The Mystic Masseur

by V. S. Naipaul

  After three months The Hindu announced that it had to cut the number of its pages because it wished to help the war effort. Not many people besides Ganesh noticed that there were fewer advertisements for patent medicines and other internationally known products. The Hindu lost the glamour of illustrated advertisements; and Narayan was making money only from plain statements about small shops here and there in Trinidad.

  But The Little Bird still twittered.

  9. Press Pundit

  GANESH FOUND HIMSELF now a philosopher and arbiter. Indian villages in Trinidad still had panchayats, councils of elders, and he was often invited by them to give judgement in a case of minor theft or assault, or to settle a quarrel between husband and wife. Often, too, he was asked to address prayer-meetings.

  His arrival at such a meeting was impressive. He came out of his taxi with dignity, tossed his green scarf over his shoulder, and shook hands with the officiating pundit. Then two more taxis came up with his books. Helpers fell upon these taxis, grabbed armfuls of books, and took them to the platform. The helpers were proud and busy people then, and looked almost as solemn as Ganesh. They ran from taxi to platform and back again, frowning, never saying a word.

  Seated on the platform under a tasselled red canopy, and surrounded by his books, Ganesh looked the picture of authority and piety. His gaily-dressed audience rippled out from the platform in widening circles of diminishing splendour, from well-dressed businessmen and shopkeepers just below the platform to ragged labourers at the back, from extravagantly bedecked children sleeping on blankets and cushions to naked, spidery-limbed children sprawling on sugar-sacks.

  People came to hear him not only because of his reputation but also because of the novelty of what he said. He spoke about the good life, about happiness and how to get it. He borrowed from Buddhism and other religions and didn’t hesitate to say so. Whenever he wished to strengthen a point he snapped his fingers and a helper held a book open towards the audience so that they could see that Ganesh wasn’t making it all up. He spoke in Hindi but the books he showed in this way were in English, and people were awed by this display of learning.

  His main point was that desire was a source of misery and therefore desire ought to be suppressed. Occasionally he went off at a tangent to discuss whether the desire to suppress desire wasn’t itself a desire; but usually he tried to be as practical as possible. He spoke with fervour about the Buddha’s Fire Sermon. Sometimes from that he moved on naturally to the war, and war in general, and to the quotation from Dickens’s Child’s History of England that ‘war is a dreadful thing’. At other times he said that happiness was only possible if you cleared your mind of desire and looked upon yourself as part of Life, just a tiny link in the vast chain of Creation. ‘Lie down on the dry grass and feel Life growing out from the rocks and earth beneath you, through you, and upwards. Look at the clouds and sky when it isn’t hot and feel that you are part of all that. Feel that everything else is an extension of you. Therefore you, who are all this, can never die.’

  People sometimes understood and when they got up they felt a little nobler.

  And it was precisely for this that now, in 1944, The Little Bird began attacking Ganesh. It seemed to have reconciled itself to his ‘so-called mysticism’.

  The Little Bird said: ‘I am just a little birdie but I think it is surely a retrograde step for any community these days to look up to a religious visionary …’

  The Great Belcher told Ganesh, ‘And, boy, Narayan start copying you. He start giving lectures now – in the towns. And he showing his own books and thing too. Something about religion and the people.’

  ‘Opium,’ Beharry said.

  Every new revelation of The Little Bird was carefully studied in Fuente Grove.

  ‘It ain’t your mystical powers he jealousing now, pundit. He working for the elections in two years’ time. First election with universal adult franchise. Yes, universal adult franchise. Is what he have his eye on.’

  Later issues of The Hindu seemed to show that Beharry was right. Spare inches of the magazine were no longer filled up with quotations from the Gita or the Upanishads. Now it was all: Workers’ Unite! Each One Teach One, Mens Sana in Corpore Sano, Per Ardua ad Astra, The Hindu is an Organ of Progress, I may not agree with what you say but I will fight to the death to defend your right to say it. The Little Bird began to agitate for A Fair Day’s Pay for a Fair Day’s Work, and Homes for the Destitute; later it announced the opening of The Hindu ‘Homes for Destitutes’ fund.

  One day Leela said to Suruj Mooma, ‘I are thinking of taking up social welfare work.’

