by Satyajit Ray
Mr Banerjee may have been an engineer by profession, but he clearly had a military spirit and a strong sense of punctuality. He arrived in his Morris Minor on the dot.
‘What are you carrying with you?’ he asked, as we got into the car.
Anik gave him the list—a powerful torch, six candles, a first-aid box, some ham sandwiches, a large flask of coffee, a pack of cards, a rug to spread on the floor and a tube of mosquito repellent.
‘And arms?’
‘Can ghosts be destroyed by arms? Hey, Ranjan—is your ghost a solid one?’
‘Never mind,’ said Mr Banerjee, ‘I have a small revolver. So we needn’t worry about whether it’s solid or liquid.’
We set off. After a while Mr Banerjee said, ‘The place does exist.’
I was surprised, ‘You mean you’ve made enquiries already?’
‘I am a very methodical man, Mr Sengupta. Shouldn’t one first make sure about the existence of a place before trying to go there? One of my golf mates, Srinivas Deshmukh, lives in that area. I went to his house straight from yours this morning. He told me there is indeed a cottage called Evergreen Lodge in Fraser Town. It has been lying vacant for nearly fifty years. People used to go there for picnics even ten years ago. But no one does so now. Apparently, no one ever lived in that house for very long. However, it does not have a reputation of being haunted. It had some furniture once—but it was all auctioned a few years ago. Col. Mercer bought some of it. He, too, lives in Fraser Town. As far as I can see, we are going to have no more than a picnic ourselves. I am glad Anikendra has brought the cards.’
Driving through the clean, broad roads of Bangalore, it was difficult to imagine the existence of a haunted house. But I could not forget the diary of Mr Brown. Unless one was totally mad, one would not just make up such an extraordinary tale and record it in a diary. Mr Brown did see Simon’s ghost—time and again. Would that ghost not appear before us—even once?
I had never been to England, but I had seen pictures of English cottages. The sight of Evergreen Lodge made me feel as though I was standing in front of an old and abandoned house in an English countryside.
There must have been a garden in front of the cottage. Instead of carefully arranged flower beds it now had wild plants and weeds that grew in abundance. There was a small wicket gate through which one had to pass in order to go into the garden. The name of the place was engraved on the gate. But someone—possibly one of the merry picnickers—had added an N before the word Evergreen which now made it Nevergreen.
We began walking towards the house. There were plenty of trees around it. I saw a few eucalyptus trees but failed to recognize the others. The soil of Bangalore was reported to be so good that plants and trees from anywhere in the world could survive here.
There was a portico with a broken tile roof. Creepers covered its pillars. One side of the front door had come off its hinges. Most of the windows were broken. There was such a thick layer of mould on the walls that it was impossible to guess the original colour of the house.
We walked in through the broken door. There was a long passage that led to a room at the far end. There were more rooms on both sides. The one on our right seemed larger than the others. It must have been the living-room. The floor was wooden, although most of it had rotted away. Every step would have to be taken carefully.
We went into the room. The wooden boards creaked under our feet. It seemed very large indeed, possibly because there was no furniture in it. There were windows on the western and the northern sides. The garden could be seen through these on one side, the eucalyptus trees on the other. Was it one of these that was struck by lightning? Simon had been standing under it. Instant death. The thought made me shiver.
I looked at the windowless wall on the southern side. The fireplace was on the left. Simon’s favourite chair must have been kept by its side. The ceiling of the room was covered with cobwebs. Evergreen Lodge, that must have been a pretty little cottage once, was obviously in bad shape.
Mr Banerjee was humming a western tune. He stopped to light his pipe and asked, ‘What do you usually play? Bridge, poker or rummy?’
Anik was about to sit down, having spread the rug and placed on the floor the stuff he was carrying, when we heard a noise. Someone wearing boots was walking about in one of the other rooms.
I looked at Anik. He had gone quite pale.
The footsteps stopped. Mr Banerjee suddenly took the pipe out of his mouth and yelled, ‘Is anybody there?’ All of us began to move towards the passage. Anik clutched at my sleeve.
