The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  The following morning, I left my hotel soon after breakfast and went looking for Mr Eccentric’s house. It proved quite easy to find it, since most people near Grindlays Bank seemed to know where he lived. I knocked on the door of house number seventeen. The man himself answered the door almost at once and, to my astonishment, recognized me immediately.

  ‘You asked me something yesterday, didn’t you? But I couldn’t reply. Believe me, I just couldn’t speak. At a time like that, if I let my attention wander, it can spell disaster. Do come in.’

  The first thing I noticed on entering his room was a glass case. It covered a large portion of a wall. On each shelf was displayed a range of very ordinary objects, not one of which seemed to bear any relationship to the other. One shelf, for instance, had the root of some plant, a rusted padlock, an ancient tin of Gold Flake cigarettes, a knitting needle, a shoe-brush and old torch cells. The man caught me staring at these objects and said, ‘None of those things will give you any joy, since only I know what they are worth.’

  ‘I believe there is a story behind everything in your collection?’

  ‘Yes, there certainly is.’

  ‘But that is true of most things, isn’t it? Say, if you consider that watch you are wearing . . .’ I began, but the man raised a hand and stopped me.

  ‘Yes, there may be a special incident related to many things,’ he said. ‘But how many of those things would continue to carry memories of the past? Of the scene they have witnessed? Only very rarely would you find anything like that. This button that I found yesterday, for example . . . !’

  The button in question was placed on a writing desk on the opposite end of the room. Mr Eccentric picked it up and handed it to me. It was a brown button, clearly torn from a jacket. I could see nothing special in it.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ he asked.

  I was obliged to admit that I could not. Mr Eccentric began speaking, ‘That button came from the jacket of an Englishman. He was riding down Jalapahar Road. The man was almost sixty, dressed in riding clothes, hale and hearty, a military man. When he reached the spot where I found that button, he had a stroke, and fell from his horse. Two passers-by saw him and rushed to help, but he was already dead. That button came off his jacket as he fell from his horse.’

  ‘Did you see this happen yesterday? I mean, all these past events?’

  ‘Vividly. The more I concentrate, the better do I see.’ ‘When can you see such things?’

  ‘Whenever I come across an object that has this special power to take me back to the past. It starts with a headache. Then my vision blurs, and I feel faint. Sometimes I feel as if I need support, or else I’d fall down. But almost immediately, various scenes start flashing before my eyes, and my legs become steady once more. When the whole thing’s over, my temperature rises. Every time. Last night, until eight o’clock, it was nearly 102. But the fever does not last for more than a few hours. Today, I feel absolutely fine.’

  Everything he said sounded far too exaggerated, but I felt quite amused. ‘Can you give me a few more examples?’ I asked.

  ‘That glass case is packed with examples. See that notebook? It contains a detailed description of every incident. Which one would you like to hear?’

  Before I could say anything, he strode over to the glass case and lifted two objects out of it. One was a very old leather glove, the other a spectacle lens. He placed them on a table.

  ‘This glove,’ he told me, ‘is the first thing I found. It’s the first item in my collection. Do you know where I found it? In a wood outside Lucerne, in Switzerland. By then I had finished my studies in Marburg, and was touring the continent before coming back to India. That day, I was out on a morning walk. A quiet and secluded path ran through the wood. After a while, I felt a little tired and sat down on a bench. Almost immediately, my eyes caught sight of only a portion of that glove, sticking out from the undergrowth near the trunk of a tree. At once, my head started throbbing. Then my vision blurred. And then . . . then I could see it all. It was like watching a film. A well-dressed gentleman, possibly an aristocrat, was walking down the same path. In his mouth was a Swiss pipe, on his hands were leather gloves, and he was carrying a walking stick. Suddenly, two men jumped out from behind a bush, and attacked him. The gentleman tried to fight them and, in the struggle, the glove on his right hand came off. Those criminals then grabbed him, killed him mercilessly and looted what money they could find in his pockets, and took his gold watch.’

  ‘Did something like this really happen?’