  ‘My dear, is the said selfsame thing that Suruj Poopa begging me to do a long long time now. But, my dear, I ain’t have the time.’

  The Great Belcher was enthusiastic and practical. ‘Leela, it have nine years I know you, and is the best idea you ever have. All this food I does come here and see you throwing away, you could give to poor people.’

  ‘Ah, Aunt, it are not much that I does throw away. If something are not use today, well it are use tomorrow. But how I could start up with this social welfare work?’

  ‘I go tell you how they does do it. You just get some children together, bring them inside the restaurant, and feed them up. Or you go outside, look for children, and feed them outside. Christmas-time come round now, you pick up two three balloons and you go round giving them away.’

  ‘Yes, Soomintra beginning to stock a lot of prutty prutty balloons.’

  And every Sunday now Leela, with the help of The Great Belcher, did social work.

  Ganesh worked on, unperturbed by Narayan and The Little Bird. It was as if Narayan’s taunts had encouraged him to do just the thing for which he was attacked. In this he was far-sighted; for certainly it was the books he wrote at this time which helped to establish his reputation, not only in the country, but also in Port of Spain. He used the material of his talks for The Road to Happiness. After that came Re-incarnation, The Soul as I See It, The Necessity for Faith. These books sold regularly and well; but none of them had spectacular success.

  And then, one after the other, appeared the two books that made his name a household word in Trinidad.

  The first book began: ‘On Thursday, May 2, at nine o’clock in the morning, just after I had had breakfast, I saw God. He looked at me and said …’

  What God Told Me must surely rank as a classic in Trinidad literature. Its stark simplicity, almost ingenuousness, is shattering. The character of the narrator is beautifully revealed, especially in the chapters of dialogue, where his humility and spiritual bewilderment counter-point the unravelling of many knotty metaphysical points. There were also some chapters of spirited prophecy. The end of the war was predicted, and the fate of certain local people.

  The book set a fashion. Many people in many parts of Trinidad began seeing God. The most celebrated was Man-man of Miguel Street in Port of Spain. Man-man saw God, tried to crucify himself, and had to be put away.

  And only two months after the publication of What God Told Me Ganesh scored a stupendous success of scandal. His inspiration was the musical toilet-roll rack. Because Profitable Evacuation was published during the war its title was misunderstood; fortunately, for it might not have been allowed if the authorities knew that it was concerned more or less with constipation. ‘A vital subject,’ Ganesh wrote in his Preface, ‘one that has adversely dogged human relationships since the beginning of time.’ The gist of the book was that evacuation could be made not only pleasurable but profitable, a means of strengthening the abdominal muscles. The system he recommended is roughly that which contortionists and weight-lifters call excavation.

  This, printed on thick paper, with a cover of brightest yellow decorated with a lotus, established Ganesh finally, without question.

  Left to himself Ganesh might not have taken any further action against Narayan. The Little Bird was only a twitter of protest amid whole-hearted and discerning applause. But people like The Great Belche
r and Beharry didn’t like it.

  Beharry, in particular, was upset. Ganesh had opened up to him vaster vistas of reading and knowledge; and it was because of Ganesh that he prospered. He had put up his new shop, all concrete and plaster and glass. Land-values in Fuente Grove had risen and he had profited by that too. From time to time he was asked by various Literary-Debating-and-Social-Welfare Societies to talk on aspects of Ganesh’s career: Ganesh the man, Ganesh the mystic, the contribution of Ganesh to Hindu thought. His fate was bound up with Ganesh’s and he, more than anyone, resented Narayan’s attacks.

  He did what he could to encourage Ganesh to act.

  ‘The man attack you again this month, pundit.’

  ‘Gaddaha!’

  ‘But it does look bad bad, pundit. Especially now that Ramlogan beginning to write against you in The Hindu. Is dangerous.’

  But Ganesh wasn’t worried that Narayan was preparing for the 1946 elections. ‘I ain’t burning to be one of those damn crooks who does go up for elections.’

  ‘You hear the latest, pundit? Narayan form a party. The Hindu Association. Is a election stunt, pundit. He ain’t have a chance to win in Port of Spain. He have to come to the country and that is where he frighten you beat him.’

