by Satyajit Ray
‘Gradually, the jackals in the distance stopped their chorus, and the crickets fell silent. I cannot tell when I fell asleep.
‘I was awoken by a noise. It was the noise of a clock striking midnight. A deep, yet melodious chime came from the passage. Now fully awake, I noticed two other things—first, I was lying quite comfortably in the easy chair. The torn portion wasn’t torn any more, and someone had tucked a cushion behind my back. Secondly, a brand new fan hung over my head; a long rope from it went out to the passage and an unseen hand was pulling it gently.
‘I was staring at these things and enjoying them thoroughly, when I realized that from somewhere in the moonless night a full moon had appeared. The room was flooded with bright moonlight. Then the aroma of something totally unexpected hit my nostrils. I turned and found a hookah by my side, the rich smell of the best quality tobacco filling the room.’
Anath Babu stopped. Then he smiled and said, ‘Quite a pleasant situation, wouldn’t you agree?’
I said, ‘Yes, indeed. So you spent the rest of the night pretty comfortably, did you?’
At this, Anath Babu suddenly grew grave and sank into a deep silence. I waited for him to resume speaking, but when he didn’t, I turned impatient. ‘Do you mean to say,’ I asked, ‘that you really didn’t have any reason to feel frightened? You didn’t see a ghost, after all?’
Anath Babu looked at me. But there was not even the slightest trace of a smile on his lips. His voice sounded hoarse as he asked, ‘When you went into the room the day before yesterday, did you happen to look carefully at the ceiling?’
‘No, I don’t think I did. Why?’
‘There is something rather special about it. I cannot tell you the rest of my story without showing it to you. Come, let’s go in.’
We began climbing the dark staircase again. On our way to the first floor, Anath Babu said only one thing: ‘I will not have to chase ghosts again, Sitesh Babu. Never. I have finished with them.’
I looked at the grandfather clock in the passage. It stood just as it had done two days ago.
We stopped in front of the west room. ‘Go in,’ said Anath Babu.
The door was closed. I pushed it open and went in. Then my eyes fell on the floor, and a wave of horror swept over me.
Who was lying on the floor, heavy boots on his feet? And whose laughter was that, loud and raucous, coming from the passage outside, echoing through every corner of the Haldar mansion? Drowning me in it, paralysing my senses, my mind . . .? Could it be . . .? I could think no more. When I opened my eyes, I found Bharadwaj standing at the foot of my bed, and Bhabatosh Majumdar fanning me furiously. ‘Oh, thank goodness you’ve come around!’ he exclaimed. ‘If Sidhucharan hadn’t seen you go into that house, heaven knows what might have happened. Why on earth did you go there, anyway?’
I could only mutter faintly, ‘Last night, Anath Babu . . .’ Bhabatosh Babu cut me short, ‘Anath Babu! It’s too late now to do anything about him. Obviously, he didn’t believe a word of what I had said the other day. Thank God you didn’t go with him to spend the night in that room. You saw what happened to him, didn’t you? Exactly the same thing had happened to Haladhar Datta all those years ago. Lying on the floor, cold and stiff, the same look of horror in his open eyes, staring at the ceiling.’
I thought quietly to myself, ‘No, he’s not lying there cold and stiff. I know what’s become of Anath Babu after his death. I might find him, even tomorrow morning, perhaps, if I bothered to go back. There he would be wearing a black jacket and heavy boots, coming out of the jungle in the Haldar mansion, a neem twig in his hand, grinning from ear to ear.’
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1962
The Two Magicians
‘Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven.’ Surapati finished counting the trunks and turned towards his assistant, Anil. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘Have these loaded into the brake van. Just twenty-five minutes left.’
‘I have checked your reservation, sir,’ said Anil. ‘It’s a coupé. Both berths are reserved in your name. It’ll be all right.’ Then he smiled a little and added, ‘The guard is a fan of yours. He’s seen your show at the New Empire. Here, sir, come this way!’
The guard, Biren Bakshi, came forward with an outstretched hand and a broad smile. ‘Do allow me,’ he said, ‘to shake the famous hand that has performed all those tricks that gave me so much joy. It is an honour indeed!’
