The Mystic Masseur Read Online Free PDF

were bad.
    ‘You only lying,’ Ganesh said. ‘Go away and let me go.’
    The man tightened his face into a smile. ‘I am Indian. Kashmiri. Hindu too.’
    ‘So why for you wearing this yellow thing, then?’
    The man fidgeted with his staff and looked down at his robe. ‘It isn’t the right thing, you mean?’
    ‘Perhaps in Kashmir. Not here.’
    ‘But the pictures – they look like this. I would very much like to talk with you,’ he added, with sudden warmth.
    ‘All right, all right,’ Ganesh said soothingly, and before the man could say anything he was on his bicycle saddle and pedalling away.
    When Ramlogan heard about the encounter he said, ‘That was Mr Stewart.’
    ‘He just did look crazy crazy to me. He had funny cateyes that frighten me, and you shoulda see the way the sweat was running down his red face. Like he not used to the heat.’
    ‘I did meet him in Penal,’ Ramlogan said. ‘Just before I move here. Eight nine months back. Everybody say he mad.’
    Ganesh learnt that Mr Stewart had recently appeared in South Trinidad dressed as a Hindu mendicant. He claimed that he was Kashmiri. Nobody knew where he came from or how he lived, but it was generally assumed that he was English, a millionaire, and a little mad.
    ‘He a little bit like you, you know, sahib. He does think a lot. But I say, when you have so much money you could damn well afford to do a lot of thinking. Sahib, my people make me shame the way they does rob the man just because he have a lot of money and like to give it away. He does stay in one village, give away money, and then he does move somewhere else and start giving there.’
    When Ganesh next saw Mr Stewart, in the village of Swampland, Mr Stewart was in distress, the object of a scrimmage of little boys who were doing their best to unwind his yellow robe. Mr Stewart was not resisting or protesting. He was simply looking about him in a bemused way. Ganesh quickly got off his cycle and picked up a handful of blue-metal stone from a pile left on the verge by the Public Works Department and no doubt given up for lost.
    ‘Don’t hurt them,’ Mr Stewart shouted, as Ganesh pursued the boys. ‘They are only children. Put down the stones.’
    The boys routed, Ganesh came up to Mr Stewart. ‘You all right?’
    ‘My dress is a little dusty,’ Mr Stewart admitted, ‘but I am still sound in wind and limb.’ He brightened. ‘I knew I was going to meet you again. Do you remember our first meeting?’
    ‘I really sorry about that.’
    ‘Oh, I understand. But we must have a talk soon. I feel I can talk to you. The vibrations are right. No, don’t deny it. The vibrations are there all right.’
    Ganesh smiled at the compliment and in the end accepted an invitation to tea. He did so only out of politeness and had no intention of going, but a talk with Ramlogan made him change his mind.
    ‘He is a lonely man, sahib,’ Ramlogan said. ‘It have nobody here who really like him and, believe me, I don’t think he half as mad as people say. I would go if I was you. You go get on all right with him, seeing that both of you is educated people.’
    So Ganesh went to the thatched hut outside Parrot Trace where Mr Stewart now lived. From the outside it looked like any other hut, grass roof and mud walls, but inside it was all order and simplicity. There was a small bed, a small table, and a small chair.
    ‘A man needs no more,’ Mr Stewart said.
    Ganesh was about to sit in the chair without being asked when Mr Stewart said, ‘Nooh! Not that one.’ He lifted up the chair and showed it. ‘Something I made myself, but I fear it is a trifle unreliable. Made from local materials, you know.’
    Ganesh was more interested in Mr Stewart’s clothes. He was dressed conventionally, khaki trousers and white shirt, and there was no sign anywhere of the yellow robe.
    Mr Stewart divined Ganesh’s interest. ‘It doesn’t matter what you wear. No spiritual significance, I’ve decided.’
    Mr