We heard the footsteps again as we reached the passage. Then a man came out from one of the rooms on the right. He stopped short as his eyes fell on us. He was an Indian and, despite a heavy stubble on his face and an unkempt air, undoubtedly an educated gentleman.
‘Hello!’ he said.
None of us knew what to say.
The newcomer himself answered our unspoken question. ‘My name is Venkatesh. I am a painter. Are you the owners of this house? Or have you come to buy it?’
Banerjee smiled and replied, ‘Neither. We just happened to stroll in.’
‘I see. I was wondering if I could have my studio in this house. I don’t mind if it’s going to pieces—you wouldn’t know who the owner is, would you?’
‘I am afraid not,’ said Banerjee, ‘but you might like to ask Col. Mercer. His house isn’t far. Straight down the road and then to the left. Shouldn’t take you more than five minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Venkatesh and went out.
We heard the gate open and shut. Mr Banerjee broke into yet another guffaw and said, ‘Mr Sengupta, that was not your Simon or some other ghost, was it?’
I had to laugh, ‘You cannot expect to see the ghost so soon. It’s only a quarter past five. And even if he was a ghost, he couldn’t have hailed from the nineteenth century. Such a ghost would wear different clothes.’
We returned to the living-room. Anik sat down on the rug and said, ‘You make me nervous with your flights of fancy. Come, let’s play cards.’
‘Light some of the candles first,’ said Banerjee. ‘Dusk falls very quickly here.’
We lit two candles and placed them on the wooden floor after which we took turns drinking coffee from the flask. Then it became impossible for me to keep quiet. There was something I had been wondering about, which showed how obsessed I had become with the idea of a ghost. I said to Banerjee, ‘You told us Col. Mercer had bought some of the furniture of this house. If he lives so close, couldn’t we go and find out about a particular item?’
‘What item?’
‘A special kind of high-backed chair.’
Anik grew faintly annoyed at this and said, ‘Why? Why should we suddenly start looking for a high-backed chair?’
‘Well, you see—Mr Brown mentioned this chair in his diary. He said Simon loved to sit in this chair, even after his death. It used to be kept near that fireplace. So I thought if we could bring it here . . .’
Anik cut me short, ‘How will you bring it? In Mr Banerjee’s Morris? Or do you suggest the three of us carry it all the way? Have you gone totally mad?’
Banerjee raised his hand at this point and silenced us both. ‘That chair was not among the stuff Col. Mercer bought. I go to his house quite often. I would have seen it. As far as I know, he bought two book-cases, two oil paintings, a few flower vases and little knick-knacks for display—you know, art objects.’
I fell silent. Anik began shuffling the cards. Banerjee said, ‘Let’s play rummy. It should be more interesting if we played with stakes. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ I replied, ‘but I only have a small job in a bank. I cannot afford to lose much.’
The light outside had faded. We began to play. I have never been lucky at cards. Today was no exception. I would have felt happy to see Anik win for I knew he was feeling uncomfortable and nervous. But nothing of the kind happened. It was Mr Banerjee who appeared to have all the luck. He kept
humming that western tune and continued to win every game. We were still busy playing when I heard a cat mew. This disappointed me further. A haunted house should not have even a cat living in it. I said as much to Mr Banerjee who laughed, and said, ‘But it was a black cat—saw it going down the passage. Black cats go well with ghosts, don’t they?’
We went on playing. Only once did we hear the raucous cry of a bird outside. There was no other noise to spoil our concentration.
It was about 6.30 p.m. Daylight had disappeared almost totally. I had finally been favoured by Lady Luck and had won two games, when we heard a strange noise. Someone was knocking at the door. All of us put our cards down and listened. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Anik went paler then before. My own hands began trembling. But Mr Banerjee was clearly not one to be frightened easily. He broke the silence by demanding loudly, ‘Who is it?’
The knock was repeated. Tap, tap, tap.
Banerjee leapt up to go and investigate. I caught the edge of his trousers and pulled him back. ‘Don’t go alone!’ I whispered.
