The Mystic Masseur by V. S. Naipaul Page B

man.’
    Though Ganesh’s joy was great there was one disappointment he couldn’t quite stifle. His book looked so small. It had no more than thirty pages, thirty small pages; and it was so thin nothing could be printed on the spine.
    ‘Is this boy Basdeo,’ Ganesh explained to Beharry. ‘All the big talk he give me about point and leading, and after all that he not only give me that ugly type he call Times, but he had to give me small small type.’
    Suruj Mooma said, ‘He make the book look like nothing, man.’
    ‘Is the trouble with Indians in Trinidad,’ Beharry said.
    ‘All of them not like Suruj Poopa, you know,’ Suruj Mooma interrupted. ‘Suruj Poopa want to see you get on.’
    Beharry went on, ‘You know, Ganesh, it wouldn’t surprise if somebody did pay this boy Basdeo to do what he do to your book. Now, another printer who didn’t jealous you woulda make the book run to sixty pages and he woulda give you thick thick paper too.’
    ‘Anyway, you mustn’t mind,’ Suruj Mooma said. ‘Is some thing. Is a damn lot more than most people do in this place.’
    Beharry pointed to the frontispiece and nibbled. ‘Is a nice picture of you here, you know, Ganesh.’
    ‘He look like a real professor,’ Suruj Mooma said. ‘So serious, and with his hand under his chin like if he thinking real deep.’
    Ganesh took another copy and pointed to the dedication page. ‘I think Suruj Poopa name look nice in print too,’ he said to Suruj Mooma.
    Beharry nibbled in embarrassment. ‘Nah. You only making joke, man.’
    ‘I think the whole thing look nice,’ Suruj Mooma said.

    Early one Sunday afternoon Leela was standing at the window of the kitchen at the back of Ramlogan’s shop in Fourways. She was washing the midday dishes and was about to throw some dirty water out of the window when she saw a face appear below her. The face was familiar, but the impish smile on it was new.
    ‘Leela!’ the face whispered.
    ‘Oh – is you . What you doing here?’
    ‘I come back for you, girl.’
    ‘Go away quick march from here, you hear, before I throw this tureen of dirty water all over your face and wash away the grin.’
    ‘Leela, is not only come I come for you; but I have something to tell you, and I want to tell you first.’
    ‘Say it quick. But I must say you was able to keep it to yourself a damn long time. Eh, eh, is nearly three months now you drive me away from your house and in all that time you never bother to send a message to ask me, “Dog, how you is?” or “Cat, how you is?” So why for you come now, eh?’
    ‘But, Leela, is you who leave me. I couldn’t send you a message because I was writing.’
    ‘Go and tell that to Beharry, you hear. Look, I go call Pa in a minute and what he have for you ain’t nice, I could tell you.’
    The smile on the face became more impish, and the whisper was more conspiratorial. ‘Leela, I write a book.’
    She trembled on the brink of belief. ‘You lying.’
    He produced it with a flourish. ‘Look at the book. And look here at my name, and look here at my picture, and look here at all these words I write with my own hand. They print now, but you know I just sit down at the table in the front-room and write them on ordinary paper with a ordinary pencil.’
    ‘Oh, man! Oh, man! Oh, man, you really write the book.’
    ‘Careful! Don’t touch it with your soapy hand.’
    ‘Look, I go run and tell Pa.’ She turned and went inside. Ganesh heard her saying, ‘And we must let Soomintra know. She wouldn’t like it at all at all.’
    Left alone under the window in the shade of the tamarind tree, Ganesh began to hum and take a minute interest in Ramlogan’s back yard, though he really saw nothing, neither the copper cask, rusted and empty, nor the barrels of water full of mosquito larvae.
    ‘Sahib!’ Ramlogan’s voice rasping from within. ‘Sahib! Come inside, man, sahib. Why you pretending that you is a stranger and standing up outside? Come in, sahib,