You never felt that he was a fake and you couldn’t deny his literacy or learning – not with all those books. And he hadn’t only book-learning. He could talk on almost any subject. For instance, he had views about Hitler and knew how the war could be ended in two weeks. ‘One way,’ he used to say. ‘Only one. And in fourteen days, even thirteen – bam! – no more war.’ But he kept the way a secret. And he could discuss religion sensibly as well. He was no bigot. He took as much interest in Christianity and Islam as in Hinduism. In the shrine, the old bedroom, he had pictures of Mary and Jesus next to Krishna and Vishnu; a crescent and star represented iconoclastic Islam. ‘All the same God,’ he said. Christians liked him, Muslims liked him, and Hindus, willing as ever to risk prayers to new gods, didn’t object.
But more than his powers, learning, or tolerance, people liked his charity. He had no fixed fee and accepted whatever was given him. When someone complained that he was poor and at the same time persecuted by an evil spirit, Ganesh took care of the spirit and waived the fee. People began to say, ‘He not like the others. They only hot after your money. But Ganesh, he is a good man.’
He was a good listener. People poured out their souls to him and he didn’t make them feel uncomfortable. His speech became flexible. With simple folk he spoke dialect. With people who looked pompous or sceptical or said, ‘Is the first time in my life I come to anybody like you,’ he spoke as correctly as possible, and his deliberate delivery gave weight to what he said and won confidence.
So clients came to Fuente Grove from every corner of Trinidad. Soon he had to pull down the book-shed and put up a canvas-roofed bamboo tent to shelter them. They brought their sadnesses to Fuente Grove, but they made the place look gay. Despite the sorrow in their faces and attitudes they wore clothes as bright as any wedding crowd: veils, bodices, skirts all strident pink, yellow, blue, or green.
The Niggergram had it that even the Governor’s wife had consulted Ganesh. When he was asked about this he grew stern and changed the subject.
On Saturdays and Sundays he rested. On Saturday he went to San Fernando and bought about twenty dollars’ worth of books, almost six inches; and on Sunday, from habit, he took down Saturday’s new books and underlined passages at random, although he no longer had the time to read the books as thoroughly as he would have liked.
On Sunday, too, Beharry came in the morning, to talk. But a change had come over him. He seemed shy of Ganesh and wasn’t as ready with talk as before. He just sat on the verandah and nibbled and agreed with everything Ganesh said.
Now that Ganesh had stopped going to Beharry’s, Leela began. She had taken to wearing a sari and it made her look thinner and frailer. She spoke to Suruj Mooma about Ganesh’s work and her own fatigue.
As soon as Leela left, Suruj Mooma exploded. ‘Suruj Poopa, you was listening to she? You see how Indian people does get conceited quick quick? Mind you, it ain’t he I mind, but she. You hear all that big talk she giving we about wanting to break down the old house and build up a new one? And why all this damn nonsense about wearing sari? All she life she knocking about in bodice and long skirt, and now she start with sari?’
‘Man, was your idea Ganesh should wear dhoti and turban. It ain’t have anything wrong if Leela wear sari.’
‘Suruj Poopa, you ain’t have no shame. They does treat you like dog and still you sticking up for them. And too besides, he wearing dhoti and Leela wearing sari is two different things. And what about the other set of nonsense she sit down on she thin tail here and giving we? All about feeling tired and wanting holiday. She ever had holiday before? Me ever had holiday? Ganesh ever had holiday? You ever had holiday? Holiday! She working hard all the time cleaning out cow-pen and doing a hundred and one things I wouldn’t dirty myself doing, and we ain’t hear not one single squeak about tiredness and holiday. Is only because she feeling a little money in she purse that she start with this nonsense, you hear.’
‘Man, it ain’t nice to talk like this. If people hear you they go think you just jealous.’
‘Me jealous? Me jealous she? Eh, but what is this I hearing in my old age?’
Beharry looked away.
‘Tell me, Suruj Poopa, what cause I have to jealous a thin little woman who can’t even make a baby? I never leave my husband and run away from my responsibility, you hear. Is not me you got to complain about. Is them who is the ungrateful ones.’ She paused, then continued, solemnly. ‘I remember how we did take in Ganesh and help him and feed him and do a hundred and one other things for him.’ She paused again, before snapping, ‘And now what we get?’
