The Mystic Masseur (22 page)

‘And with everybody else,’ Swami added, ‘Cyrus Stephen Narayan.’

Leela brought large sheets of paper and many red pencils.

Ganesh said, ‘I think over what you say, and we going to start up we own paper.’

Swami said, ‘Is just what go knock hell out of Narayan.’

Ganesh ruled out columns on the sheet before him. ‘Like in all things, we have to start small.’

The boy put
Time and the New Statesman
on the table. ‘These is small papers.
Very
small papers.’

Swami laughed. It sounded like gargling in the next room. ‘You see, sahib, the boy could talk good. And, man, he is a born writer. He know a lot more than plenty of big big man in this place.’

The boy repeated. ‘Yes, these is very small papers.’

Ganesh smiled sympathetically. ‘That go cost a lot, man. We have to start small and simple. Look at your uncle Swami. He start small when he did bringing out papers.’

Swami nodded solemnly.

‘And Partap. And me. We did all have to start small. We starting up with four pages.’

‘Only four pages?’ the boy said petulantly. ‘But that ain’t no sort of paper at all, man.’

‘Later we go build it up, man. Big big.’

‘All right, all right.’ The boy angrily pulled his chair away from the table. ‘Go ahead and make up your so-call paper. But just leave me out of it.’ He attended to his Coca-Cola.

‘First page,’ Ganesh announced. ‘Bright page. No advertisements, except in the bottom right-hand corner.’

‘I always did promise myself,’ Partap said reverently, ‘that if I did ever start up a paper, I woulda dedicate it to Mahatma Gandhi. I know a boy, if you treat him nice, could pick up a block with Gandhi picture from the
Sentinel
office. We could put this on the top of the front page and I could always find out some words or something to go with it.’

Ganesh marked out the space for the homage.

‘That settle,’ Swami said.

The front page going to be a page of attack, attack,’ Ganesh said. ‘Leave that to me. I working on this article exposing the Destitutes Fund and Leela busy writing a little report about the social welfare work she doing.’

Swami was so pleased he tried to cross his gargantuan legs. The chair creaked and Ganesh looked hard at him. Leela came out and swept through the room. ‘Some people look as if they are never see furnitures before. Next time I are going to bring some benches.’

Partap sat bolt upright and Swami smiled.

The boy, sitting against the wall next to the refrigerator, said, ‘Yes, the page settle. But I wonder what people go say when they see in one side the page dedication to Mahatma Gandhi and in the other side attack, attack.’

Swami said sharply, ‘Shut up, boy. Otherwise, don’t mind you big and wearing long pants, I haul you across my knee and I give you a sound sound cut-arse, right here, in front of the pundit self. And I leave you home next time and you never touch any paper I bring out. If you ain’t have nothing but suckastic remarks, keep quiet.’

‘All right, you is a big man and you go shut me up. But I want to see how all you going to full up the three other pages.’

Ganesh ignored the exchange and went on ruling columns on the inside pages. ‘Page two.’

Partap sipped some Coca-Cola. ‘Page two.’

‘Yes,’ Swami said, ‘page two.’

Partap snapped his fingers. ‘Advertisements!’

‘A whole page advertisements on page two? You see the way inexperience people does talk?’

‘
Some
advertisements,’ Ganesh pleaded.

‘Is what I did mean,’ Partap said.

‘Four columns on page two. Two for advertisement?’

Partap nodded.

Swami said, ‘Is how
I
use to do it.’

‘What you going to put in the two columns?’ The boy.

Swami turned around quickly in his chair and again it creaked dangerously. The boy was holding up
Time
before his face.

‘How about a little thing by you, pundit?’ Partap asked.

‘Man, already I writing up a whole front page. And I ain’t want my name to appear in the paper. I ain’t want to bring myself down to Narayan level.’

Swami said, ‘Culture, sahib. Page two is the culture page.’

Partap said, ‘Yes, culture.’

There was a long silence, broken only by the boy turning over the pages of
Time
with unnecessary rustle.

Ganesh tapped his pencil on the table. Swami propped his hands against his chin and leaned forward on the table, pushing it towards Ganesh. Partap crossed his arms and furrowed his brow.