  ‘I had to spend three days in hospital. I had fever, and was delirious. There were other complications, too. The doctors there could not make a diagnosis. But, a few days later, I recovered as if by magic. After leaving the hospital, I started making enquiries. Eventually, I learnt that two years earlier, a wealthy man called Count Ferdinand was killed at that same spot, exactly as I had seen it. His son recognized the glove.’

  The man told this story so easily and naturally that I found it hard not to believe him. ‘Did you start building up your collection from that time?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, nothing happened for ten years after that first incident. By then I had returned home and was teaching in a college in Cuttack. Sometimes I went on holidays. Once I went to Waltair. That’s when the second incident took place. I found this lens stuck between rocks on the beach. A South Indian gentleman had taken his glasses off to go and bathe in the sea. He never returned. He got cramps in his legs as he was swimming, and drowned. I can still see him raising his hands from the water and shouting, ‘Help! Help!’ It was heartbreaking. This lens, which I found four years after the incident, came off his glasses. Yes, what I saw was true. It was a well-known case of drowning, as I learnt later. The dead man was called Shivaraman. He was from Coimbatore.’

  Mr Eccentric replaced the two objects in the glass case and sat down. ‘Do you know how many items I have got in my collection? One hundred and seventy-two. I’ve collected them over thirty years. Have you ever heard of anyone with such a collection?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, your hobby is unique. There’s no doubt about that. But tell me, does each of those objects have something to do with death?’

  The man looked grave. ‘Yes, so it seems. It isn’t just death, but sudden or unnatural death—murder, suicide, death by accident, heart failure, things like that.’

  ‘Did you find all these things simply lying by the roadside, or on beaches, and in woods?’

  ‘Yes, most of them. The rest I found in auctions or antique shops. See that wine jug made of cut glass? I found it in an auction house in Russell Street in Calcutta. Some time in the nineteenth century, wine served out of that jug was poisoned. An Englishman—oh, he was so tall and hefty—died in Calcutta after drinking that wine.’

  By this time, I had stopped looking at the glass case, and was looking closely at the man. But I could find nothing in his expression to suggest that he was lying, or that he was a cheat. Was he perhaps insane? No, that did not seem to be the case, either. The look in his eyes did seem somewhat distant, but it was certainly not abnormal. Poets often had that look, or those who were deeply religious and spiritual.

  I did not stay much longer. As I said goodbye and started to step out of the room, the man said, ‘Please come again. My door is always open for people like you. Where are you staying?’

  ‘The Alice Villa.’

  ‘I see. That’s only ten minutes from here. I enjoyed meeting you. There are some people I just cannot stand. You appear to be sympathetic and understanding.’

  Dr Bhowmik had invited me to tea that evening. There were two other guests. Over a cup of tea and a plate of savouries, I couldn’t help raising the subject of Mr Eccentric. Dr Bhowmik asked, ‘How long did you stay there?’

  ‘About an hour.’

  ‘My God!’ Dr Bhowmik’s eyes widened with amazement. ‘You spent nearly an hour listening to that fraud?’

  I smiled. ‘Well, it was raining so much t
hat I could hardly go out and enjoy myself elsewhere. Hearing his stories was more entertaining than being cooped up in my hotel room.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  This question came from a man of about forty. Dr Bhowmik had introduced him to me as Mr Khastagir. When Dr Bhowmik explained about Mr Eccentric, Khastagir gave a wry smile and said, ‘Why have you allowed such people to come and live in Darjeeling, Dr Bhowmik? They do nothing but pollute the air!’

  Dr Bhowmik gave a slight smile. ‘Could the air of such a big place be polluted by just one man? I don’t think so!’ he remarked.

  The third guest was called Mr Naskar. He proceeded to give a short lecture on the influence of frauds and cheats on our society. In the end, I was obliged to point out that Mr Eccentric lived in such isolation that the chances of the society in Darjeeling being influenced by him were extremely remote.

  Dr Bhowmik had lived in Darjeeling for over thirty years. Khastagir was also an old resident. After a while, I just had to ask them a question. ‘Did an Englishman ever suffer a heart attack while riding a horse on Jalapahar Road? Do you know of any such case?’