‘Man, we wasn’t looking for anything in return. We was just doing we duty.’
‘You see what we getting. Tiredness. Holiday.’
‘Yes, man.’
‘Suruj Poopa, you ain’t listening to me. Every Sunday morning bright and early you jump out of your bed and running over to kiss the man foot as though he is some Lord Laloo.’
‘Man, Ganesh is a great man and I must go and see him. If he treat me bad, is on his head, not mine.’
And when Beharry went to see Ganesh he said, ‘Suruj Mooma not well this morning. Otherwise she woulda come. But she send to say how.’
For Ganesh the most satisfying thing about these early mystic months was the success of his Questions and Answers.
It was Basdeo, the printer, who pointed out the possibilities. He came to Fuente Grove one Sunday morning and found Ganesh and Beharry sitting on blankets in the verandah. Ganesh, in dhoti and vest, was reading the Sentinel – he had the paper sent to him every day now. Beharry just stared and nibbled.
‘Like I tell you,’ Basdeo said, after the salutations. He was a little more than plump now and when he sat down he could cross his legs only with difficulty. ‘I still keeping the print of your book, pundit. Remember, I did tell you I did feel something special about you. Is a good good book, and is my opinion that more people should have a chance to read it.’
‘It still have more than nine hundred copies remaining.’
‘Sell those at a dollar a copy, pundit. People go snap them up, I tell you. It have nothing to shame about. After you sell off those I print another edition –’
‘Revise edition,’ Beharry said, but very softly, and Basdeo paid no attention.
‘Another edition, pundit. Cloth cover, jacket, thicker paper, more pictures.’
‘De luxe edition,’ Beharry said.
‘Exactly. Nice de luxe edition. What you say, sahib?’
Ganesh smiled and folded the Sentinel with great care. ‘How much the Elite Electric Printery going to make out of this?’
Basdeo didn’t smile. ‘This is the idea, sahib. I print the book at my own expense. A nice big de luxe edition. We bring them here. You ain’t pay a cent so far. You sell the book at two dollars a copy. Every copy you sell you keep a dollar. You ain’t even have to lift your little finger. And is a good holy book, sahib.’
‘What about other sellers?’ Beharry asked.
Basdeo turned apprehensively. ‘What other sellers? No body but the pundit sahib going to handle the books. Only me and Ganesh pundit sahib.’
Beharry nibbled. ‘Is a good idea, and is a good book.’
So 101 Questions and Answers on the Hindu Religion became the first best-seller in the history of Trinidad publishing. People were willing to pay the money for it. The simple-minded bought it as a charm; the poor because it was the least they could do for Pundit Ganesh; but most people were genuinely interested. The book was sold only at Fuente Grove and there was no need of Bissoon’s selling hand.
He came, though, to ask for a few copies. He looked longer, thinner, and at a hundred yards couldn’t be mistaken for a boy. He had grown very old. His suit was frayed and dusty, his shirt was dirty, and he wore no tie.
‘People just ain’t buying from me these days, sahib. Something gone wrong. I feel your kyatechism go bring back my hand and my luck.’
Ganesh explained that Basdeo was responsible for dist
ribution. ‘And he don’t really want any sellers. It have nothing I could do, Bissoon. I sorry.’
‘Is my luck, sahib.’
Ganesh turned up the edge of the blanket on which he was sitting and brought out some five-dollar notes. He counted four and offered them to Bissoon.
To his surprise Bissoon rose, very much like the old Bissoon, dusted his coat, and straightened his hat. ‘You think I come to beg you for charity, Ganesh? I was a big big man when you was wetting your diaper, and you want now to give me charity?’
And he walked away.
It was the last Ganesh saw of him. For a long time no one, not even The Great Belcher, knew what became of him, until Beharry brought the news one Sunday morning that Suruj Mooma thought she had glimpsed him in a blue uniform in the ground of the Poor House on the Western Main Road in Port of Spain.
One Sunday Beharry said, ‘Pundit, it have something I feel I must tell you, but I don’t know how to tell you. But I must tell you because it does hurt me to hear people dirtying your name.’
‘Oh.’
‘People saying bad things, pundit.’
