V. Naipaul - The Mystic Masseur

She edged Beharry off the shop-stool, sat on it, and cried by herself, wiping her eyes with the corner of her veil. Beharry and Ganesh watched her.

‘I would never leave Suruj Poopa,’ she said. ‘Never. I ain’t educated enough.’

Suruj appeared at the door. ‘I hear you calling me, Ma?’

‘No, son. I ain’t calling you, but come.’

Suruj did as he was told and his mother pressed his head against her knees. ‘You think I go ever want to leave Suruj and he Poopa?’ She gave a short scream. ‘Never!’

Suruj said, ‘I could go now, Ma?’

‘Yes, son, you could go now.’

When Suruj had gone she became a little calmer. ‘That is the trouble, giving girls education these days. Leela spend too much of she time reading and writing and not looking after she husband properly. I did talk to she about it, mark you.’

Beharry, rubbing his belly and looking down thoughtfully at the floor, said, ‘The way I look at it is this. These young girls not like we, you know, Ganesh. These young girls today think that getting married is some sort of game. Something like rounders. Running away and running back. Is a lot of fun for them. They want you to go and beg them —’

‘You never had to beg me once, Suruj Poopa.’ Suruj Mooma burst into fresh tears. ‘I never once leave you. Is the sort of woman I is. I go never leave my husband. I ain’t educated enough.’

Beharry put his arm around his wife’s waist and looked at Ganesh, a little ashamed of having to be so openly affectionate. ‘You mustn’t mind, man. Not to mind. You ain’t educated, is true. But you full of sense.’

Crying and wiping her eyes and crying again, Suruj Mooma said, ‘Nobody bother to educate me, you know. They take me out of school when I was in Third Standard. I always come first in my class. You know Purshottam, the barrister in Chaguanas?’

Ganesh shook his head.

‘Me and Purshottam was in the Third Standard together. I always come first in my class but still they take me out of school to make me married. I ain’t educated, man, but I would never leave you.’

Ganesh said, ‘Don’t cry, maharajin . You is a good woman.’

She cried a bit more; and then stopped abruptly. ‘Don’t mind, Ganesh. These girls these days does behave as if marrying is something like rounders. They run away but all the time they run away only to come back. But what you going to do now, Ganesh? Who go cook for you and keep your house clean?’

Ganesh gave a brave little laugh. ‘Somehow I never get worried by these things. I always believe, and Suruj Poopa could tell you this, that everything happen for the best.’

Beharry, his right hand under his vest now, nodded and nibbled. ‘Everything have a reason.’

‘Is my philosophy,’ Ganesh said, throwing up his arms in an expansive manner. ‘I ain’t worried.’

‘Well,’ Suruj Mooma said, ‘eat philosophy at your house and come and eat food here.’

Beharry went on with his own thoughts. ‘A wife does keep a man back — a man like Ganesh, I mean. Now that Leela gone he could really start writing the book. Eh, Ganesh?’

‘Not writing no book. Not … going … to … write … any … book.’ He began to stride up and down the short shop. ‘Not even if she come back and beg me.’

Suruj Mooma looked incredulous. ‘You not going to write the book?’

‘No.’ And he kicked at something on the floor.

Beharry said, ‘You ain’t serious, Ganesh.’

‘I ain’t laughing.’

Suruj Mooma said, ‘You mustn’t mind what he saying. He just want we to beg him a little bit.’

‘Look, Ganesh,’ Beharry said. ‘What you want is a time-table. And look, eh, I ain’t begging you. I ain’t go have you playing the fool and throwing away your abilities. I making a time-table for you right now and if you don’t follow it, it going to have big trouble between the two of we. Think, your own book.’

‘With your picture in front and your name in big big letters,’ Suruj Mooma added.

‘And getting it print on that big typewriter machine you tell me about.’

Ganesh stopped pacing.

Suruj Mooma said, ‘Is all right now. He go write the book.’

‘You know my note-books,’ Ganesh said to Beharry. ‘Well, I was thinking if it wouldn’t be a good idea to start off with that. You know, printing a set of things about religion, from different authors, and explaining what they say.’

‘Antheology,’ Beharry said, nibbling.

‘Right. A antology. What you think?’

‘I thinking.’ Beharry passed his hand over his head.

‘It go learn people a lot,’ Ganesh encouraged.

‘Is just what I was thinking. It go learn people a lot. But you think people want to learn?’

‘They ain’t want to learn?’

‘Look, Ganesh. You must always remember the sort of people it have in Trinidad. Every-and anybody not educated up to your standard. Is your job and is my job to bring the people up, but we can’t rush them. Start small and later on fling out your antology at them. Is a good idea, mark you. But leave it for now.’

‘Something simple and easy first, eh?’

Beharry placed his hands on his thighs. ‘Yes. The people here just like children, you know, and you got to teach them like children.’

‘A primer like?’

Beharry slapped his thighs and nibbled furiously. ‘Yes, man. That self.’

‘Leave it to me, Beharry. I go give them this book, and I go make Trinidad hold it head and bawl.’

‘That is the way Suruj Mooma and me like to hear you talk.’

And he did write the book. He worked hard at it for more than five weeks, sticking to the time-table Beharry had drawn up for him. He rose at five, milked the cow in the semi-darkness, and cleaned out the cow-pen; bathed, did his puja , cooked, and ate; took the cow and calf out to a rusty little field; then, at nine, he was ready to work on the book. From time to time during the day he had to take salted water to the cow and calf. He had never had to mind a cow before and it came as a surprise to him that an animal which looked so patient, trusting, and kindly required so much cleaning and attention. Beharry and Suruj Mooma helped with the cow, and Beharry helped with the book at every stage. He said, ‘Beharry, I going to dedicate this book to you.’

And he did that too. He worked on the dedication even before the book was completed. ‘Is the hardest part of the whole book,’ he said jocularly, but the result pleased even Suruj Mooma: For Beharry, who asked why .

‘It sound like po’try,’ she said.

‘It sound like a real book,’ Beharry said.

Finally the day came when Ganesh took his manuscript to San Fernando. He stood on the pavement outside the Elite Electric Printery and looked in at the machinery. He was a little shy at entering and at the same time anxious to prolong the thrill he felt that soon that magnificent and complicated machine and the grown man who operated it were to be dedicated to the words he had written.

When he went inside he saw a man he didn’t know at the machine. Basdeo was at a desk in a wire-cage full of pink and yellow slips on spikes.

Basdeo came out of the cage. ‘I remember the face.’

‘You did print my wedding invitation long time now.’

‘Ah, that is a thing for you. So much wedding invitation I printing and you know I never get one invite. What you have for me today? Magazine? Everybody in Trinidad bringing out magazine these days.’

‘Book.’

Ganesh was alarmed at the casual way in which Basdeo, whistling through his teeth, flipped his grubby fingers through the manuscript.

‘You does write on nice paper, you know. But is only a booklet you have here, man. Come to that, it more like a pamphlet than a booklet.’