by Satyajit Ray
The house-cricket moved restlessly for a few seconds. Then it went and sat on a leaf. At once, the leaf folded itself and caught the insect. To my complete amazement, I saw that the two sets of teeth had closed in and clamped on each other so tightly that the poor house-cricket had no chance of escaping. I had no idea nature could set such a strange, horrific trap. Certainly, I had never seen anything like it before.
Abhijit was the first to speak. ‘Is there any guarantee,’ he asked hoarsely, ‘that the insect would sit on a leaf?’
‘Of course. You see, the plant exudes a smell that attracts insects. This plant is called the Venus fly trap. I brought it from Central America. If you go through books on botany, you may find pictures of this plant.’
I was still staring in speechless amazement at the house-cricket. At first, it was struggling to get out, but now it was just lying in its trap, quite lifeless. The pressure from the leaf’s ‘teeth’ appeared to be getting stronger. This plant was every bit as violent as a gecko.
Abhijit laughed dryly. ‘If I could keep such a plant in my house, I’d be safe from insects. At least, I wouldn’t have to use DDT to kill cockroaches!’
‘No, this particular plant couldn’t eat—and digest—a cockroach. Its leaves are too small. There’s a different plant to deal with cockroaches. Come this way,’ invited Kanti Babu.
The next glass case had a plant whose long, large leaves looked like those of a lily. Each leaf had a strange object hanging from its tip. It looked like a pitcher-shaped bag, complete with a lid. I had already seen its picture. It was not difficult to recognize it.
‘This,’ Kanti Babu declared, ‘is nepenthes, or a pitcher-plant. It requires bigger creatures to survive. When I first found it, there were the crushed remains of a small bird in one of those pitchers.’
‘Oh my God!’ Abhijit exclaimed. The faint contempt his tone had held earlier was quickly disappearing. ‘What does it eat now?’
‘Cockroaches, caterpillars, even butterflies. Once I found a rat in my rat-trap. I fed it to that plant, it didn’t seem to mind. But sometimes these plants eat more than they can digest, and then they die. They’re a greedy lot. There are times when they just can’t figure out how much strain their own digestive system can bear!’
We moved on to look at other plants, our astonishment mounting higher. There were butterwort, sundew, bladderwort, arozia—plants whose pictures I had seen. But the others were totally new, completely astounding, perfectly incredible. Kanti Babu had collected at least twenty different species of carnivorous plants, some of which, he said, were not included in any other collection in the world.
The prettiest amongst these was the sundew. It had fine strands of hair around its leaves. A droplet glistened on the tip of each hair. Kanti Babu tied a tiny piece of meat—no bigger than a peppercorn—to a thread and took it close to a leaf. We could see, even from a distance, all the hair rise at once, grasping at the piece of meat greedily. But Kanti Babu removed his hand before the meat could be taken.
‘If it did get that piece of meat, it would have crushed it, just like the fly trap. Then it would have absorbed whatever nourishment it could get, and rejected the chewed pulp. Not really that different from the way you and I eat meat, is it?’
We left the shed and came out to the garden. The shirish tree was casting a long shadow. I looked at my watch. It was half past four.
‘You will find mention of most of these plants in your books,’ said Kanti Babu. ‘But no one knows about the one I am now going to show you. It will never get written about, unless I write about it myself. In fact, I called you over here really to show you this plant. Come, Parimal. Come with me, Abhijit Babu.’
This time, Kanti Babu led the way to what looked like a factory behind the shirish tree. The door, made of tin, was locked. There was a window on either side. Kanti Babu pushed one of these open, peered in, then withdrew. ‘Have a look!’ he said.
Abhijit and I placed ourselves at the window. The room was only partially lit by the sunlight that came in through two skylights set high on the opposite wall.
The object the room contained hardly looked like a plant, or a tree. As a matter of fact, it was more like a weird animal—one with large, thick tentacles. A closer look, however, did reveal a trunk. It rose from the ground by several feet to end at what might be described as a head. About eighteen inches below this head, surrounding it, were tentacles. I counted them. There were seven.
