by Satyajit Ray
Harun lifted his shirt and showed Fotik a deep scar on his back. ‘The wound took three weeks to heal,’ he went on. ‘I waited until I was better. Then, one day, I found the chance to make my escape. I left home, without telling a soul, with eleven rupees in my pocket, and a small bundle slung over my shoulder. Oh, and I also took a couple of wooden balls that I had bought at the fair, to practise juggling.
‘I got into a train without bothering to buy a ticket, without even asking where it was going. Over the next three days, I changed trains three times, and lived on just tea and biscuits. Then, one morning, I peered out of the window of my train, and could see the Taj Mahal. I got off at the next station. I roamed in the city all day, and finally ended up at the fort. There was an open area behind the fort, beyond which was the river Jamuna, and across it, I saw the Taj again. Then I happened to glance in the opposite direction. On the grassy area below the fort, a number of little shows were being held. There were snake charmers and a man with a bear. And in the middle of it all, sat Asadullah. His eyes were blindfolded, but he was juggling with remarkable ease. I was so impressed that I got emotional. It almost brought tears to my eyes. How could an ordinary man have such power?’
‘Who else was watching him?’ Fotik asked.
‘A lot of people, from a balcony in the fort. There were English men and women. Some of them were rolling crisp notes—five or ten-rupee notes—and throwing them down, some at the dancing bear, some at the snake charmers, and others at the juggler. In fact, most of them seemed interested in the juggler. Suddenly, one of those sahibs—obviously a somewhat dim-witted man—threw a note without rolling it first. He meant it for the juggler, but a sudden gust of wind blew it away, and it landed straight in the snake charmer’s basket. A cobra sat in it, with a raised hood. The juggler had removed his blindfold by then. The sahib on the balcony began shouting, but I shot forward like a bullet and picked up that note in one swoop, before the snake could move. Then I thrust it into the juggler’s hands.
‘The man said, “Shabaash beta, jeete raho” (well done, son, may you live long). I knew no Hindi at the time, so I could not tell him what I wanted. All I could do was take out the two wooden balls that I had bought before leaving home, and showed them to him. In the last few weeks, I had started to practise juggling. So I also showed him what I had learnt. He smiled, and from that day, I became his pupil. I stayed with him until the day he died. After his death, I’ve been on my own and shown everything he taught me—except juggling with a blindfold on. Today, that is exactly what I am going to try.’
All the children from the slum were waiting outside. Harun emerged from his room with his bag, with Fotik behind him. They turned left, walking past a number of other rooms, each like Harun’s. Then they came to an open space. There was a small pond in one end, across which stood the compound wall of a factory. Harun found a relatively clear spot and spread a durrie. He sat down on it, surrounded by the children, and took out a silk handkerchief from his bag. It was yellow with black dots on it. He passed it to Fotik and said, ‘Tie it around my eyes. Make it tight, so it doesn’t slip off.’ Fotik did as he was told, then stepped back and joined the other children.
Harun folded his hands and saluted his ustad three times. Then he began his act with two brass balls at first, quickly adding a third, and continued with such dexterity and skill that it left Fotik totally speechless. If every memory from his mind was wiped out permanently, leaving only the memory of what he had just witnessed, he felt he could live quite happily for the rest of his life. But Harun did not stop there. He put the balls away, and without taking the blindfold off, took out three knives from his bag. Their blades glittered in the sun, catching reflections of the sky, the trees, the houses and everything else.
A second later, those shiny blades began dancing in Harun’s hands. Time and time again, the air was sliced by those knives, but not once did any one of them strike against the other; nor did they damage Harun’s hands in any way.
When he finished, the applause that greeted him was deafening. Fotik stepped forward to take the blindfold off, but couldn’t. His hands were trembling so much that he failed to untie the knot. Harun realized this, laughed and took it off himself. Then he replaced the knives in his bag and turned to his audience. ‘That’s all for now, children. You can go back home,’ he said. The children disappeared.
Fotik looked at Harun. For some odd reason, he thought Harun was not looking as happy as he should. What was on his mind? Was he sad because all this had reminded him of his days with his ustad?
No. Harun told him the real reason only when they were safely back in his room. ‘I saw two men,’ he said. ‘They were standing at a distance, looking at you. My eyes fell on them just as I took that handkerchief off. They don’t live here, I don’t think I’ve seen them before. But I did not like the way they were staring at you.’
Immediately, Fotik was reminded of what had happened earlier in the tea shop. His heart gave a jump. ‘Was one of them thin, and the other quite strong?’ he asked.
‘Yes, yes. So you saw them, too?’
‘No, not now. But I saw them this afternoon. They came to the shop.’ As he explained quickly Harun’s face grew grave. ‘Did that hefty looking man have a lot of hair around his ears?’ he asked.
Yes! Now that Harun had mentioned it, Fotik remembered clearly. It was, in fact, the man’s hairy ears that had first drawn his attention. ‘It must be Shyamlal,’ Harun said through clenched teeth. ‘His body may be hefty, but he is bow-legged. I did notice the shape of his legs, and that’s what made me suspicious. He used to have a beard, but he’s shaved it off now. Pity he didn’t think of getting rid of the hair around his ears. I used to go to a tea shop in Chitpur, a few years ago. That’s where I saw him first. He used to drop in with three other men. The four of them . . .’ Harun broke off. Fotik saw him frown. ‘Didn’t you say two men were found dead in the car in the forest?’ he asked.
Fotik nodded. Harun’s face looked even more grim. ‘Then what I feared is true. Your father must be quite wealthy.’
A mention of his father or family made no impact on Fotik’s mind. So he remained silent. Harun got up and moved closer to a window. He peered out for a second and said, ‘They’re still here. I saw one of them light a cigarette.’
