by Satyajit Ray
‘On the grass? You’ll live on the grass?’ the boy sounded puzzled. He could remember lying on the grass for quite a long time.
‘No, not live. Work. Perform. See that box under the bench? It’s got all my stuff for juggling. I bought none of it. Everything came from my ustad.’ The man touched his hand three times to his forehead as he uttered the word ‘ustad’. Then he resumed speaking, ‘Ustad performed until he was seventy-three years old. Even at that age, half his beard was black. He used to comb his long beard, and wear it parted in the middle. That day . . . I saw him sit on the ground just as he did for his namaz, and throw a top high into the air. Then he spread his palm to catch it as it fell. But, suddenly, he drew his hand back, and clutched at his chest. A second later, he crumpled into a heap, his face buried in the ground. The spinning top landed on his back, between his shoulder blades, and went on spinning. The audience thought it was a new trick, so everyone started clapping. But . . . my ustad never raised his face again.’
The man fell silent, and stared out of the window for a while, possibly thinking of his ustad. Then he said, ‘I’ll have to talk to Upen-da. Maybe he can do something for you. But let me warn you, the police will be on the lookout.’
The boy’s face turned pale instantly. ‘Handing you over to the police would really be the correct thing to do,’ the man added.
‘No, no!’ the boy cried in dismay.
‘Don’t worry,’ the man smiled. ‘An artist does not always follow the rules. If I was a stickler for rules and routines, I would never have met you like this, in a third-class compartment. Had he stuck to the rules, Arun Mustafi would probably be returning from office at this very minute, driving his own Fiat, from BBD Bagh to Ballygunje.’
A name he had just heard aroused the boy’s curiosity. ‘Who is Upen- da?’ he asked.
‘His full name is Upen Gui. He runs a tea shop in Bentinck Street.’
‘How can he do something for me?’ ‘You’ll see.’
4
Inspector Dinesh Chand took out his handkerchief once more and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Then he forced a smile and said, ‘Don’t be so . . . I mean, don’t be like that, sir, we are doing our best, you know. Our investigation is in full swing, I assure you. We . . .’
‘Rubbish!’ shouted Mr Sanyal. ‘You cannot tell me where my son is, or even how he is.’
‘No, sir, but . . .’
‘Stop. Let me speak. This is what you’ve learnt so far: a gang of four kidnapped Bablu. They got into a stolen blue Ambassador and were going in the direction of Singbhum.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t keep saying “yes, sir”. Let me finish. They were hit by a truck on the way. The truck driver ran away, but you caught him afterwards.’
‘Yes—’ the inspector stopped himself in the nick of time before saying ‘sir’.
‘Two of those men died on the spot.’
‘Bonku Ghosh and Narayan Karmakar.’
‘But the leader of the gang is still alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘We don’t know his real name.’
‘Wonderful! Well, what do you know him as?’ ‘Samson.’
‘And the other one?’
‘Raghunath.’
‘Is that a pseudonym, too?’
‘Could well be.’
‘Anyway, you seem to think that Samson and Raghunath are still alive and they ran away from the scene of the accident. You also appear to think that Bablu was somehow thrown out of the car.’
‘Yes, because we found a torn sole of a shoe a few yards from the car. That shoe would have fitted a twelve-year-old boy, sir. The road sloped down, you see, towards a forest. That’s where we found it. Besides, there were patches of blood. And a new bar of chocolate.’
‘But you did not find my son.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you searched the forest? Or are your men too scared of being eaten by tigers?’
The inspector tried to laugh lightly at this, failed, and coughed instead.
‘There are no tigers in that forest, sir. It has been searched pretty thoroughly. All the villages nearby—five or six of them—have been searched as well.’
‘In that case, what have you come to report? The whole thing is crystal clear to me. Samson and Raghunath took Bablu with them. It’s obvious, isn’t it?’
The inspector raised a hand to stop Mr Sanyal’s reasoning, then thought the better of it, and lowered his hand quickly. ‘Sir, we have seen a ray of hope. That’s what I . . .’