‘Coca-Cola?’ Ganesh said.

Swami and Partap nodded absent-mindedly and Leela came out to do the honours. ‘I have some enamel cups, you know, if that are going to make you people any happier.’

‘Oh, we is all right,’ Partap smiled.

‘Cinema,’ the boy said, behind
Time
.

‘What you mean?’ Swami asked eagerly.

‘Film reviews,’ Ganesh said.

Partap said, ‘Film reviews is a first-class idea.’

Swami was enthusiastic. ‘And on that selfsame page, advertisements for films. From the Indian companies. One review for one advertisement.’

Ganesh slapped the table. ‘That self.’

The boy was humming.

The three men sipped Coca-Cola with abandon. Swami laughed and chuckled till his chair creaked.

The boy said coldly, ‘Page three.’

‘Two more columns of advertisement there,’ Ganesh said briskly.

‘And a nice big advertisement on the whole of page four,’ Swami added.

‘True enough,’ Ganesh said, ‘but why for you jumping ahead so?’

Partap said, ‘Only two more columns to full up.’

‘Yes,’ Swami said sadly, ‘two more.’

The boy walked to the table and said, ‘Feecher.’

They looked at him inquiringly.

‘Feecher article.’

‘The paper finish!’ Swami cried.

Partap said, ‘Who go write the feecher?’

Ganesh said, ‘People know my style. Is something for you people to write. Just gimme page one.’

‘Serious, religious feecher on page three,’ the boy said, ‘to make up for page one which, if I ain’t getting deaf, going to be a page of attack, attack.’

Swami said, ‘I outa practice. In the old days, man, I coulda turn out a feecher in half a hour.’

Partap said hesitantly, ‘A bright little thing about Parcel Post?’

The boy said, ‘Serious
and
religious feecher.’ To Swami he said, ‘But what about that one you show me the other day?’

‘Which one?’ Swami asked casually.

‘The flying one.’

‘Oh.
That
little thing. The boy talking, sahib, about a few words I scribble off the other day.’

Partap said, ‘I remember the one. The
New Statesman
send it back. Was nice, though. It prove, pundit, that in ancient India they did know all about aeroplanes.’

Ganesh said, ‘Hmmh.’ Then, ‘All right, we go put it in.’

Swami said, ‘I go have to polish it up a little bit.’

Partap said, ‘Well, I glad that settle.’

The boy said, ‘All you forgetting one thing. The name.’

The men became thoughtful once more.

Swami tinkled the ice in his glass. ‘I better say it right away, sahib. I is like that, sahib. No beating about the bush. If you can’t get a good name, blame me. I use up everything when I was a proper editor.
Mirror, Herald, Sentinel, Tribune, Mail
. Everything, man. Use them up, Hindu this and Hindu that.’

Ganesh said, ‘Something simple.’

Partap toyed with his glass and mumbled, ‘Something really simple.’ And before he had time to take it back Partap had said,
‘The Hindu?’

‘Damn fool!’ Swami shouted. ‘How you forgetting that that is the name of Narayan paper? Is so stupid you does get working in the Post Office?’

The chair scraped loudly on the floor and Leela rushed out in a panic. She saw Partap standing, pale and trembling, with a glass in his hand.

‘Say that again,’ Partap cried. ‘Say that again and see if I don’t break this glass on your head. Who does work in the Post Office? You could ever see a man like me licking stamps? You, a damn tout, running around licking – but I ain’t going to dirty my mouth talking to you here today.’

Ganesh had put his arm around Partap’s shoulders while Leela swiftly retrieved the glass from his hand and cleared the table of the other glasses.

Swami said, ‘I was only making joke, man. Who could look at you and say that you working in the Post Office? I could just look at you and see that you is a Parcel Post man. Parcel Post print all over you, man. Not so, boy?’

The boy said, ‘He look to me like a Parcel Post man.’

Ganesh said, ‘You see, they all say you does look like a Parcel Post man. Come on, sit down and behave like one. Sit down and take it easy and have some Coca-Cola. Eh, eh, where the glasses gone?’

