‘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?’
Ganesh frowned.
‘Sahib, wasn’t a trick I was working back on you.’
‘Working back? Trick? What trick you have to work back? Anybody passing in the road this hot Sunday afternoon and hearing you talk like this go swear I work some trick on you.’
Ramlogan placed the palms of his hands on the counter. ‘Sahib, you know you getting me vex now. I ain’t like other people, you know. I know you is a mystic, but don’t provoke me, sahib. When I get vex, I don’t know what I could do.’
Ganesh waited.
‘If you wasn’t my son-in-law, you know I take up your little tail and fling it through that door?’
‘Ramlogan, ain’t you does ever get a little tired of being smart smart all the time, even in your old age?’
Ramlogan thumped the counter. ‘When at your wedding you rob me, we didn’t get any of this damn mystical stupidness. Look, move out of here before I lose my temper. And too besides, is Government road and anybody can run taxi to Fuente Grove. Ganesh, you just try and do anything and I put you in the papers, you hear.’
‘Put me in the papers?’
‘One time you did put me in the papers. Remember? But it ain’t going to be nice for you, I guarantee you. Oh, God! But I take enough from you in my lifetime! Just just because you married one daughter I did have. If you was a reasonable man, we coulda sit down, open a tin of salmon, and talk this thing over. But you too greedy. You want to rob the people yourself.’
‘Is a favour I want to do you, Ramlogan. I giving you money for the taxis. If I buy my own, you think you could find people to drive your taxis from Princes Town and San Fernando to Fuente Grove? Tell me.’
Ramlogan became insulting. Ganesh only smiled. Then, when it was too late, Ramlogan appealed to Ganesh’s good nature. Ganesh only smiled.
Ramlogan sold, in the end.
But when Ganesh was leaving, he burst out. ‘All right, Ganesh, you making me a pauper. But watch. Watch and see if I don’t put you in the papers and tell everybody everything about you.’
Ganesh got into his taxi.
‘Ganesh!’ Ramlogan shouted. ‘Is war now!’
He might have run the taxis as part of his service to the public, and not charge for it; but Leela made difficulties and he had to give in. It was her idea, after all. He charged four shillings for the trip from Princes Town and San Fernando to Fuente Grove; and if this was a little more than it ought to have been, it was because the roads were bad. At any rate the fare was cheaper than Ramlogan’s, and the clients were grateful.
Leela tried to explain away Ramlogan’s threats. ‘He getting old now, man, and it ain’t have much for him to live for. You mustn’t mind all the things he say. He don’t mean it.’
But Ramlogan was good as his word.
One Sunday, when The Great Belcher had called at Fuente Grove, Beharry came with a magazine, ‘Pundit, you see what they write about you in the papers?’
He passed the magazine to Ganesh. It was a ragged thing called The Hindu, printed atrociously on the cheapest paper. Advertisements took up most of the space, but there were lots of quotations from the Hindu scriptures in odd corners, stale Information Office hand-outs about the British War Effort, repeated urgings to ‘Read The Hindu’; and a column of original scandal headed A Little Bird Tells Us. It was to this that Beharry drew Ganesh’s attention.
‘Suruj Mooma bring it back from Tunapuna. She say you should hear the amount of scandal it causing.’
There was one item that began, ‘A little bird tells us that the so-called mystic in South Trinidad has taken up driving taxis. The little bird also twittered into our ears that the said so-called mystic was party to a hoax played on the Trinidad public concerning a certain so-called Cultural Institute …’
Ganesh passed the paper to The Great Belcher. ‘Leela father,’ he said.
The Great Belcher said, ‘Is why I come, boy. People talking about it. He call you the business Man of God. But you mustn’t get worried, Ganesh. Everybody know that Narayan, the man who edit it, just jealous you. He think he is a mystic too.’
‘Yes, pundit. Suruj Mooma say that Narayan went up to Tunapuna and start telling people that with just a little bit of practice he could be just as good as you in the mystic business.’
The Great Belcher said, ‘Is the thing about Indians here. They hate to see another Indian get on.’
‘I ain’t worried,’ Ganesh said.
And, really, he wasn’t. But there were things in The Hindu that people remembered, such as the description of Ganesh as the business Man of God; and the accusation was parroted about by people who didn’t know better.
He didn’t have the business mind. In fact, he despised it. The taxi-service was Leela’s idea. So was the restaurant, and that could hardly be called a business idea. Clients had to wait so long now when they came to see Ganesh that it seemed only considerate to give them food. So Leela had built a great bamboo tent at the side of the house where she fed people; and since Fuente Grove was so far from anywhere else, she had to charge a little extra.
And then people made a lot of fuss about Beharry’s shop.
To understand the affair — some people made it the scandal — of Beharry’s shop, you must remember that for years most of Ganesh’s clients had been used to fake spirit-charmers who made them burn camphor and ghee and sugar and rice, and kill cocks and goats. Ganesh had little use for that sort of silly ritual. But he found that his clients, particularly the women, loved it; so he too ordered them to burn things two or three times a day. They brought the ingredients and begged him, and sometimes paid him, to offer them up on their behalf.
He wasn’t really surprised when, one Sunday morning, Beharry said, ‘Pundit, sometimes me and Suruj Mooma does stop and think and get worried about the things people bringing to you. They is poor people, they don’t know whether the stuff they getting is good or not, whether it clean or not. And I know that it have a lot of shopkeepers who wouldn’t mind giving them the wrong sort of stuff.’
Leela said, ‘Yes, man. Is something Suruj Mooma been telling me she worried about for a long long time.’
Ganesh smiled. ‘Suruj Mooma doing a lot of worrying these days.’
‘Yes, pundit. I know you woulda see my point. The poor people ain’t educated up to your standard and is up to you to see that they getting the right stuff from the proper shopkeeper.’
Leela said, ‘I think it would make the poor people feel nicer if they could buy the stuff right here in Fuente Grove.’
‘Why you don’t keep it by you then, maharajin?’