by Satyajit Ray
Fotik could never have imagined such a place. One side of the Minar was packed with people. How could so many people possibly cram themselves together in one place? Harun said, ‘If you climbed to the top of the Minar, you would see that this crowd has a pattern. You’d find empty circles here and there, with some artiste or another holding a show, surrounded by an audience.’
‘Is this place always so crowded?’
‘No, this happens only on Sundays. Come, you must see for yourself. Then you’ll understand what I mean.’
Fotik saw, but it would be an exaggeration to say that he understood. What lay before his eyes was so huge, full of so many different types of activities, different languages, different colours and sounds that his eyes, ears and head were overwhelmed. It was not just shows that were being held. On one side, hawkers were selling all kinds of things—toothpowder, ointments for skin diseases, pills for rheumatism, strange herbs and roots, and God knew what else. In one corner, he saw that someone was sitting beside a pile of folded pieces of paper. He also had a parrot. If anyone wished to know his future, the parrot would draw a piece of paper with its beat; on this a prediction would be written. A few yards away stood a man, talking non-stop, praising the remarkable qualities of a certain soap. On his head was a turban, he was wearing khaki shorts, and both his hands were covered by pink foam.
On the other side, a man stood with a very thick and heavy iron chain around his neck. He seemed to be talking quite a lot accompanied by elaborate gestures. Everyone around him appeared to be hanging on to his every word. Close to him, on a paved area, a man was sitting with his legs stretched. His clothes were extremely dirty, his hair was long, unkempt and jet black. He looked like a mad man, but with a piece of chalk in his hand, he was drawing beautiful pictures of characters from the Ramayana. People who saw them were throwing coins from all directions, which were landing on the hard surface with a clang, some on the crown on Ram’s head, some on Ravan’s face, and others on Hanuman’s tail. But the man did not seem interested in the money at all.
What appeared to be most popular, Fotik noticed, were ‘acts’ and shows of various kinds. One particular act caught his attention, and he was so taken aback by it that he could hardly believe his eyes. A small boy—much younger than Fotik—was lying on his back, but his head was buried in a hole in the ground. Another young boy was carefully closing the hole, blocking out every possible passage through which air might pass. The first boy continued to lie still. After a few moments of horrified amazement, Fotik clutched at Harun’s sleeve. ‘What’s he doing? He’s going to die!’ he exclaimed.
‘No. No one comes here to die,’ Harun assured him. ‘They all come only to live. He’ll live, too. What he’s doing right now is simply a matter of practice. There’s nothing that you can’t do if you practise well enough. You’ll know what I mean, when you see Harun’s special show.’
Harun took him to the spot where he used to hold his shows before. It was now being used by a girl. She was walking on a rope that stretched from one end of a high pole to another. The girl seemed to be having no difficulty in maintaining her balance. ‘She’s from Madras,’ Harun said briefly.
Further on, Fotik saw a number of large iron hoops. Some had been set alight. ‘Is someone going to jump through those burning hoops?’ Fotik asked eagerly. Harun stopped walking and gave him a sharp look. ‘How did you know? Have you seen something like this before? Can you remember?’ he asked. Fotik opened his mouth to say ‘Yes’, but shut it again. Just for a fleeting second, a scene had flashed before his eyes—there were lights, music and a lot of people—but it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. He was back in the maidan under Shaheed Minar.
Harun began walking again with Fotik in tow. The spot where he finally stopped was quiet, not many people were around. From the crowd they had just left behind them came the sound of a dugdugi. Fotik looked back and saw, through a gap in the crowd, the black, hairy legs of a bear. Most performers here used drums to draw attention. But what Harun now took out of his bag was not a drum but a flute. One end was narrow, the other broad with patterns on it. Harun blew into his flute seven times. It rang out, loud and clear, from one end of the maidan to the other.
Then he put the flute away, and startled Fotik considerably by calling out loudly:
‘Chhoo-o-o!
Chhoo-chhoo-chhoo!’