  ‘Beharry, you and me know what sort of thing Indian associations is in this place. Narayan and those people just like little girls playing dolly-house.’

  Ganesh’s judgement was sound. At the first general meeting of the Hindu Association Narayan was elected President. The following were also elected: four Assistant-Presidents, two Vice-Presidents, four Assistant Vice-Presidents; many Treasurers; one Secretary-in-Chief, six Secretaries, twelve Assistant-Secretaries.

  ‘You see? They ain’t leave nobody out. Look, Beharry, boy, going about talking to all these prayer-meetings, I get to know Trinidad Indians like the back of my own hand.’

  But then Narayan began playing the fool. He began sending off cables to India, to Mahatma Gandhi, Pandit Nehru and the All-India Congress; in addition to anniversary cables of all sorts: he noted centenaries, bicentenaries tercentenaries. And every time he sent a cable the news was reported in the Trinidad Sentinel. There was nothing to prevent Ganesh sending his own cables; but in India, where they didn’t know what was what in Trinidad, what chance would a cable signed GANESH PUNDIT MYSTIC have against one signed NARAYAN PRESIDENT HINDU ASSOCIATION TRINIDAD?

  The deputation was the work of Beharry.

  Two men and a boy came out one Sunday afternoon to Ganesh’s residence. One man was tall, black, and fat. He looked a little like Ramlogan; only, he was dressed in spotless white: his belly was so big it hung over his black leather belt and hid it. In his shirt pocket he carried a letter and a whole row of pens and pencils. The other man was thin, fair, and good-looking. The boy wore short trousers and his shirt-sleeves were buttoned at his wrists. Ganesh had often met the men and knew them as organizers. The boy he didn’t know.

  The deputation sat down carefully on the morris chairs in the verandah and Ganesh shouted for Leela to bring put some CocaCola.

  The deputation looked through the drawing-room doors and examined the pictures and the two big Coca-Cola calendars on the walls.

  Then they saw Leela, thin and elegant in her sari, opening the refrigerator. The fat man nudged the boy sitting next to him on the couch; and the whole deputation stopped staring.

  The fat man became businesslike. ‘Sahib, we ain’t come here to beat about the bush. Beharry and your aunt – a nice nice woman, sahib – they ask me to come because of the amount of experience I have organizing prayer-meetings and things like that –’

  The Coca-Cola came. Four frosted bottles on a glass-bottomed tray. Leela sighed. ‘Wait jirst one moment. I are going to get the glasses.’

  The fat man looked at the bottles. The thin fair man fingered the strip of adhesive-plaster above his left eye. The boy looked at the tassels on Ganesh’s scarf. Ganesh smiled at them all in turn and they all smiled back, except the boy.

  On another glass-bottomed tray Leela brought expensive-looking glasses of great beauty, arabesqued in gold, red, and green and ringed with gold bands.

  The deputation held their glasses in both hands.

  There was an awkward silence until Ganesh asked the fat man, ‘What you doing these days, Swami?’

  Swami took a sip of Coca-Cola, a refined lilliputian sip. ‘Jirst living, sahib.’

  ‘Jirst living, eh?’ Ganesh smiled.

  Swami nodded and smiled back.

  ‘And what happen to you, Partap? I see you cut yourself, man.’

  ‘A little accident in Parcel Post,’ Partap said, fingering the adhesive-plaster.

  Ganesh had always thought of this man as Partap of Parcel Post. He managed to bring in the Parcel Post into almost any conversation, and Ganesh knew that to annoy him you only had to suggest that he worked in the Post Office. ‘Parcel Post, please,’ he would say coldly.

  Silence, for three little sips of Coca-Cola.

  Swami put down his glass with decision, but with unintentioned violence, and Leela came and stood at one of the drawing-room doors. Swami took up his glass again and smiled. ‘Yes, sahib,’ he said, with great cheerfulness. ‘We ain’t come here to beat about the bush. You is the only man with authority among all Trinidad Indians to stand up to Narayan. We don’t approve of the way Narayan attacking you. We come here today, sahib’ – Swami became solemn – ‘to ask you to form up your own own association. We go make you President straightaway and – you ain’t have to look very far – you have three Assistant-Presidents sitting down quiet quiet in front of you drinking Coca-Cola.’