One only had to look at any of Surapati Mondol’s eleven trunks to realize who he was. Each bore the legend ‘Mondol’s Miracles’ in large letters both on its sides and its lid. He needed no further introduction. It was barely two months since his last show at the New Empire Theatre in Calcutta, where a large audience, enchanted by his magic show, had expressed genuine appreciation through thunderous applause again and again. The newspapers, too, had carried rave reviews. The week-long show had to be extended to four, on popular demand. Eventually, Surapati had to promise the authorities another show over Christmas break.
‘If you need any help, do let me know,’ said the guard as he ushered Surapati into his coupé. Surapati looked around and heaved a sigh of relief. He liked the little compartment.
‘All right then, sir. May I take your leave?’
‘Many thanks.’
The guard left. Surapati settled down by the window and fished out a packet of cigarettes. He felt this was only the beginning of his success. Uttar Pradesh: Delhi, Agra, Allahabad, Varanasi, Lucknow. There were so many other states to visit, so many, many places to go to. A whole new world waited for him. He would travel abroad; and he would show them how a young man from Bengal could be successful anywhere in the world—even in America, the land that had produced the famous Houdini. Oh yes, he would show them all. This was just the beginning.
Anil came panting. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he said.
‘Did you check the locks?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m in the third bogey from yours.’
‘Have they given the “line-clear” signal?’
‘They’re about to. I’ll go now, sir. Would you like a cup of tea at Burdwan?’
‘Yes, that would be nice.’
‘I’ll get it then.’
Anil left. Surapati lit his cigarette and looked out of the window absentmindedly. The sight of the jostling crowds, the porters running about and the sound of the hawker’s cry soon melted away. His mind went back to his childhood. He was thirty-three now; on that particular day he could not have been more than eight. By the side of the road in the small village where he lived sat an old woman with a gunny bag in front of her, surrounded by a large crowd. How old could she have been? Sixty? Ninety? It might have been anything. Her age did not matter. What mattered was what she did with her hands. She’d take any object—a coin, a marble, a top, a betel nut, even a guava—and it would vanish before their eyes. The old woman kept up an endless patter until the lost object reappeared out of nowhere. She took a rupee from Kalu Kaka and it disappeared. Much upset, Kalu Kaka began to lose his temper. The old woman giggled and—hey presto—the rupee was there for all to see. Kalu Kaka’s eyes nearly popped out.
Surapati could not concentrate on anything much after that day. He never saw that old woman again. Nor did he see such a startling performance anywhere else.
He was sixteen when he came to Calcutta for further studies. The first thing he did upon arrival was to buy as many books on magic as he possibly could and to begin practising the tricks they taught. It meant standing before a mirror for hours with several packs of cards, going through the instructions step by step. But soon, he had mastered them all. Then he began performing at small gettogethers and parties given by friends.
When he was in his second year in college, one of his friends, Gautam, invited Surapati to his sister’s wedding. It later proved to be the most memorable evening in the history of Surapati’s training as a magician, for tha
t day he met Tripura Babu for the first time.
A huge shamiana stood behind a house in Swinhoe Street. Tripuracharan Mallik sat under it, surrounded by a group of other wedding guests. At the first glance, he seemed quite ordinary. About forty-eight years old, curly hair parted at one side, a smile on his lips, the corners of his mouth streaked with the juice of paan. A man no different from the millions one saw every day. But a closer look at what was happening on the mattress in front of him was enough for one’s judgement to undergo a quick change. Surapati, at first, could not believe his own eyes. A silver coin went rolling towards a golden ring kept about a yard away. It stopped beside the ring and then both came rolling back to Tripura Babu. Even before Surapati could recover from the shock, Gautam’s uncle accidentally dropped a matchbox on the ground. All the sticks spilled out. ‘Don’t bother to pick them up,’ said Tripura Babu, ‘I’ll pick them up for you.’ With one sweeping movement of his hand, he placed the matchsticks in a heap on the mattress. Then, taking the empty matchbox in his left hand, he began calling, ‘Come to me, my dear. Come, come, come . . .’ The sticks rose in the air one by one and slipped back into the box as though they were all his pet animals used to obeying their master’s command.
