Free The Mystic Masseur by V. S. Naipaul Page B

them?’
    ‘Nah,’ Ganesh said quickly. ‘You wrong there. It don’t make me feel proud at all at all. You know how it make me feel? It make me feel humble, if I tell the truth. Humble humble.’
    ‘Is the sign of a great man, sahib.’
    The actual writing of the book worried Ganesh and he kept putting it off. When Leela asked, ‘Man, why you ain’t writing the book the American people begging you to write?’ Ganesh replied, ‘Leela, is talk like that that does break up a man science of thought. You mean you can’t see that I thinking, thinking about it all all the time?’

    He never wrote the book for Street and Smith.
    ‘I didn’t promise anything,’ he said. ‘And don’t think I waste my time.’
    Street and Smith had made him think about the art of writing. Like many Trinidadians Ganesh could write correct English but it embarrassed him to talk anything but dialect except on very formal occasions. So while, with the encouragement of Street and Smith, he perfected his prose to a Victorian weightiness he continued to talk Trinidadian, much against his will.
    One day he said, ‘Leela, is high time we realize that we living in a British country and I think we shouldn’t be shame to talk the people language good.’
    Leela was squatting at the kitchen chulha , coaxing a fire from dry mango twigs. Her eyes were red and watery from the smoke. ‘All right, man.’
    ‘We starting now self, girl.’
    ‘As you say, man.’
    ‘Good. Let me see now. Ah, yes. Leela, have you lighted the fire? No, just gimme a chance. Is “lighted” or “lit”, girl?’
    ‘Look, ease me up, man. The smoke going in my eye.’
    ‘You ain’t paying attention, girl. You mean the smoke is going in your eye.’
    Leela coughed in the smoke. ‘Look, man. I have a lot more to do than sit scratching, you hear. Go talk to Beharry.’
    Beharry was enthusiastic. ‘Man, is a master idea, man! Is one of the troubles with Fuente Grove that it have nobody to talk good to. When we starting?’
    ‘Now.’
    Beharry nibbled and smiled nervously. ‘Nah, man, you got to give me time to think.’
    Ganesh insisted.
    ‘All right then,’ Beharry said resignedly. ‘Let we go.’
    ‘It is hot today.’
    ‘I see what you mean. It is very hot today.’
    ‘Look, Beharry. This go do, but it won’t pay, you hear. You got to give a man some help, man. All right now, we going off again. You ready? The sky is very blue and I cannot see any clouds in it. Eh, why you laughing now?’
    ‘Ganesh, you know you look damn funny.’
    ‘Well, you look damn funny yourself, come to that.’
    ‘No, what I mean is that it funny seeing you so, and hearing you talk so.’
    Rice was boiling on the chulha when Ganesh went home. ‘Mr Ramsumair,’ Leela asked, ‘where have you been?’
    ‘Beharry and me was having a little chat. You know, Beharry did look real funny trying to talk good.’
    It was Leela’s turn to laugh. ‘I thought we was starting on this big thing of talking good English.’
    ‘Girl, you just cook my food good, you hear, and talk good English only when I tell you.’

    This was the time when Ganesh felt he had to respond to every advertiser’s request to fill in coupons for free booklets. He came across the coupons in American magazines at Beharry’s shop; and it was a great thrill for him to send off about a dozen coupons at once and await the arrival, a month later, of a dozen bulging packets. The Post Office people didn’t like it and Ganesh had to bribe them before they sent a postman cycling down with the packets to Fuente Grove in the evenings, when it was cool.
    Beharry had to give the postman a drink.
    The postman said, ‘The two of all you getting one set of big fame in Princes Town. Everywhere I turn it have people asking me, “Who is these two people? They come just like Americans, man.” ’ He looked down at his emptied glass and rocked it on the counter. ‘And guess what I does do when they ask me?’
    It was his manner