The sound of the flute and his call was enough to make children come running to him. As soon as he had an audience, Harun clapped his hands, then pirouetted three times before doing a somersault and then jumping quite high in the air. When he finally landed on the ground, he started his chant, the magic rhyme that would bring everyone flocking round to see him:
‘Choo-chhoo-chhoo-oo-oo!
I know a very good magic spell.
Are you ill? I’ll make you well.
Seven seas, and monkeys twelve,
Rats and moles do dig and delve.
Chhoo-chhoo-chhoo-oo-oo!’
Then he played his flute again, blowing into it long and hard. This was quickly followed by another clap and a somersault. Then he picked up the rhyme again:
‘Come! Come! Come! Come!
Come-m-m-m!
Come and see my startling act,
Magical tricks, I’m jolly good at.
In this city, I like to play,
I love it best, I have to say.
A longish beard, and nuts and cloves,
Come straight to me, in giant droves.
Come-m-m-m!
Come, commander, wonder-wonder,
Juggler, joker, jumping wonder,
Wonder-Khalif, Harun-Wonder,
Come-m-m-m!
Come boy, good boy, bad boy, fat boy,
Hat boy, coat boy, this boy, that boy,
Calling all-boy, all-boy calling,
Calling . . . calling . . . calling . . . calling,
Come-m-m-m!’
Fotik stood staring, totally amazed by Harun’s ability to shout and attract people’s attention and interest. Already, a lot of people had left the crowd and come over to join them. Harun stopped and began taking more things out of his bag. The first thing to come out was a bright and colourful mat; this he spread on the ground to sit on. Then out came four gleaming brass balls with red patterns carved on them, two huge tops attached to long strings, three bamboo sticks with red and blue feathers stuck on them, and five different caps of various designs. Harun placed one of these on his head.
Fotik helped him display all the other objects on the grass. ‘Thank you,’ said Harun, ‘that will do. Now look, go and stand in the crowd. Each time I finish an item, you must clap.’
After the first two items, Fotik realized that there was no need for him to lead the general applause. People were clapping spontaneously. To tell the truth, he was so taken aback by the things Harun was doing that he did not even remember to clap. It was not just his hands that moved fast. It seemed as if Harun’s whole body had magic in it. Fotik watched, transfixed, as Harun threw his tops high into the air, then pulled them back swiftly, so that they spun in the air and then fell neatly back on his open palm, on the same spot, each time. How did he manage that? Fotik simply could not figure it out.
But it did not end there. Harun placed a top on one end of a bamboo stick that had the red and blue feathers. Even when placed on the stick which was as thin as a pencil, the top continued to spin furiously. Fotik thought that was perhaps the end of the show, this was where he was supposed to clap—but no, suddenly Harun threw his head back and put the bamboo stick on his chin. When he removed his hand, the stick began to spin together with the top, the colourful feathers going round and round. A little later, Fotik noticed that the stick would slow down at times, or even stop moving completely, but the top balanced on it did not stop rotating even for a second.
What brought Harun the maximum applause was his juggling act. He started with two of his brass balls, then picked up a third, and a fourth. The balls caught the eveni
ng sun and shone brightly. The light reflected from them, in turn, shone on Harun’s face, making it look, every now and then, as if the light was radiating from his face.
The show continued until the sun had set. Towards the end, many more people joined the crowd, leaving what they had been watching earlier. Fotik saw, to his surprise, that even small children were throwing coins around Harun. But Harun did not even glance at them while he was performing. When the show was over, he called Fotik and said, ‘Go on, pick them up.’
By the time Harun had replaced every object in his bag, Fotik’s job was done. The coins added up to eighteen rupees and thirty-two paise. Harun put the bag back on his shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s go and have dinner,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you to a Punjabi dhaba. We can have rumali roti and very tasty daal. I bet you’ve never had anything like it before. Once we’ve eaten that, we can decide what we’d like for dessert!’