The bark of the tree was pale, but it had round brown marks all over.
The tentacles were hanging limply, resting on the ground. The whole object appeared lifeless. Yet, I could feel my flesh creep.
I noticed something else, as my eyes got used to the dark. The floor around the plant was littered with the feathers of some bird.
Neither Abhijit nor I could speak. How long the silence continued, I cannot tell. It was Kanti Babu’s voice that broke it. ‘The plant is asleep at this moment. It’s almost time for it to wake up.’
‘Is it really a plant?’ Abhijit asked incredulously.
‘Well, it has grown out of the ground. What else would you call it? It doesn’t, however, behave like a plant. No botanical reference book, or encyclopaedia, could give you a suitable name for it.’
‘What do you call it?’
‘Septopus. Because it has seven tentacles.’
We began walking back to the house.
‘Where did you find it?’ I asked.
‘There is a dense forest near Lake Nicaragua in Central America. That’s where I found it.’
‘You must have had to search the area pretty thoroughly?’ ‘Yes, but I knew that the plant was available there. You haven’t heard of Professor Dunston, have you? He was a botanist and an explorer. He died in Central America, looking for rare plants. But his death was quite mysterious. No one ever found his body, no one knows exactly how he died. This particular plant was mentioned in his diary, towards the very end.
‘So I went to Nicaragua at the first opportunity. When I got to Guatemala, I heard people talking about this plant. They called it the Satan’s Tree. Eventually, I saw a number of these plants. I saw them eat monkeys, armadillos, and other animals. Then, after many days of careful searching, I found a small sapling and brought it with me. You can see how big it has grown in two years.’
‘What does it eat here?’
‘Whatever I give it. Sometimes I catch rats in my trap to feed it. Prayag has been told to get hold of dogs and cats that get run over. It has eaten those, too. Sometimes I give it the same things that you and I would eat—chicken or goat. Recently, its appetite seems to have grown quite a lot. I can’t keep up with it. When it wakes up in the evening, it gets really restless. Yesterday, something happened . . . it was just terrible. Prayag had gone to feed it a chicken. It has to be fed in much the same way as an elephant. The head of this plant has a kind of lid. First of all, it opens its lid. Then it grabs the food with one of its tentacles, as an elephant picks up its food with its trunk, and places it into the opening in the head. After that, it remains quiet for a while. When it starts swinging its tentacles, that means it wants to eat some more.
‘So far, a couple of chickens or a lamb was proving to be quite sufficient for a day’s meal. Things have changed since yesterday. Prayag fed it the second chicken, shut the door and came away. When the plant gets restless, it strikes its tentacles against the floor, which creates a noise. Prayag heard this noise even after the second chicken had disappeared. So he went back to investigate.
‘I was in my room at the time, making entries in my diary. A sudden scream made me come running here to see what was going on. What I saw was horrible. The plant had grabbed Prayag’s right hand with a tentacle. Prayag was trying desperately to free his hand, but another tentacle was raised and making its way to him.
‘I had to pick up my stick and strike at that tentacle with all my might, and then put both my arms round Prayag to pull him back. Yes, I rescued him all right, but w
hat I saw the plant do next left me feeling positively alarmed. It had managed to tear off a piece of flesh from Prayag’s hand. I saw it remove the lid on its head and put it in. I saw it with my own eyes!’
We had reached the front veranda once again. Kanti Babu sat down on a chair. Then he took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘I had no idea that the Septopus would wish to attack a human being. But now . . . since there has been such an indication . . . I don’t have any option. I have got to kill it. I decided to do so immediately after I saw Prayag being attacked, and I put poison in its food. But that plant has such amazing intelligence, it picked the food up with a tentacle, but threw it away instantly. Now the only thing I can do is shoot it. Parimal, now do you understand why I called you here?’