The three of us went out together. We went into the passage and looked towards our left. There was a male figure standing just outside the door, wearing a suit and carrying a stick. It was impossible to distinguish his features in the dark. Anik clutched at my sleeve even more tightly. I looked at him, and, somehow, my courage returned. Meanwhile, Banerjee had taken a few steps forward. Suddenly we heard him exclaim, ‘Oh, hello, Dr Larkin! What are you doing here?’
It was now possible to see the middle-aged European. He screwed up his blue eyes slightly behind the golden frame of his glasses and smiled genially, ‘Saw your Morris parked outside. Then I noticed candlelight through the windows. So I thought I’d drop in and find out what you’re up to.’
Banerjee grinned. ‘These two young friends of mine had this weird idea. They dragged me along to play cards here. Just for an adventure!’
‘Very good, very good. Youth is the time for doing mad things. Old people like me would only sit at home and reminisce. Well, well. Have a good time!’
Dr Larkin raised his hand in farewell and walked away, tapping his stick on the ground.
Another false alarm. We returned to our game. I had lost about four rupees; now I was beginning to regain some of it. Even if Simon’s ghost did not appear, today’s outing would be worthwhile if I could manage to win something at cards.
I had been looking at my watch frequently. So I can tell exactly when the real thing happened. Seven-thirty. Mr Brown had mentioned that that was when Simon had died.
I was dealing the cards, Mr Banerjee was lighting his pipe and Anik had just slipped his hand into the packet of sandwiches when the look on his face changed and his whole body became rigid.
His eyes were looking at something beyond the room, in the passage. Banerjee and I automatically followed his gaze. What I saw made me hold my breath.
A pair of brilliant eyes stared at us from the dark passage. They had the pale green and yellow glow of phosphorus and did not flicker.
Mr Banerjee’s right hand went into the vest pocket of his coat. And, in that instant, everything fell into place. My voice came back and I said, ‘There’s no need to take out your revolver, Mr Banerjee. It’s that black cat!’
Anik seemed to relax at my words. Banerjee took his hand out of his pocket and said softly, ‘How ridiculous!’
The phosphorescent eyes now came closer. As soon as it crossed the threshold, I knew I was right. It was indeed the black cat.
The cat stepped into the room and turned left. Our eyes were following every movement it made. We, too, turned our gaze to the left.
Then all of us made the same sound quite involuntarily. It was the sound one makes when profoundly startled. The reason for this was simple—while we had been sitting playing rummy, a high-backed chair, covered in red velvet, had appeared from somewhere and made its way to the fireplace.
Black as a moonless night, the cat walked silently towards the chair. It stopped for a moment, then jumped on to it neatly and curled up.
At that precise moment, I heard something that froze my blood. An invisible old man was laughing merrily in the room, punctuating his laughter with, ‘Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon . . .’ There was also the sound of his clapping happily like a child.
A scream told me that Anik had fainted. And Mr Banerjee? He had gathered Anik in his arms and was sprinting towards the main door.
I followed him quickly. The cards, the candles, the food, the rug—everything was left behind. Beyond the door was the main compound and, further down, the gate. We ran like madmen and reached the Morris Minor parked just outside the gate. Thank goodness Bangalore did not have a lot of traffic. If it did, I shudder to think how many people would have been injured that evening by a speeding maniac.
Anik regained consciousness in the car, but did not utter a single word. Mr Banerjee was the first one to speak as we reached home. He snatched the glass of brandy from Anik’s bearer, downed half of it at one go, and said hoarsely, ‘So, Simon was a cat!’
I was in no condition to converse either. But I felt in my heart that he was right.
It had to be true. Mr Brown’s Simon—that intelligent, whimsical, proud, devoted and affectionate being whom he loved so well—was the black cat we had seen today!