7
Fotik had found a calendar and hung it on the wall in the little place where he slept. At the end of a day, he put a pencil mark on that date, in order to calculate how many days he had spent in his new job. On his eighth day, which was a Thursday, at around half-past twelve, two men walked into the shop and sat at the table that was closest to the door, and farthest from Upen Babu’s desk. One of these men was so hefty that Fotik stared at him in surprise. The man who had accompanied him looked quite ordinary.
The hefty looking man shouted, ‘Hey!’ and Fotik realized he was calling out to him. He was busy clearing another table, recently vacated by one of their regulars, a man with a white mark on his chin, who always came in at about the same time, ordered a cup of tea and then spent half an hour reading the newspaper.
‘Two omelettes and tea. Quickly!’ added the strong and muscular man.
‘Yes, babu,’ said Fotik, and stood wondering why, totally unexpectedly, his voice had trembled as he had uttered those words, as had his hand, in which he was holding an empty cup.
But he pulled himself together and went to the kitchen to pass on the new order to Keshto, their cook. Then he put the cup down, and handed over to Upen Babu the money the last customer had paid him. He cast a sidelong glance at the hefty man. He could not recall having seen him before. So why did he react like that on hearing the man’s voice? The two men were now talking among themselves. The thin man was holding a lighter for his friend’s cigarette.
Fotik looked away, then slowly walked over to another table where Panna Babu sat every day. With a duster, he began clearing the breadcrumbs scattered on it. Panna Babu seemed far better off than any other customer who came here. He always wore good clothes. Upen Babu often left his seat when Panna Babu arrived and exchanged pleasantries with him. There was something else that made Panna Babu different from the others. On two different occasions, he had given Fotik ten paise as a tip. In fact, Fotik had received the second coin only five minutes ago. He had decided to save the extra money to repay Harun for all his kindness.
Keshto began making the omelettes. He had already made the tea, which he now pushed towards Fotik. Fotik took the two cups and walked smartly over to the two men, without spilling a single drop on the saucers. In the last couple of days, he had learnt a special act. He would place part of an order on a table, then mention what remained and add ‘Coming!’ Today, he said, ‘Omelette coming!’
For some unknown reason, his eyes moved towards the hefty man as he spoke. He saw the man’s jaw drop. Through his open mouth, the smoke that he forgot to inhale began pouring out, like a ribbon. Curious, Fotik stared at this ribbon of smoke for about five seconds before turning to go. But the man stopped him. ‘Oy!’ he cried. Fotik stopped. ‘How long have you been working here?’
The police! This man had to be from the police, or else why should he ask such a question? Fotik decided at once that he would not give the correct information but he’d have to make sure Upen Babu did not overhear anything. He cast a quick glance at the desk, to discover that Upen Babu was not in the shop. Thank God.
‘A long time, babu,’ he replied.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Fotik.’ This was not his real name, anyway. So there was no harm in saying it.
‘When did you have a haircut?’
‘A long time ago.’
‘Come here. Come closer.’
At this moment, Keshto called from the kitchen to say that the omelettes were ready. ‘Let me get your omelettes, babu,’ he said quickly.
He brought two laden plates from the kitchen and placed them before the men. Then he went to table number two and got the salt and pepper cellars. The two men were once again talking to each other. They did not look at him. He saw a new customer come in and take table number four. Fotik went over to greet him.
A little later, when the men had finished eating, Fotik had to go back to them to collect the money. ‘How did you hurt your arm?’ asked the hefty man.
‘Grazed it against a wall.’
‘How many lies do you tell every day, dear boy?’
Fotik did not reply. He had never seen this man before, but he did not like the way he was speaking to him. Fotik decided to mention this incident to Harun when he saw him next.
‘Why don’t you answer?’
The man was staring hard at him. Before Fotik could say anything, Upen Babu came back to the shop. He spotted Fotik standing quietly and realized there was something wrong.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, stopping by the table. ‘Nothing. This babu wanted to know . . .’
‘What?’
‘How long I’ve been working here.’
Upen Babu turned to the hefty man. ‘Why, sir? Why do you ask?’ he said, politely enough.
The man said nothing in reply. He simply put the money on the table, rose and left the shop, followed by his friend.