Surapati went to him straight after dinner. Tripura Babu seemed very surprised at his interest. ‘I have never seen anyone interested in learning magic. Most seem happy simply to see a performance,’ he said.
Surapati went to his house a couple of days later. It was, actually, much less than a house. Tripura Babu lived in a small room in an old and dilapidated boarding-house. Poverty stared out of every corner. Tripura Babu told him how he tried to make a living out of his magic shows. He charged fifty rupees per show, but did not get too many invitations. The main reason for this, Surapati soon discovered, was Tripura Babu’s own lack of enthusiasm. Surapati could not imagine how anyone so talented could be so totally devoid of ambition. When he mentioned this, Tripura Babu said with a sigh, ‘What would be the use of trying to do more shows? How many people would be interested? How many people appreciate the talent of a true artist? Didn’t you see for yourself how everyone rushed off at that wedding the minute dinner was announced? Did anyone, with the sole exception of yourself, come back to me?’
Surapati spoke to his friends after this and arranged a few shows. Tripura Babu agreed to teach him his art, possibly partly out of gratitude and partly out of a genuine affection for the boy. ‘I do not want any payment,’ he said firmly. ‘I am only glad that there will be someone to take things forward after I’ve gone. But remember—you must be patient. Nothing can be learnt in a hurry. If you learn something well, you will know what joy there is in creation. Do not expect a lot of success or fame to come to you immediately. But I know you will do much better in life than I have done, for you have got what I haven’t: ambition.’
Slightly nervous, Surapati asked, ‘Will you teach me all that you know? Even the one with the coin and the ring?’ Tripura Babu laughed. ‘You must learn to walk step by step. Patience and diligence are the key words in this form of art. It evolved in ancient times when man’s will- power and concentration were far more intense. It is not easy for modern man to get there. You don’t know what an effort I had to make!’
Surapati began to go to Tripura Babu regularly. But about six months later, something happened that changed his life completely.
One day on his way to college, Surapati noticed a lot of colourful posters on the walls of Chowringhee: ‘Shefallo the Great’, they said. A closer look revealed that Shefallo was an Italian magician. He was coming to Calcutta, accompanied by his assistant, Madame Palarmo.
They performed at the New Empire. Surapati sat in a one-rupee seat and watched each item, absolutely entranced. He had only read about these in books. Men disappeared into a cloud of smoke before his eyes, and then reappeared from the same spiralling smoke like the djinn of Alladin. A girl was placed inside a wooden box. Shefallo sawed the box into two halves, but the girl came out smiling from another box, quite unharmed. Surapati’s palms hurt from clapping that night.
He watched Shefallo carefully. He seemed as good an actor as a magician. He wore a shining black suit. In his hand was a magic wand and on his head a top hat. An endless stream of objects kept pouring out of the hat. He put his hand in it once and pulled out a rabbit by its ear. Even before the poor creature had stopped flicking its long ears, out came one pigeon after another—one, two, three, four. They began to flutter around the stage. In the meantime, Shefallo had brought out a lot of chocolates from the hat which he began to throw at the audience.
Surapati noticed one more thing. Shefallo did not stop talking for an instant while he performed. He learnt later that this was what was known as magician’s patter. While the audience stayed captivated by his constant flow of words, the magician quietly performed his tricks: the sleight of hand, the little deceptions.
But Madame Palarmo was different. She did not utter a word. How, then, could she deceive everyone? Surapati later learnt the answer to this one. It was possible to show certain items on the stage where the magician’s own hands had very little to do. Everything could be controlled by highly mechanized equipment, operated by men from behind a black curtain. To show a man vanish into smoke or to saw a girl in two halves were both such tricks, dependent entirely on the use of equipment. Anyone who had enough money could buy the equipment and perform on stage. But, of course, one had to know the art of presentation, too. One had to have the right flair, the right touch of glamour in the total presentation of the act. Not everyone could do that. Not everyone . . .