  ‘Who, you mean Major Bradley?’ Dr Bhowmik replied. ‘That happened about eight years ago. He had a stroke—yes, I think it happened on Jalapahar Road. He was brought to the local hospital, but by then it was too late. Why do you ask?’

  I told them about the button Mr Eccentric had found. Mr Khastagir seemed outraged. ‘You mean that man told you this story, and claimed that he had some supernatural power? He appears to be a crook of the first order! Why, he’s spent a few years in Darjeeling, hasn’t he? He could easily have heard of Bradley’s death. What’s supernatural about that?’

  To tell the truth, the same thought had already occurred to me. If Mr Eccentric had heard the story from someone in Darjeeling, that was hardly surprising. I changed the subject.

  The next few minutes were spent discussing various other topics. When it was time for me to leave, Mr Naskar rose to his feet as well. He had to go past my hotel, he said, so he wanted to walk back with me. We said goodbye to Dr Bhowmik and left. It had started to get dark. For the first time since my arrival in Darjeeling, I noticed that the thick clouds had parted here and there. Through the gaps, the light from the setting sun broke through and fell, like a spotlight, on the city and its surrounding mountains.

  Mr Naskar had struck me as a man in good health. But now, it became obvious that he was finding it hard to walk uphill. Nevertheless, between short gasps, he asked me, ‘Where does this Eccentric live?’

  ‘Why, do you want to meet him?’

  ‘No, no. Just curious.’

  I told him where Mr Eccentric lived. Then I added, ‘The man goes out often for long walks. We might run into him, who knows?’

  Amazingly, only two minutes later, just as we reached a bend, I saw Mr Eccentric coming from the opposite direction. In one hand, he was holding his heavy walking stick. In the other was a packet wrapped in newspaper. When he saw me, he did not smile; but then, nor did he seem displeased. ‘There’s something wrong with my electric supply,’ he said. ‘There’s no power at home. So I came out to buy some candles.’

  Courtesy made me turn to Mr Naskar. ‘This is Mr Mukherjee. And this is Mr Naskar,’ I said, making introductions.

  Naskar turned out to be quite westernized. Instead of saying ‘Namaskar’, he offered his hand. Mr Eccentric shook it quietly, without saying a word. Then he appeared to turn into a statue, and just stood there, rooted to the spot. Naskar and I both began to feel uncomfortable. After nearly half a minute, Naskar broke the silence. ‘Well, I had better be going,’ he said. ‘I had heard about you, Mr Mukherjee. Now, luckily, I’ve had the chance to meet you.’

  I had to say something, too. ‘Goodbye, Mr Mukherjee!’ I said, feeling somewhat foolish. Mr Eccentric seemed truly insane. He was standing in the middle of the road, lost in thought. He did not appear to have heard us, nor did he see us leave. He might have taken a dislike to Naskar, but didn’t he behave in a perfectly friendly fashion towards me, only that morning?

  We left him behind and continued walking. After a few minutes, I turned my head and looked back. Mr Eccentric was still standing where we had left him. ‘From what you told us, I thought the name “Eccentric” might be suitable,’ said Naskar, ‘but now I think it’s a lot more than that!’

  It was nine o’clock in the evening. I had just had my dinner, put a paan in my mouth and was toying with the idea of going to bed with a detective novel, when a bearer came and told me that someone was looking for me. I came out of my room and was most surprised to find Mr Eccentric waiting for me. What was he doing in my hotel at nine o’clock? He still looked a little dazed. ‘Is there anywhere we can sit and talk privately?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t mind talking to you outside, but it’s raining again.’

  I invited him into my room. He sat down, sighed with relief and said, ‘Could you feel my pulse, please?’

  I took his hand and gave a start. He was running a fairly high temperature. ‘I have got Anacin with me. Would you like one?’ I said, concerned.

  The man smiled. ‘No, no tablet is going to work now. This fever won’t go down before tomorrow morning. Then I’ll be all right. But I am not worried about my temperature. I have not come to you looking for medical treatment. What I need is that ring.’

  Ring? What ring? The perplexed look on my face seemed to irritate Mr Eccentric. ‘That man—Laskar or Tusker, whatever his name is!’ he said a little impatiently. ‘Didn’t you see his ring? It’s an ordinary, cheap old ring, not set with stones or anything. But I want it.’

