Soviet Weekly were read more thoroughly than the Sentinel or the Guardian. Every received idea was shaken. The readers and learners, happy to think themselves in a society that was soon to be utterly destroyed, relaxed their efforts to read and learn and began to despise their teachers, whom they had previously reverenced, as ill-informed stooges.

And Owad was an all-rounder. He not only had views on politics and military strategy; he not only was knowledgeable about cricket and football; he lifted weights, he swam, he rowed; and he had strong opinions about artists and writers.

“Eliot,” he told Anand. “Used to see him a lot. American, you know. The Waste Land. The Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Let us go then, you and I. Eliot is a man I simply loathe.”

And at school Anand said, “Eliot is a man I simply loathe”; and added, “I know someone who knows him.”

While they waited for the revolution, life had to be lived. The tent was taken down. Sisters and married granddaughters left. Visitors no longer came in great numbers. Owad took up his duties at the Colonial Hospital and for a time the house had to be content with stories of the operations he had carried out. The refugee doctor was dismissed and Owad looked after Mrs. Tulsi himself. She improved spectacularly. “These doctors stopped learning twenty years ago,” Owad said. “They don’t even bother to keep up with the journals.” Journals had been coming to him by almost every post from England, and drug samples, which he displayed proudly, though sometimes with scathing comments.

Communal cooking had stopped, but communal life continued. Sisters and granddaughters often came to spend a night or a week-end. They brought all their illnesses to him and he attended to them without charge, giving injections wholesale with new miracle drugs which he said were as yet unknown in the colony. Later the sisters worked out what they would have had to pay another doctor, and there was a gentle rivalry as to who had been favoured with the most expensive treatment.

And Owad’s success grew. For long the emphasis in the house had been on reading and learning, which many of the readers and learners couldn’t do well and approached reluctantly. Now Owad said that this emphasis was wrong. Everyone had something to offer. Physical strength and manual skills were as important as academic success, and he spoke of the equality in Russia of peasants, workers and intellectuals. He organized swimming parties, boating expeditions, ping-pong tournaments; and such was the admiration and respect felt for him that even enemies came together. Anand and Vidiadhar played some ping-pong sets and, though not speaking a word to one another before or after, were scrupulously polite during the game, saying “Good shot!” and “Bad luck!” at the least opportunity. Vidiadhar, who had developed into a games-playing thug, more keen than competent and never picked for any college side, excelled in these family games and was the house champion.