He thought of the house as his own, though for years it had been irretrievably mortgaged. And during these months of illness and despair he was struck again and again by the wonder of being in his own house, the audacity of it: to walk in through his own front gate, to bar entry to whoever he wished, to close his doors and windows every night, to hear no noises except those of his family, to wander freely from room to room and about his yard, instead of being condemned, as before, to retire the moment he got home to the crowded room in one or the other of Mrs. Tulsi’s houses, crowded with Shama’s sisters, their husbands, their children. As a boy he had moved from one house of strangers to another; and since his marriage he felt he had lived nowhere but in the houses of the Tulsis, at Hanuman House in Arwacas, in the decaying wooden house at Shorthills, in the clumsy concrete house in Port of Spain. And now at the end he found himself in his own house, on his own half-lot of land, his own portion of the earth. That he should have been responsible for this seemed to him, in these last months, stupendous.
In this beautiful world, I have no desire to die,
I wish to live in the midst of men.
In this sunlight, in the flowering forests
In the heart of all living things may I find a place
Incessant is the play of life across the earth
With its perennial waves of union and separation, laughter and tears.
Weaving songs from the sorrow and happiness of man
I wish I might build an immortal realm.
Or failing this, I hope I can claim a seat
Amongst you for as long as I live
Composing songs like flowers that blossom ever afresh
For you to gather in the morning and noon.
Accept these flowers with a smile, and then alas!
Cast them aside as they fade and die.