Leela came out to the verandah, tall, thin, and fragile in her sari. ‘Oh, Beharry. But you looking well today. How you is? And how Suruj Mooma? And Suruj and the children, they well too?’
‘Ah,’ Beharry said apologetically. ‘They well. But how you is, Leela? You looking very sick these days.’
‘I don’t know, Beharry. One foot in the grave, as they does say. I ain’t know what happening, but I so tired these days. It have so much things to do these days. I feel I have to take a holiday.’ She flopped down at the other end of the verandah and began to fan herself with the Sunday Sentinel.
Beharry said, ‘Ahh, maharajin,’ and turned to Ganesh, who was paying no attention to Leela. ‘Yes, pundit. People complaining.’
Ganesh said nothing.
‘It have some people even saying you is a robber.’
Ganesh smiled.
‘Is not you they complaining about, pundit.’ Beharry nibbled anxiously. ‘Is the taxi-drivers they don’t like. You know how it hard to get up here, and the taxi-drivers charging anything up to five shillings.’
Ganesh stopped smiling. ‘Is true?’
‘Is true true, pundit, so help me God. And the thing, pundit, is that people saying that you own the taxis, and that if you don’t charge people for the help you does give them, you does take it out of them in taxi fare.’
Leela got up. ‘Man, I think I go go and lie down a little bit. Beharry, tell Suruj Mooma how for me.’
Ganesh didn’t look at her.
‘All right, maharajin,’ Beharry said. ‘You must take good care of yourself.’
‘But, Beharry, it have a lot of taxis coming here, man.’
‘Is where you wrong, pundit. Is only five. The same five. And all of them charging the same price.’
‘But who taxis they is?’
Beharry nibbled and played with the edge of his blanket. ‘Ah, pundit, that is the hard part. Wasn’t me did notice it, you know, pundit. Was Suruj Mooma. These woman and them, pundit, they does notice thing we can’t even see with magnifying glass. They sharp as razor-grass, man.’ Beharry laughed and looked at Ganesh. Ganesh was serious. Beharry looked down at his blanket.
‘Who taxis?’
‘It make me shame to say, pundit. Your own father-in-law. Is what Suruj Mooma say. Ramlogan, from Fourways. It have a good three months now he running those taxis here.’
‘Oho!’ Ganesh rose quickly from his blanket and went inside.
Beharry heard him shouting. ‘Look, girl, I ain’t care how tired you is, you hear. You never too tired to count money. What I want is the facts. You and your father is proper traders. Buy, sell, make money, money.’
Beharry listened, pleased.
‘Wasn’t your father idea. He too stupid. Was your idea, not so? You and your father ain’t care what sort of name I have in this place once you making your money. And, eh, eh, is my money. A year back, how much motor car coming to Fuente Grove in a whole month? One, two. Today? Fifty, sometimes a hundred. Who is the cause of that? Me or your father?’
Beharry heard Leela crying. Then he heard a slap. The crying stopped. He heard Ganesh walking heavily back to the verandah.
‘You is a good good friend, Beharry. I go see about this right away.’
Before midday he had eaten, dressed – not in English clothes but in his normal Hindu attire – and was on his way to Fourways in a taxi. It was one of Ramlogan’s. The driver, a fat little man bumping cheerfully up and down in his seat, handled the steering-wheel almost as if he loved it. When he wasn’t talking to Ganesh he sang a Hindi song, which apparently had only four words. Let us praise God.
He explained, ‘Is like this, pundit. We five taxi-boys does remain in Princes Town or San Fernando, and we does tell people that if they going to see you they must only use these taxis, because you say so. Is what Mr Ramlogan say. But even I say is better for them, seeing how you bless the taxi yourself.’
He sang Let us praise God a few times. ‘What you think of your pictures, sahib?’
‘Pictures?’
The driver sang the song again. ‘Picture on the door, hanging by where other taxi does have the tariff.’
It was a framed picture, issued by the Gita Press of Gorakhpur in India, of the goddess Lakshmi standing, as usual, on her lotus. There was no tariff.
‘Is a too nice idea, sahib. Mr Ramlogan say was your own idea, and all five of we taxi-boys take we old hat off to you, sahib.’ He became earnest. ‘It does make a man feel good, sahib, driving a car with a holy picture inside it, especially when said picture bless by you. And the people like it too, man.’
