Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘I have been masseur in high circles — Chief Minister Sharma, some High Court Judges, two Home Secretaries also, and many Englishmen. And I have a handprint of all these dignitaries. It is all grace of Lord Shiva — you know, the snake God’—he felt that Pran, as a teacher of English, needed such explanations—‘the God of Ganga and of the great Chandrachur Temple which is now ascending daily in Chowk.’

Some pummelling later, he said:

‘This til oil is very good — it has the warming properties. I have rich clients also — many Marwaris of Calcutta know me. They are not taking care of bodies. But I say the body is like finest vintage car, of which there are no spare parts available in the market. Therefore it needs service and maintenance from competent engineer, namely’—and here he pointed to himself—‘Maggu Gopal. And you should not care about expense. Would you give your Swiss watch to the incompetent watchman because he charged cheaply? Some people sometimes call servants, like Ramu or Shamu, to do their massage. They think it is in the oil only.’

He paused, boxed Pran’s calves in a businesslike manner, then said:

‘Talking of oil, mustard oil is not good — and is internationally prohibited in massage. It stains also. The pores must breathe. Mr Pran, your feet are cold even in this weather. It is weak nervous system. You think too much.’

‘Yes, I do,’ admitted Pran.

‘Too much education is not good,’ said Maggu Gopal. ‘Ninth standard, non-matric; somehow still I learn the trick.’

He twisted Pran’s head violently and looked straight into his eyes.

‘You see this boil here on your chin — it is a sign — I will not say a sign, an indication — of constipation — a tendency to constipation. All thinking people — that is, I mean, all those who are thinkers — have this tendency. So you must eat papaya twice a day and take a mild laxative tablet — and have tea without milk, with honey and lemon. And you are too dark — like Lord Shiva — but nothing to be done about it.’

Pran nodded in so far as this was possible. The magical masseur released his head, and went on.

‘Thinkers, even if they eat boiled food and light food, will be constipated — their stomachs will not be soft. But your rickshaw-wallahs and servants, even if they eat fried food, will not get it — because they are doing physical labour. Always remember:

Pair garam, pet naram, sir thanda

Doctor aaye to maro danda!

This saying I have translated for Englishmen:

Cold head, soft tummy, warm feet.

If doctor comes, you may him beat!’

Pran grinned. He was feeling better already. The magical masseur, reacting promptly to his change of mood, asked him why he had been sad.

‘But I was not sad,’ said Pran.

‘No, no, you were sad.’

‘Really, Mr Maggu Gopal.’

‘Then you are worried.’

‘No — no—’

‘It is your work life?’

‘No.’

‘Your married life?’

‘No.’

The magical masseur looked doubtful.

‘I have had some health problems lately,’ admitted Pran.

‘Oh, health problems merely?’ said the magical masseur. ‘That you can leave all to me. Remember, honey is your god. You must substitute honey for sugar always.’

‘Because honey has the warming qualities?’ suggested Pran.

‘Exactly!’ said Maggu Gopal. ‘Also, dry fruits should be taken in plenty, especially pistachio, which is very warming. But you can take assorted dry fruits also. Agreed?’

‘Agreed!’ said Pran.

‘And take hot bath in tub, and also sun bath: sit in sun and face the sun. Recite the Gayatri Mantra.’

‘Ah.’

‘But it is also your work, I can see.’ Maggu Gopal grabbed Pran’s hand with the same painful vigour with which he had twisted his head. He examined it carefully. After a while he said in a solemn tone: ‘Your hand is most remarkable. The sky is the limit of your success.’

‘Really?’ said Pran.

‘Really. Consistency! That is the secret of success in any art. In order to obtain proficiency, you must have one goal — one track — consistency.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Pran, thinking, among many other things, of his baby, his wife, his brother, his nephew, his sister, his father, his mother, the department, the English language, the future of the country, the Indian cricket team, and his own health.

‘There is a saying of Swami Vivekananda: “Rise! Awake! Stop not — until the goal is achieved!”’ The magical masseur smiled assurance on Pran.

‘Tell me, Mr Maggu Gopal,’ Pran said, turning his head sideways, ‘can you tell from my hand if I will have a daughter or a son?’

‘Turn over please,’ said Maggu Gopal. He examined Pran’s right hand again. ‘Yes,’ he said to himself.

Turning over on to his back had made Pran start to cough, but Maggu Gopal ignored this, so intent was he on gazing at his hand.

‘Now you see,’ he said, ‘you, or rather your missus, will have a daughter.’

‘But my missus is sure she will have a son.’

‘Mark my words,’ said the magical masseur.

‘All right,’ said Pran, ‘but my wife is almost always right.’

‘You have a happy married life?’ Maggu Gopal inquired.

‘You tell me, Mr Maggu Gopal,’ said Pran.

Maggu Gopal frowned. ‘It is written in your hand that your married life will be a comedy.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘Yes, yes, you can see — your Mercury is very strong.’

‘I suppose I can’t escape from destiny,’ said Pran.

This word had a magical effect on Maggu Gopal. He drew backward slightly and pointed his finger at Pran’s chest. ‘Destiny!’ he said, and grinned at Pran. ‘That is it.’ After a pause he continued:

‘Behind every successful man is a woman. Behind Mr Napoleon there was Josephine. Not that you have to be married. I do not believe it. In fact I predict that you have had auspicious women in your life before and will continue to after marriage.’

‘Really?’ said Pran, interested, but rather fearful. ‘Will my wife like this? I fear my life may become a comedy of the wrong kind.’

‘Oh, no, no,’ said the magical masseur reassuringly. ‘She will be very tolerant. But the women must be auspicious. If you drink tea made from dirty water you will fall ill. But if you drink tea made from deluxe water it will refresh you.’

Maggu Gopal stared at Pran with some fixity. Seeing that he had got the point, he went on:

‘Love is colour-blind. Caste does not matter. It is karma — which means actions according to the vicious of God.’

‘The vicious of God?’ said Pran, bewildered, before he understood what Maggu Gopal was getting at.

‘Yes, yes,’ said the magical masseur, pulling Pran’s toes one by one until they made clicking and cracking sounds. ‘One should not get married just for bringing tea in the morning — or for sex or anything.’

‘Ah,’ said Pran, with a sudden sense of enlightenment, ‘just for living day to day.’

‘Today! Yes! Do not live for yesterday or tomorrow.’

‘I meant from day to day,’ explained Pran.

‘Yes, yes, it is all the same. Family life with children is a comedy, both today, yesterday, and tomorrow.’

‘And how many children will I have?’ asked Pran. He had lately begun to wonder whether he should be bringing a child into the world at all, a terrible world of hatred, intrigue, poverty, and cold war — a world that was unlike even his own unsettled childhood in that the safety of the earth itself was now threatened.

‘Ah, exact number is in wife’s hand,’ said the masseur regretfully. ‘But once there is delight in your life through one child, it is like a tonic, a chyavanprash — and then the sky is the limit for offspring.’