  ‘What Narayan do you so?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Partap said surlily. ‘Nasty attack on me and my family, pundit. Accusing my own father of bribery and corruption in the local Road Board. And he always does call me a Post Office man, just for spite. I write letters, but he don’t print them.’

  ‘And me he accusing of robbing poor people.’ Swami looked pained. ‘Sahib, it have more than eighteen months now you know me. I organize a hundred and one prayer-meetings for you. Sahib, a man of my standing go ever rob poor people?’ Swami was a solicitor’s tout in Couva.

  ‘And what Narayan do the boy?’

  Swami laughed and took a big gulp of Coca-Cola. The boy looked down into his glass. ‘Narayan ain’t do him anything yet, sahib. He only here for the experience.’

  The boy’s face grew darker with embarrassment.

  ‘But he is a bright little boy, you know.’ The boy frowned into his glass. ‘My sister son. A genius, man, sahib. First shot, he get a first grade in the Cambridge School Certificate.’

  Ganesh thought of his own second grade at the age of nineteen. He said, ‘Ummh,’ and took his first sip of Coca-Cola.

  Partap went on, ‘It not right, sahib. Every day you open the Sentinel, two to one you find something on page three about Narayan sending off greeting cables.’

  Ganesh took a long draught of Coca-Cola.

  Swami said, ‘You must do something, sahib. Start up your own association. Or bring out a paper. Is another thing where I have a whole ton of experience. When I was young, man, sahib, in the nineteen-twenties, a year didn’t pass off without Swami bringing out a new paper. I had to go up to Port of Spain – law business, you know – and I went to the Registrar office. Man, it surprise me self the number of paper I bring out. But I change now. I say you must bring out a paper only when you have a good good reason.’

  Everybody drank some Coca-Cola.

  ‘But I must stop talking about myself. This little boy here, sahib, he is a born writer. Man, if you does hear the English word he does use – word as long as my hand, man!’ Swami held out his right arm until his shirt tautened at the arm-pit.

  Ganesh looked at the boy.

  ‘He shy today,’ Swami said.

  ‘But don’t let that fool you,’ Partap said. ‘He thinking all the time.’

  They drank a lot more Coca-Cola and ta
lked a lot more, but Ganesh refused to be convinced, although there was in their arguments much that attracted him. That business of bringing out his own newspaper, for example, had repeatedly crossed his mind. In fact, sometimes on Sundays he had shouted to Leela to bring him paper and red pencils and he had made up dummy issues of newspapers. He had ruled columns, indicated which were for advertisements, which for edification. But this pleasure, like that of making note-books, was a private one.

  Shortly afterwards, however, two things occurred that decided him to take action against Narayan.

  You might say that the first began in the offices of the London Messenger. The war ended, throwing journalists more or less upon their own resources. The Messenger flew a correspondent to South America to cover a revolution that looked promising. Considering that the only human interest story he could get there was from a woman in a night-club who said, ‘You are in bed. You hear bim-bam-bom. You say, “Revolution”, and you go to sleep again,’ the correspondent had done well. Having covered that revolution he flew back by way of Para, Georgetown, and Port of Spain, and uncovered crises in all three places. Apparently Trinidad natives were planning a revolt and British officials and their wives were taking revolvers to dances. The libel was publicity and pleased Trinidad. Ganesh was more concerned with the correspondent’s analysis of the political situation, as reported back in the Trinidad Sentinel. Narayan was described as President of the extremist Hindu Association. Narayan, ‘who received me at his party headquarters’, was the leader of the Indian community. Ganesh didn’t mind that. He didn’t mind the disparaging reference to the Hindu fanatics of South Trinidad. But he was needled when the correspondent lingered over romantic details when speaking of Narayan and described him as ‘chain-smoking, balding C. S. Narayan, veteran journalist’, and much more. He could take any amount of abuse from Narayan himself. England could, if it wished, think of Narayan as the leader of Trinidad Indians. But that England would read and remember that C. S. Narayan was chain-smoking, balding, and a veteran journalist was more than he could bear.