‘A ray of hope? Drop this theatrical language, Inspector, and come to the point.’
Inspector Chand wiped his forehead once again before replying. ‘A man called Amarnath Banerjee—he works for the Jute Corporation—was returning to Calcutta from Ghatshila, the day after the accident. He was in his car. He has built a house in Ghatshila, you see, and his wife and son . . .’
‘Is that relevant!’
‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. About thirty miles from Kharagpur, he saw a young boy in a truck. His arms and legs were injured. The truck driver had found him lying unconscious by the side of the road, about a mile to the north of the accident scene. Mr Banerjee took the boy to Kharagpur and had him checked by a doctor. He gave him first aid, but soon after that, the boy escaped. Mr Banerjee reported the matter to the police.’
The inspector stopped. Mr Sanyal had been listening with his eyes fixed on his massive glasstop table. Now he looked up and asked, ‘You know all this, but not the name of that boy?’
‘No, sir. There’s a problem there, you see. It seems that the boy was suffering from loss of memory.’
‘Loss of memory?’ Mr Sanyal’s whole face twisted in a frown.
‘The boy was unable to tell his name, his address, or his father’s name. He could not remember a single thing.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Yet he fits the description perfectly.’
‘How? Did he have a clear complexion, curly hair, was he of medium build?’
‘Yes, sir. Besides, he was wearing blue shorts and a white shirt, just like your son.’
‘Did anyone see a birthmark on his waist? A mole under his chin?’
‘No, sir.’
Mr Sanyal rose from his chair and looked at his watch. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘I have to go to court. I was too worried to work these last three days. Now I have informed my other three sons. One of them is studying at IIT, Kharagpur. He will be here later today. The other two have to travel from Bombay and Bangalore. They’ll be here in a day or two. I am most concerned about my mother. Thank goodness Bablu’s mother is no more. She could not have endured this shock. Well, I have decided what I want to do. If those two men have still got Bablu, they will demand money, sooner or later. When they do, I am going to pay up and take my son back. After that, whether they are arrested or not is your problem. I don’t care.’
So saying, Saradindu Sanyal, one of the most powerful barristers of Calcutta, stormed out of the room, his shoes making loud clicking noises on the marble floor of his library-cum-office. Inspector Chand reached for his handkerchief again.
5
Two men walked into a little-known barber’s shop somewhere in north Calcutta, sat in two adjacent chairs and, in a matter of minutes, managed to get their appearances altered quite dramatically. The taller and the heftier of the two had a close-cropped beard, a moustache and long hair that came down to his shoulders. Paresh, the barber, was startled by the hardness of his shoulder muscles. He did as he was told and got rid of both the beard and the moustache. The man’s hair was then cut quite short in a style that had been popular ten years ago. The second man lost his sideburns, the parting in his hair moved from the right to the left, and the unkempt beard he sported was wiped clean, leaving only a thin moustache. When they had finished, Paresh and his colleague, Pashupati, were duly paid; but, instead of a tip, what they received in addition was a glance from the first man th
at nearly stopped their hearts. It commanded them to hold their tongues. No one must know about this particular visit. It was a command neither would dare disobey.
Twenty minutes later, the same men stopped before a decrepit old house in Shobha Bazar and knocked loudly. The front door was opened by a small, somewhat shrivelled old man. The hefty man placed a hand on the old man’s chest and pushed him back into the house. The second man followed them in, and bolted the door from inside. It was already dusk—the only light came from a twenty-watt bulb.
‘Can you recognize us, Dadu?’ asked the hefty one, leaning over the old man. The latter’s eyes were bulging. He was trembling so much that his ancient, steel-framed glasses had slipped down his nose.
‘Why, n-no, I d-don’t th-think . . .’ he stammered.
The hefty man smiled menacingly. ‘That’s because we’ve shaved. Here, smell this!’ He pulled the old man’s face down and held it close to his own for a second. ‘Can you smell the shaving cream? My name is Samson. Now can you recognize me?’
