Book Review: The Mystic Masseur

Set up in colonial Trinidad, ‘The Mystic Masseur’ is the Nobel laureate, V.S. Naipaul’s debut novel. It is hard to imagine how can a writer, in his very first attempt, paint such crisp and lively characters. With no extreme profundity, the book is a fun and witty take on the immigrants' society, its people, their philosophies, their superstitions and their endless beliefs.

The story traces the journey of Ganesh Ramsumair, the son of an Indian immigrant. After completing his education Ganesh is trying his best to become a great school teacher. He is sure that he is meant to do great things, write great words, preach great knowledge; and while doing all of this, becoming nothing else but great. His over the top awe of books, his belief in his ability to write and his extreme reluctance to work, contribute a great deal in his journey from a failed teacher to a struggling masseur, then a revered mystic, eventually a writer and then a political leader who, during the campaign, transforms from being a leftish politician to a right one. (heh!)

From Ganesh Ramsumair he ends up becoming Mr. G. Ramsay Muir, OBE.

Neither are the decisions made by Ganesh the sanest of all, nor are the justifications given the most logical. His philosophies and theories make no sense, but the only thing that he is sure of, is that he has to achieve greatness.

In due course, all these attributes make Ganesh the most well-known Indian in Trinidad, earning him respect, love, power and fear. In short, he achieves the greatness he knew he would. Inspite of all his successes and failures, Ganesh’s innocence and his willingness to believe in his fortune and destiny, keep adding a comic delight to the story.

The other characters in the story are also as endearing; be it the greedy and sly Ramlogan, who leaves no stone unturned to convince Ganesh to marry his punctuation obsessed daughter, Leela, and thenafter using Ganesh's success to expand his business; the skeptical Leela having endless woes about the domestic chores and her husband’s failures; the cartoonish Great Belcher, a kind of relative we all have whose prime objective is to indulge in matchmaking and then dissecting relationships; the friendly Suruj Poopa and Suruj Mooma (as they are called in the book) always ready with their advice, suggestions and help; or even those who appear for a page or two but leave an impact. They all have aptly contributed to the dry and dark wit of the book.

As one of the characters mention,

“I know the sort of doctors they have in Trinidad. They think nothing of killing two, three people before breakfast.”

The first half of the book has its own share of chuckles which, I felt, fades down a bit as the end approaches. The narrative there gets slightly incoherent, losing its charm and wit.

The entire book is in Trinidadian English- absence of proper verbs, every second sentence ending with girl or man, use of incorrect grammar (And no, I'm not being any Grammar Nazi!)

Something on the lines of,

“I does only read”

“We starting nowself, girl”

“Does he know to think himself, man?”

Now imagine reading some 200 pages like that!

Agreed that this makes it a quirky read, adds a lot to the cultural effect of the set-up on readers, however towards the end the weird dialect starts getting on your nerves so much that you crave for something on the lines of a Jane Austen. Inspite of the slight weakness, owing to the hilarious characterization and the narrator's sardonic observations, I’d highly recommend the read.

One of my favourites, as said by the great teacher-turned-masseur-turned-mystic-turned-writer-turned-what-not,

“I don't drink. I don't smoke. Reading is my only vice.”