Leela stamped her foot. ‘I are not going to give any of these illiterate people any Coca-Cola in my prutty prutty glasses.’

Swami said, ‘We sorry,
maharajin
.’

But she was out of the room.

Partap, sitting down, said, ‘I sorry, mistakes are reliable. I did just forget the name of Narayan paper for the moment, that is all.’

‘What about
The Sanatanist
?’ Swami asked.

The boy said, ‘No.’

Ganesh looked at the boy. ‘No?’

‘Is a easy name to twist around,’ the boy said. ‘It easy to make
The Sanatanist The Satanist
. And too besides, my father ain’t a Sanatanist. We is Aryans.’

So the men thought again.

Swami asked the boy, ‘You think anything yet?’

‘What you think I is? A professional thinker?’

Partap said, ‘Don’t behave so. If you think anything, don’t keep it secret.’

Ganesh said, ‘We is big men. Let we forget the boy.’

The boy said, ‘All right, stop worrying. I go ease you up. The name you looking for is
The Dharma
, the faith.’

Ganesh blocked out the name at the top of the front page.

The boy said, ‘It surprise me that big big men sitting down drinking Coca-Cola and talking about their experience ain’t bother to worry about the advertisements.’

Partap, still excited, grew garrulous. ‘I was talking to the Head of Parcel Post only last week and he tell me that in America and England – he was there on leave before the war – they does have big big men sitting down all day just writing off advertisements.’

Swami said, ‘I ain’t have the contacts I use to have for getting advertisements.’

Ganesh asked the boy, ‘Think we need them?’

Swami said, ‘Why for you asking the boy? If you ask me
my
advice, I go tell you flat that unless a paper have advertisements it does look like nothing and it go make people think nobody does read the paper.’

Partap said, ‘If you ain’t having advertisements, it mean having more columns to full up. Two and two is four, and four columns on the back page make eight columns, and one on the front –’

Ganesh said, ‘We having advertisements; and I know one man bound to want to advertise. Beharry. Beharry’s Emporium. Front Page.’

‘Who else you know?’ the boy asked.

Partap furrowed his brow. ‘The best thing would be to appoint a business manager.’

Swami smiled at Partap. ‘Very
nice
idea. And I think the best man for business manager is Ganesh Pundit.’

The vote was unanimous.

The boy nudged Swami and Swami said, ‘And I think we have to appoint a sub-editor. The best man for that job is this boy here.’

That was agreed. It was further agreed that, on the first page of
The Dharma
, Swami should appear as Editor-in-Chief, and Partap as Editor.

There were times during the next two or three weeks when Ganesh regretted his plunge into journalism. The film companies were rude. They said they had enough advertisements as it was and they doubted whether any reviews in
The Dharma
, however favourable, would stabilize the film industry in India. That was Ganesh’s contention. ‘The Indian film industry,’ he said, ‘isn’t as healthy as it looks. Let the effects of the war wear off and – bam! – things are going to get bad.’ The executives advised him to stick to religion and leave the film industry alone. ‘All right,’ Ganesh threatened. ‘No reviews for you. Not a single little word.
The Dharma
will ignore the very existence of the Indian cinema. Not a single word.’ Quick thinking had, however, shown the two culture columns on page two as a blank and he had relented. ‘I am sorry I lost my temper,’ he wrote. ‘Your treatment of me shall not influence my treatment of you.’ Still the film companies refused to issue free tickets to
The Dharma
and Ganesh had to pay for the boy to go and see the two films for review.

Being a business manager was embarrassing. It meant going to see a man he knew and talking about the situation in India before springing the request for an advertisement. It wasn’t very wise either, because Ganesh didn’t want it known that he was too closely associated with
The Dharma
.

In the end he threw up the idea of getting advertisements. He got two or three inches from those of his clients who were shopkeepers; but he decided thereafter to print unsolicited advertisements. He thought of all the shops he knew and wrote copy for them. A difficult business, since the shops were nearly all alike and it wasn’t satisfying to keep on writing ‘Best Quality Goods at City Prices’ or ‘High-Class Commodities at Competitive Prices’. Finally he became inventive. He described superlative bargains in fictitious shops in unknown villages.