I remained quiet for a few moments. Then I said, ‘Do you know for sure that it will die if it’s shot?’
‘No, I cannot be sure. But I do believe that it has a brain. Besides, I have proof that it can think and judge. I have gone near it so many times, it has never attacked me. It seems to know me well, just as a dog knows its master. It dislikes Prayag because sometimes Prayag has, in the past, teased it and played tricks on it. He has tempted it with food, then refused to feed it. I have seen Prayag take its food close to its tentacles, then withdraw it before the plant could grasp it. Yes, it most definitely has a brain, and that is where it should be, in its head. You must aim and fire at the spot from which those tentacles have grown.’
This time, Abhijit spoke. ‘That’s not a problem!’ he said casually. ‘It will only take a minute. Parimal, get your gun.’
Kanti Babu raised a hand to stop Abhijit. ‘If the prey is asleep, is it right to kill it? What does your hunting code say, Parimal?’
‘It is quite unethical to kill a sleeping animal. In this case, the prey is incapable of running away. There is no question of killing it until it wakes up.’
Kanti Babu rose and poured tea out of a flask. The Septopus woke within fifteen minutes of our finishing the tea.
Badshah, in the living room, had grown increasingly restive while we were talking. The sound of his keening and scratching noises made both Abhijit and me jump up and go inside. We found Badshah straining at his leash and trying to bite his collar. Abhijit began to calm him down, but at that moment, we heard a swishing noise coming from the factory. It was accompanied by a sharp, pungent smell. It is difficult to describe it. When I was a child, I had had my tonsils removed. Before the operation, I had smelt chloroform. It was somewhat similar.
Kanti Babu swept into the living room. ‘Come on, it’s time!’ he said.
‘What is that smell?’ I asked.
‘It’s coming from the Septopus. That’s the smell it spreads to attract ani . . .’
Kanti Babu could not finish. Badshah broke free with a mighty pull at the leash, knocked Abhijit out of the way, and leapt in the direction of the factory, to look for the source of the smell.
‘Oh God, no!’ cried Abhijit, picking himself up and running after his dog.
I picked up my loaded gun and followed him quickly. When I got there only a few seconds later, Badshah was springing up to the open window, ignoring Abhijit’s futile attempts to stop him. Then he jumped into the room.
Kanti Babu ran to unlock the door. We heard the agonized screams of the Rampur hound even as Kanti Babu turned the key in the lock.
We tumbled into the room, to witness a horrible sight. One tentacle was not enough this time. The Septopus was wrapping a second, and then a third tentacle around Badshah, in a deadly embrace.
Kanti Babu shouted, ‘Don’t get any closer, either of you. Parimal, fire!’
I raised my gun, but another voice yelled: ‘Stop!’
Now I realized how precious his dog was to Abhijit. He paid no attention to Kanti Babu’s warning. I saw him run to the plant, and clutch with both hands one of the three tentacles that were wrapped around Badshah.
What followed froze my blood.
All three tentacles left Badshah immediately and attacked Abhijit. And the remaining four, perhaps aroused by the prospect of tasting human blood, rose from the ground, swaying greedily.
Kanti Babu spoke again. ‘Come on, shoot. Look, there’s the head!’
A lid from the top of the head was being slowly removed, revealing a dark cavern. The tentacles, lifting and carrying Abhijit with them, were moving towards that yawning gap.
Abhijit’s face looked deathly pale, his eyes were bursting out of their sockets.
At any moment of crisis, I had noticed before, my nerves would become perfectly steady and calm, as if by magic.
I raised my gun, took aim and fired at the head of the Septopus, between two brown circular marks in the centre. My hands did not tremble, and my bullet found its mark.
In the next instant, I remember, thick red blood began spurting out of the wounded plant, gushing forth like a fountain. And the tentacles released Abhijit, hanging low, dropping down to the ground, still and lifeless. The last thing I remember is the smell, which suddenly grew ten times stronger, overwhelming my senses, blocking out consciousness, numbing my thoughts . . .