The old man sat down on a divan, still trembling. ‘Were you having a smoke? Is this the time when you smoke your hookah? Sorry to disturb you.’ Samson picked up the hookah that stood leaning against the wall, and removed the bowl from its top. There was a small desk on the divan. On this desk lay an open almanac with a marble paperweight on it. Samson removed the paperweight and turned the bowl over. Red-hot pieces of coal slipped out from the bowl and fell on the almanac. Then he threw the bowl away, pulled forward a chair with a broken arm, and sat down, facing the old man.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘tell me this—if you must cheat and swindle, why don’t you do so openly? Why pretend to be an astrologer?’
The old man did not know where to look. Smoke rose from his almanac, spiralling upward—the pages were turning black and slowly crumbling away. The smell of burning paper intermingled with the smell of tobacco.
Samson went on speaking, his voice low, but harsh. ‘We came here the other day, Dadu, and said we were about to start a big project. So we needed you to find us a suitable day, a good, auspicious day. You looked at your books and said that the seventh of July was a good day. I’ve heard people say that you, Bhairav Bhattacharya, are so good that if a crow came and sat on your roof, you could work out its future, and you would not be wrong. So we believed you, and you took ten rupees from us and put it in that cash box over there. Well, do you know what happened then?’
The astrologer seemed totally unable to take his eyes off the burning pages of his almanac. It was for this reason that Raghunath placed a hand under his chin and turned his head round, so that he was forced to face Samson. Then he took off the old man’s glasses, and pulled his eyes open with his fingers, so that there was no way that he could look away.
‘Let me tell you,’ Samson went on, ‘that the car we were travelling in with all the goods got hit by a truck. It was flattened immediately. Two of our partners died on the spot. I escaped because I am made of steel. But even I nearly dislocated my kneecaps. My partner here was injured pretty badly—even now he cannot sleep on his side. The goods we worked so hard to get . . . well, that’s gone, too. Dead. Finished. What I want to know is why you couldn’t see any of this happening. Didn’t your calculations tell you such a thing was going to happen?’
‘N-no, look, we . . . we are not God, after all . . .!’ ‘Shut up!’
Raghunath released the old man. Samson could now manage on his own. ‘Bring it out now. We want ten multiplied by ten.’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘Shut up!’ Samson shouted. Almost at once, a knife appeared in his hand, its blade flicking out as he pressed a button on its folded, invisible handle. He moved his hand closer to the old man.
‘H-here . . . take it, take it!’
Bhairav Bhattacharya’s trembling hand fumbled for the key tucked in at his waist, then moved towards the cash box.
6
Fotik had learnt to handle his job quite well in the last five days. Upen Babu was a good man, which had helped a lot. He had agreed to feed him, pay him twelve rupees a month, and find him somewhere to stay. A month’s salary had been paid in advance.
Only yesterday, Fotik realized how lucky he was to have Upen Babu to take care of him. He had gone to buy paan for him from a stall nearby. There, he met a boy called Bishu from another tea shop. Bishu had been working there for almost a month. Within a couple of days of starting his job, Bishu had broken a cup. Immediately, his boss, Beni Babu, had uprooted a large chunk of hair from his head and rapped him on the head so sharply that it had swollen up. The swelling, Bishu declared, had become as large as a potato.
Upen Babu was not given to physical violence. He scolded Fotik sometimes, and then went on speaking, showering him with advice. It went on all day, coming out in instalments. When Fotik broke a glass on his second day, at first Upen Babu stared at the pieces in silence. Then, when Fotik began to collect them in a towel, he opened his mouth. ‘There, you’ve broken a glass! It doesn’t come for free, you know. Who will have to pay for it? You or I? Try to remember this when you work here—everything costs money. Of course you have to be quick in your job, but that does not mean that you should jump around with a glass in your hand. Things that are used in this shop are not meant for juggling, you know.’