‘But what about the other taxi-drivers and them?’
‘Ah, sahib. Is we biggest problem. How to keep the son-of-a-bitches away? You have to be very very careful with them. Pappa, they could lie too, you know. Eh, Sookhoo find one man the other day who did sticking up he own holy picture.’
‘What Sookhoo do?’
The driver laughed and sang. ‘Sookhoo smart, sahib. He drive the man car on the grass one day and take up the crank and he go over and tell him cool cool that if he don’t stop playing the fool, you was going to make the car bewitch.’
Ganesh cleared his throat.
‘Sookhoo is like that, sahib. But listen to the upshot. Two days good ain’t pass before the man car get in an accident. A bad accident too.’
The driver began to sing again.
Ramlogan kept his shop open all week. The laws forbade him to sell groceries on Sunday; but there was no regulation against the selling of cakes, aerated water, or cigarettes on that day.
He was sitting on his stool behind the counter, doing nothing at all, just staring out into the road, when the taxi pulled up and Ganesh stepped out. Ramlogan held out his arms across the counter and began to cry. ‘Ah, sahib, sahib, you forgive a old, old man. I didn’t mean to drive you away that day, sahib. All the time since that day I only thinking and saying, “Ramlogan, what you do your cha’acter? Ramlogan, oh Ramlogan, what you go and do your sensa values?” Night and day, sahib, I praying for you to forgive me.’
Ganesh tossed the tasselled end of his green scarf over his shoulder. ‘You looking well, Ramlogan. You getting fat, man.’
Ramlogan wiped his tears away. ‘Is just wind, sahib.’ He blew his nose. ‘Just wind.’ He had grown fatter and greyer, oilier and dingier. ‘Ah, sit down, sahib. Don’t bother about me. I is all right. You remember, sahib, how when you was a little boy you use to come in Ramlogan shop and sit down right there and talk to the old man? You was a fust-class talker, sahib. It use to flubbergast me, sitting down behind the counter here and hearing you giving off ideas. But now’ – Ramlogan waved his hands around the shop and fresh tears came to his eyes – ‘everybody gone and leave me. Me one. Soomintra don’t even want to come by me now.’
‘Is not about Soomintra I come to talk –’
‘Ah
, sahib. I know you just come to comfort a old man left to live by hisself. Soomintra say I too old-fashion. And Leela, she always by you. Why you don’t sit down, sahib? It ain’t dirty. Is just how it does look.’
Ganesh didn’t sit down. ‘Ramlogan, I come to buy over your taxis.’
Ramlogan stopped crying and got off his stool. ‘Taxi, sahib? But what you want with taxi?’ He laughed. ‘A big, educated man like you.’
‘Eight hundred dollars apiece.’
‘Ah, sahib, I know is help you want to help me out. Especially these days when taxi ain’t making any money at all. Is not the sort of job you, a famous mystic, want. I buy the taxi and them, sahib, only because when you getting old and lonely it must have something for you to do. You remember this glass case, sahib?’
It looked so much part of the shop now that Ganesh hadn’t noticed it. The woodwork was grimy, the glass in many places patched and repatched with brown paper and, in one instance, with part of the cover of The Illustrated London News. The short legs stood in four salmon tins filled with water, to keep out ants. It required memory rather than imagination to believe the glass case was once new and spotless.
‘I glad I do my little piece to help modernize Fourways, but nobody ain’t appreciate me, sahib. Nobody.’
Ganesh, for the moment forgetting his mission, looked at the newspaper-cutting and Leela’s notice. The cutting was so brown it looked scorched. Leela’s notice had faded and was almost unreadable.
‘Is what life is, sahib.’ Ramlogan followed Ganesh’s gaze. ‘Years does pass. People does born. People does married. People does dead. Is enough to make anybody a proper philosopher, sahib.’
‘Philosophy is my job. Today is Sunday –’
Ramlogan shrugged. ‘You ain’t really want the taxis, sahib.’
‘It go surprise you how much time I have on my hand these days. Let we say we make a bargain right now, eh?’
Ramlogan became very sad. ‘Sahib, why for you want to make me a pauper? Why for you want to make me sad and miserable in my old, old age? Why for you prosecuting a old illiterate man who don’t know A from B?’