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1971
Mr Eccentric
I never managed to find out Mr Eccentric’s full name. All I did learn was that his surname was Mukherjee. His appearance was quite unforgettable. He was nearly six feet tall, his body was without the slightest trace of fat, his back arched like a bow; and his neck, arms, hands and forehead were covered by innumerable veins that appeared to be bulging out of his skin. What he wore almost every day was a white shirt with black flannel trousers, white socks and white tennis shoes. And he always carried a stout walking stick. Perhaps he needed it because he often walked on uneven, unpaved roads and amongst wild plants.
I met Mr Eccentric ten years ago, when I used to work for a bank. That year, I had taken ten days off in early May, and gone to Darjeeling—my favourite hill town—for a holiday. I saw Mr Eccentric on my very first day.
At about half past four, I had left my hotel for a walk, after a cup of tea. In the afternoon, there had been a short shower. Since there was every chance that it might rain again, I had put on my raincoat before stepping out. As I was walking down Jalapahar Road, the most picturesque and quiet road in Darjeeling, I suddenly spotted a man about fifty yards away. He was standing where the road curved. His body was bent forward, and he was leaning on his walking stick, gazing intently at the grass by the roadside. At first, none of this struck me as unusual. Perhaps he was interested in some wild flower or insect. Perhaps he had seen one of those in the grass. I cast a mildly curious glance in his direction, and kept on walking.
As I got closer, however, I realized that there was something odd about him. It was the intensity of the man’s concentration. I was standing only a few feet away, staring at him, but he did not appear to have noticed me at all. He was still bent over the grass, his eyes fixed on it. Now I could not help asking a question: ‘Have you lost something?’
There was no reply. Was he deaf?
My curiosity rose. I was determined to see what happened next. So I lit a cigarette, and waited. About three minutes later, life seemed to return to the man’s limbs. He bent further forward, and stretched an arm out towards the grass. Then he pushed his fingers into the thick grass, and a second later, withdrew his hand. Between his thumb and index finger was held a small disc. I peered carefully at it. It was a button, nearly as large as a fifty-paise coin. Perhaps it had once been attached to a jacket.
The man brought the button closer to his eyes, scrutinized it thoroughly, turned it around several times, then said ‘Tch, tch, tch!’ regretfully, before placing it in his shirt pocket, and striding off in the direction of the Mall. He ignored me completely.
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Later in the evening, on my way back to the hotel, I ran into an old resident of Darjeeling, Dr Bhowmik. He was standing by the fountain on the Mall. Dr Bhowmik was my father’s classmate, and very fond of me. I couldn’t help telling him about my encounter with the strange man. When I finished my tale, Dr Bhowmik said, ‘Well, from your description, it appears that you met Mr Eccentric.’
‘Mr who?’
‘Eccentric. It’s a sad case, really. I can’t remember his first name, his surname is Mukherjee. He’s been in Darjeeling for nearly five years. He rents a room in a cottage near Grindlays Bank. Before he came here, he used to teach physics in Ravenshaw College in Cuttack. I believe he was once a brilliant student, and has a German degree in physics. But he left his job, and came to live here. Perhaps he inherited some property, or has some private income, so he gets by.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘He came to me once, soon after he got here. He had stumbled and fallen somewhere, and cut his knee. It had turned septic. I treated him, and he recovered.’
‘But why is he called Eccentric?’
Dr Bhowmik burst out laughing. ‘He acquired that name because of his peculiar hobby. I couldn’t tell you who was the first to think of that name!’
‘What’s his hobby?’
‘You saw it yourself, didn’t you? He picked up a button from the roadside and put it in his pocket. That’s his hobby. He’ll pick up any old thing and keep it safe in his room.’
‘Any old thing? How do you mean?’ For some reason, I began feeling increasingly curious about the man.
‘Well,’ said Dr Bhowmik, ‘I call it that, but he claims that every object in his collection is most precious. Apparently, there is a story behind all of them.’
‘How does he know that?’
Dr Bhowmik glanced at his watch. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ he suggested. ‘He’s always pleased to have a visitor, for his stories are endless. All of it is pure nonsense, needless to say, but he’s always glad to tell them. Mind you, whether you will be glad to hear them or not is a different matter!’