Fotik was embarrassed at first, but then he realized that Upen Babu was speaking more to himself than anyone else. It was certainly not his intention to shout at Fotik in front of everyone. Even as he spoke, his hands continued to work, taking money from the customers and giving them their change. In due course, Fotik realized that Upen Babu never stopped his work even when he launched on his stream of advice.
It was not as if new customers could be spotted every day. Most of those who came were regulars and they always came at a particular time. Their orders never varied, either. Some only wanted a cup of tea, some wanted tea and toast, others asked for tea and eggs and toast. The eggs were either poached or made into omelettes. Fotik had started to recognize some of the regulars and could guess what they might order.
Today, when that thin, perpetually sad looking gentleman arrived and sat down at table number three, Fotik went to him at once and said, ‘Tea and dry toast?’ The man said, ‘So you have learnt that already?’ The sad expression on his face did not change even when he spoke to Fotik.
It was fun to be able to recognize people. But he realized he had to tread with caution, for only this afternoon, he had made a mistake. When a man in a yellow shirt turned up, Fotik thought he had recognized him as one of the regulars. So he went up to him and said, ‘Tea and a two-egg omelette?’ At this, the man removed the newspaper he was holding in front of him and raised his eyebrows. ‘Do I have to eat what you would like me to?’ he asked dryly.
What pleased Fotik the most was that he was getting used to moving about with plates and cups and saucers in his hands. Harun had said to him, ‘You will get the hang of it one day. Then it will come to you naturally like steps in a dance. Actually, this is also an art. Until you get familiar with your art, you will break a few glasses.’
Harun came to see him every evening. He had not told Upen Babu the truth. Fotik had been introduced as a distant cousin from Midnapore. He was supposed to be an orphan with no one in the world except an irritable old uncle, who took ganja and beat him for no reason. ‘Look what he did to this poor little boy!’ Harun had said to Upen Babu. ‘He spanked the boy so hard that he took off the skin from his elbow. See the swelling on his head? He struck him with a log!’ Upen Babu seemed perfectly willing to employ Fotik immediately. The boy who worked in the shop before him kept disappearing for days. Only recently, he had missed work for three days to go and watch Hindi films, and he had told endless lies to explain his absence. Upen Babu was glad to get rid of him.
Fotik’s appearance had changed a little. Harun had taken him for a haircut and his curly hair was now cut quite short. But Fotik did not mind. On their way back from the barber’s shop, Harun
had stopped to buy him a pair of shorts, a couple of shirts, two sleeveless vests, and a pair of chappals. ‘Wear a vest when you’re working,’ he said, ‘but remember to soak some tea leaves in hot water, and then dip your vests in it. When they are dry, they will not look brand new.’ At this, Fotik had suddenly found himself breaking into goose pimples, possibly because the mention of work had made him think of himself as a grown-up. He knew he would soon get used to the work. He had to start at eight-thirty in the morning and go on until the shop closed at eight o’clock in the evening. These were his hours from Monday to Friday. On Saturdays, the shop closed at four o’clock, and remained closed on Sundays.
Upen Babu had a small room behind the shop. Outside that room, under a tin roof, Fotik had been given a small space to sleep in. Mosquitoes did not let him sleep the first night. He tried covering himself from head to foot with a sheet, but that was suffocating, so he gave up. The next morning, he told Upen Babu about this problem. To his relief, Upen Babu found him a mosquito net. From that day, he had been sleeping quite well. The wound on his elbow had healed. The pain in his head disappeared totally at times but returned occasionally. What did not return at all was his memory. For the life of him, he could not recall anything before the moment of waking up under the stars. ‘Don’t worry,’ Harun had reassured him. ‘You cannot force these things. One day, it will come back to you automatically.’
Harun and he had gone out yesterday, which was a Sunday. Fotik had really enjoyed himself. Harun had told him to wait at the shop. He turned up at two o’clock, a colourful bag hanging from his shoulder. It was a patchwork of many small pieces of cloth placed in rows and stitched together. He took Fotik to Shaheed Minar. They got there in ten minutes.
