The Mystic Masseur by V. S. Naipaul

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