Surapati came out of his reverie with a start. The train had just begun to pull out of the station rather jerkily when a man opened the door of his carriage from outside and clambered in. Surapati was about to protest, saying the seats were reserved, but one look at the man’s face made him stop short in amazement. Good God—it was Tripura Babu!
Tripuracharan Mallik!
There had been instances in the past when Surapati had had a similar experience. To see an acquaintance in person soon after thinking about him was something that had happened to Surapati before. But finding Tripura Babu in his carriage like this made every other incident of the past pale into insignificance.
Surapati remained speechless. Tripura Babu wiped his forehead with the edge of his dhoti, placed the bundle he was carrying on the bench opposite and sat down. Then he looked at Surapati and smiled: ‘Surprised, aren’t you?’
Surapati swallowed hard. ‘I . . . yes, I’m surprised. In fact, I wasn’t sure that you were still alive!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I went to your boarding-house soon after I finished college. I found your room locked. The manager told me you had been run over by a car . . .’
Tripura Babu laughed. ‘That would have been rather nice. At least I might have escaped from all my worries and anxieties.’
‘Besides,’ said Surapati, ‘I was thinking of you a little while ago.’
‘Oh yes?’ a shadow passed over Tripura Babu’s face. ‘Were you indeed thinking of me? You mean you still do? That’s amazing!’
Surapati bit his lip in embarrassment. ‘Don’t say that, Tripura Babu! How could I forget you? Were you not my first teacher? I was thinking of our days together. This is the first time I am going out of Bengal to perform. I am now a professional magician—did you know that?’
Tripura Babu nodded. ‘Yes. I know all about you. That is why I have come to see you today. You see, I have followed your career very closely for the last twelve years. When you had your show at the New Empire, I went there the very first day and sat in the last row. I saw how everyone applauded. Yes, I did feel proud of you. But . . .’
He stopped. Surapati could not find anything to say. There was very little to be said anyway. One could not blame Tripura Babu if he had ended up feeling hurt and left out. After all, if he had not helped Surapati in the very beginning, Surapati could not be where he was today. But what
had he done for Tripura Babu in return? Nothing. On the contrary, the memory of Tripura Babu and his early days had grown quite faint in his mind. So had the feeling of gratitude.
Tripura Babu began speaking again. ‘Yes, I felt proud of you that day, seeing how successful you were. But I also felt slightly sorry. Do you know why? It was because the path you have chosen is not the right path for a true magician. You may be able to provide entertainment to your audience and even impress them a good deal by using all those gadgets. None of the success would be your own. Do you remember my kind of magic?’
Surapati had not forgotten. He could also remember how Tripura Babu seemed to hesitate when it came to teaching him his best tricks. ‘You need a little more time,’ he would say. But the right time never came. Shefallo arrived soon afterwards and, two months later, Tripura Babu himself disappeared.
Surapati had felt both surprised and disappointed not to have found Tripura Babu where he lived. But these feelings did not last for very long. His mind was too full of Shefallo and dreams of his own future—to travel everywhere, to have shows in every place, to be a name everyone recognized, to hear only applause and praise wherever he went.
Tripura Babu was staring out of the window, preoccupied. Surapati looked at him a little more closely. He did seem to have hit upon hard times. Practically all his hair had turned grey, his skin sagged, his eyes had sunk very deep into their sockets. But had the look in them dimmed even a little? No! The look in his eyes was startlingly piercing.
He sighed, ‘I know of course why you chose this path. I know you believe—and perhaps I am partly responsible for this—that simplicity itself is not often rewarded. A stage performance needs a touch of glamour and sophistication, does it not?’
Surapati did not disagree. Shefallo’s performance had convinced him. Surely a bit of glamour did not do any harm? Things were different today. How much could one achieve by holding simple shows at weddings? How could one claim to be successful if one had to starve? Surapati had every respect for magic in its pure form without any trimmings. But that kind of magic had no future. Surapati knew it and had, therefore, decided to walk a different path.
