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 distribution. ‘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.