After this, Fotik got so busy that by the end of the afternoon, he almost forgot the whole episode.
8
Harun arrived at the shop at about four o’clock the same day. He was going to take Fotik with him and show him where he lived. Upen Babu had agreed to let Fotik go at four. Keshto’s son, Shotu, was going to work in the shop in Fotik’s absence. Shotu was familiar with the job but could not work regularly as he had fever almost thrice a month.
Harun said, as they stepped out, ‘I’ll show you something new today—a new act I have been practising. I bet you’ll be surprised.’ At this, Fotik’s heart began to dance with joy and excitement, so much so that he failed to notice two men standing outside a paan shop on the opposite pavement. They were the same men who had asked him all those questions earlier.
Harun, it turned out, did not like travelling in crowded buses. ‘If I had to clutch a rod and hang from it like a bat, it would damage my hands,’ he said. ‘And if my hands were damaged, I could never perform and then I’d starve. So let’s just walk.’
They went through a number of alleyways and several other broad and narrow roads, before reaching a bridge, under which ran electric trains. Stairs went down from one end of the bridge, leading to a slum. That was where Harun lived. In the distance, Fotik could see chimneys of factories, rising above tall coconut trees. The slum looked as if it had wrapped a blanket of smoke around itself. ‘All that smoke has come from the coal stoves people have lit,’ Harun explained. ‘It’s time to start cooking dinner, you see.’
He explained something else. ‘In this slum,’ he said, climbing down the stairs, ‘you will find Hindus and Muslims and Christians, all living together. Some of them are such talented artistes that it takes my breath away. There’s a carpenter called Jamal. He sings so well that, listening to him, I often forget where I am. His voice can wipe out all sorrow, all pain. He comes to my room sometimes and sings, and I play the tabla on my wooden cot.’
A small path wound its way through small huts with straw roots towards Harun’s room. Fotik kept close to Harun, and walked by his side. Each time they were spotted by a child, Harun was greeted by a big smile. Some called ou
t to him, others jumped joyfully, or clapped. Harun waved at them, and got them to join him. ‘Come on!’ he said. ‘You’ll see something new today!’
‘Something new? Really? What fun!’ cried the children. Fotik had no idea Harun had so many friends.
His room turned out to be small and a little dark. Perhaps that was why he had filled it with colourful objects. There were fabrics, coloured paper, puppets, pictures and kites. Some were hanging on the walls, some were spread on the floor, or simply displayed in quiet corners. Yet, the room did not look cluttered. Not a single piece seemed out of place. Perhaps this was a special kind of art. Fotik also noticed Harun’s bag and the box with which he travelled.
Trying to take in so many different things at once, Fotik did not see, at first, the framed picture of a man. His eyes fell on it just as Harun switched on a light. ‘Whose picture is that?’ Fotik asked. The man was staring out of the photo-frame, looking straight at Fotik. He had a thick moustache, and long, wavy hair. At the bottom of the picture, someone had written in black, clearly and carefully: Enrico Rustelli.
Harun lit a beedi. ‘He’s my second guru,’ he replied, blowing the smoke out. ‘I never saw him in person. He’s an Italian. He was a juggler too, who lived about a hundred years ago. I found the picture in a magazine and cut it out. You saw me juggle with four balls. Do you know how many he used? Ten. Can you imagine it? Not five, or seven, or eight, but ten! People used to go mad just watching him.’
Fotik felt surprised to learn that Harun had actually studied his subject and read up on juggling. Did that mean he could read English? ‘Yes,’ Harun replied. ‘I went to school, you know. I studied up to class VIII. I am from Chandan Nagore. My father ran a shop—he sold cloth and fabrics. One day, I heard that there was going to be a fair in the next town, and someone was going to hold a magic show. So I went, and saw juggling for the first time in my life. I couldn’t believe it. It was so wonderful. I stayed away for two days. When I got back, my father demonstrated some juggling of his own. Have you ever seen the huge scissors that are used to cut cloth from a bale? Well, he used those and here’s the result.’