Four months had passed since that day. I had only recently resumed writing. My novel was still incomplete.
It had proved impossible to save Badshah. But Abhijit had already found a mastiff and a Tibetan pup. He was looking for another Rampur hound, I had learnt. Two of his ribs were fractured as a result of his encounter with the Septopus. It took him two months to recover.
Kanti Babu visited me yesterday. He was thinking of getting rid of all his plants that ate insects, he said.
‘It might be a good idea to experiment with vegetables, don’t you think? I mean, I could grow courgettes, gourds, marrows, things like that. If you like, I can give you some of my old plants. You did so much for me, I am very grateful to you. Say I give you a nepenthes? It can at least take care of the insects in your house . . .?’
‘No, no!’ I interrupted him. ‘If you wish to get rid of those plants, do. Just throw them out. I don’t need a plant to catch my insects.’
This last remark received wholehearted support from the gecko sprawled over the calendar.
‘Tik, tik, tik!’ it said.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1962
The Small World of Sadananda
I am feeling quite cheerful today, so this is a good time to tell you everything. I know you will believe me. You are not like my people; they only laugh at me. They think I am making it up. So I have stopped talking to them.
It is midday now, so there is no one in my room. They will come in the afternoon. Now there are only two here—myself and my friend Lal Bahadur. Lal Bahadur Singh! Oh, how worried I was for his sake yesterday! I couldn’t believe he would ever come back to me. He is very clever, so he was able to escape unhurt. Anyone else would have been finished by now.
How silly of me!—I have told you my friend’s name, but haven’t told you my own.
My name is Sadananda Chakraborty. It sounds like the name of a bearded old man, doesn’t it? Actually, I am only thirteen. I can’t help it if my name is old fashioned. After all, I didn’t choose it; my grandma did.
If only she knew how much trouble it would cause me, she would have surely called me something else. How could she have known that people could pester me by saying, ‘Why are you so glum when your name means “ever-happy”?’ Such fools! As if laughing like a jackass was the only way to show that one was happy. There are so many ways of being happy even when one doesn’t smile.
For instance, suppose there’s a twig sticking out of the ground and you find a grasshopper landing on its tip again and again. It would certainly make you happy to see it, but if you burst out laughing at it, people would think you were out of your mind. Like that mad uncle of mine. I never saw him, but I was told that he laughed all the time. Even when they had to put him in chains, he found it so funny that he almost split his sides laughing. The tru
th is, I get fun out of things which most people don’t even notice. Even when I am lying in bed I notice things which make me happy. Sometimes a cotton seed will come floating in through the window. Small wispy things which the slightest breath of air sends wafting hither and thither. What a happy sight it is! If it comes floating down towards you, you blow on it and send it shooting up into the air again.
And if a crow comes and settles on the window, watching it is like watching a circus clown. I always go absolutely still when a crow comes and sits nearby, and watch its antics out of the corner of my eyes.
But if you ask me what gives me the most fun, I would say—watching ants. Of course, it is no longer just funny; it is . . . but no, I mustn’t tell everything now or the fun will be spoilt. It’s better that I begin at the beginning.
Once, about a year ago, I had fever. It was nothing new, as I am often laid up with fever. I catch a chill rather easily. Mother says it’s because I spend so much time out of doors sitting on the grass.
As always, the first couple of days in bed was fun. A nice, chilly feeling mixed with a feeling of laziness. Added to this was the fun of not having to go to school. I lay in bed watching a squirrel climbing up the madar tree outside the window when Mother came and gave me a bitter mixture to drink. I drank it up like a good boy and then took the glass of water, drank some of it and blew the rest out of the window in a spray. I wrapped the blanket around me and was about to close my eyes for a doze when I noticed something.
A few drops of water had fallen on the window-sill, and in one of these drops a small black ant was trying desperately to save itself from drowning.
I found it so strange that I propped myself up on my elbows and leaned forward to bring my eyes up close to the ant.