  Now I remembered. Yes, Naskar did wear a silver ring on his right hand. Mr Eccentric was still speaking. ‘When I shook his hand, I could feel that ring brush against my palm. Immediately, I felt as if my whole body would explode. Then the same old thing happened. I went into a trance and began watching the scenes that rose before my eyes. But before the whole thing could finish, a jeep came from the opposite end and ruined everything!’

  ‘So you didn’t see the whole episode?’

  ‘No. But what little I did see was bad enough, let me tell you. It was a murder. I did not see the murderer’s face. I only saw his hand, moving forward to grasp his victim’s neck. On his hand was that ring. The victim was wearing a Rajasthani cap, and glasses with a golden frame. His eyes were bulging, he had just opened his mouth to scream. One of his lower teeth had a gold filling. That’s all I saw. I have got to have that ring!’

  I stared at Mr Eccentric for a few seconds. Then I said, ‘Look, Mr Mukherjee, if you want that ring, why don’t you ask Mr Naskar yourself? I don’t know him all that well. Besides, I don’t think he views your hobby with any sympathy.’

  ‘In that case, what good would it do if I asked him? It might be better if you . . .’

  ‘Very sorry, Mr Mukherjee,’ I interrupted him, speaking plainly, ‘it wouldn’t work even if I went and asked him. Some people are very attached to some of their possessions. Naskar may not wish to part with that ring. If it was something he was not actually using every day, he might have . . .’ I broke off.

  Mr Eccentric did not waste another second. He sighed, got to his feet and left, disappearing into the dark, damp night. His demand was really weird, I thought to myself. It was one thing to pick up objects from the roadside. But to ask for something someone else was using, just to add one more item to his collection, was certainly wrong. No one could have helped him in this respect. Besides, Naskar did not appear to be a man with any imagination. It was stupid to expect him to understand and just give away his ring.

  The next morning, seeing that the clouds had dispersed and the day was bright, I left for a walk after a cup of tea. My aim was to go to Birch Hill. The Mall was full of people. I had to walk carefully to avoid colliding with people on horseback, and others walking on foot, like me. A few minutes later, I found myself in the relatively quiet road to the west of Observatory Hill.

  Mr Eccentric�
�s sad face kept coming back to me. If I ran into Naskar by chance, perhaps I would speak to him about that ring. It might not mean a great deal to him, he might not mind giving it to me. I could well imagine the look on Mr Eccentric’s face if I handed the ring over to him. When I was a child, I used to collect stamps; so I knew something about a collector’s passion. Sometimes, one’s passion could turn into an obsession.

  Besides, Mr Eccentric did not meddle with anyone, he was happy living alone with his crazy hobby. He was not trying to harm anyone else, and this was probably the first time that he was coveting someone else’s possession, although it was nothing valuable. To tell the truth, I had come to the conclusion the previous night that Mr Eccentric had no supernatural powers at all. His collection was based simply on his peculiar imagination. But if that brought him joy and contentment, why should anyone else object?

  I spent almost two hours walking near Birch Hill, but did not see Naskar. On my return through the Mall, I had to pick my way through the crowd once again. However, this time many people in the crowd appeared agitated about something. Knots of people were scattered here and there, discussing something excitedly. As I got closer, I heard the words ‘police’, ‘investigation’ and ‘murder’. I spotted an old gentleman in the crowd and decided to ask him what had happened. ‘Oh, they say a suspected criminal fled from Calcutta and came here. The police followed his trail and are looking for him everywhere,’ the man told me.

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you his real name. I believe he calls himself Naskar.’

  My heart jumped into my mouth. There was only one person who could give me more information: Dr Bhowmik!

  As it happened, I did not have to go to his house. I ran into him and Khastagir near a rickshaw-stand. ‘Just imagine!’ Dr Bhowmik exclaimed. ‘Only yesterday, the fellow came to my house and had tea. He had come to me some time ago, complaining of a pain in his stomach. Said he was new to the city. So I treated him, and thought I’d introduce him to some other people. That was only yesterday, for heaven’s sake. And now this!’