Harun sat down again. Fotik had never seen him look so serious. ‘Are you worried about my going back to the shop?’ he asked.
‘No, not really. I could take you back a different way. If we go through that room opposite, we’d be able to find a back alley. Those men will never know that we’ve slipped out. As far as I can see, they are not that familiar with this area. They simply followed you here today. No, I am not worried about you getting back home tonight. It’s your future that worries me.’
Harun stopped and looked straight at Fotik. ‘Are you sure you still cannot remember anything?’
‘Absolutely. Now I don’t even know what “remembering” means.’
Harun did not reply. He patted Fotik’s knee, then got to his feet. He left the light on in his room when they went out and locked the door. Instead of going back the way they came, the pair of them slipped into a neighbour’s room, and found a different exit.
9
It was the following Sunday. A few people were assembled in barrister Saradindu Sanyal’s large drawing room. It was a big house, built nearly sixty years ago, by the man whose portrait hung on the wall. It was Saradindu’s father, Dwarkanath Sanyal. He, too, had been a barrister, and an even more successful one. It was said that at one time, Dwarkanath’s daily income was a thousand rupees.
Mr Sanyal seemed far more subdued today. The truth was that he was extremely puzzled by the continued silence from his son’s captors. No one had sent him a ransom note. This had made him grow more anxious about his son’s safety. Today, two other men were present, in addition to Mr Sanyal and the inspector. They were Mr Sanyal’s second and third sons, Sudheendra and Preetindra. His eldest son had some
important meeting in Delhi, so he had left two days ago.
It was Sudheendra who was talking. He was in his mid-twenties. His sideburns were long, in keeping with the current trend, and he wore glasses set in a thick, black frame.
‘But loss of memory isn’t that uncommon, Baba,’ he was saying. ‘It’s often written about in foreign magazines. I can’t see why you find that so hard to believe. Surely you have read about amnesia?’
Preetindra was silent. He had been the closest to his missing younger brother, Bablu. It was Preetindra who had taught Bablu how to play cricket, helped him with his maths lessons, and had recently taken him to a circus. After his departure to Kharagpur he did not get to see Bablu that often. But now he was sitting silently, striking his forehead with his palm occasionally, in helpless rage and frustration. It was his belief that, had he been at home, no one could have kidnapped his brother. It was difficult to say why he felt like this, for even if he were still in Calcutta, he could hardly have been with Bablu at the time when he was attacked and taken away.
Bablu was returning from school then. His school being within walking distance, he always walked to and from it, unless it happened to be raining. Normally, his friend Parag went with him. Parag lived in the same neighbourhood. However, on that particular day, Bablu was alone. The school was closed, but a few boys had been asked to go and help with preparations for a fete. Bablu was one of them but Parag was not. So, at about half-past five that evening, Bablu was coming back alone from his school. A blue Ambassador stopped briefly by the road, and a gang of hooligans jumped out of if. They grabbed Bablu and dragged him back to the car with them. An old chowkidar witnessed the whole incident from the house opposite, but was unable to help.
‘If Bablu has lost his memory,’ said Mr Sanyal slowly, ‘then he will not remember anything, or recognize anyone, even if he comes back.’
‘Amnesia can be treated,’ Sudheendra said. ‘People can get help to regain lost memory. You can speak to Dr Bose, if you like. If specialists here cannot do anything, I am sure we can consult someone abroad.’
‘In that case . . .’ began Mr Sanyal. Inspector Chand interrupted him. ‘Please do what I suggest, sir,’ he said. ‘We can safely assume that your son is not with his kidnappers, since they have said and done nothing so far. Besides, if he has lost his memory, he’s not going to come back on his own, is he? So I think your best bet is to place an advertisement, offer a reward, then see what happens. It can’t do any harm, sir.’
‘Have you been able to trace the two men who escaped from that car?’ asked Mr Sanyal.
‘We believe they are still here somewhere in the city. But we haven’t exactly tracked . . . I mean, not yet.’
Mr Sanyal thrust his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown and sighed. ‘Very well. Sudheen, see what you can do about an advertisement tomorrow. Pintu is too young to handle this.’
Sudheendra nodded in agreement. Preetindra, miffed at being labelled too young, shifted uneasily in his chair.
‘How many newspapers are you thinking of?’ Mr Sanyal asked the inspector.
‘At least five. Try all the leading ones in English, Bengali and Hindi. If I were you, I would include a few in Urdu and Gurmukhi. After all, we do not know who your son is with at this moment.’
‘You will need a photograph, won’t you?’
This time, Preetindra opened his mouth. ‘I have a photo of Bablu. I took it last year in Darjeeling.’
‘Make it a big notice, something that people cannot miss,’ said Mr Sanyal. ‘Don’t worry about expenses.’
10
Fotik was excited all day. Harun was going to include the blindfold juggling act for the first time today at the maidan. Ever since that day when they had been followed by those two men, Harun had called at the shop twice a day to check on Fotik. Although they had reached the shop quite safely that evening with no sign of those men, Harun had become extremely cautious. To be honest, even if Shyamlal and his friend had come after them, they could never have kept up with Harun. Fotik was amazed at his ability to weave his way through a maze of alleyways. He seemed to know the streets of Calcutta better than the back of his hand.
Every time Harun saw Fotik, he asked him if those two men had returned. They had not. Fotik could not tell if they lurked outside the shop, for during his working hours he never got the chance to get out of the shop. His speed and efficiency had improved a lot in the last few days. When he first started, his arms used to feel numb by the time he went to bed. That feeling of numbness had gone now.
These days, he practised juggling with two wooden balls before going to sleep. Harun had given them to him. One was red, and the other yellow. Harun had even taught him how to throw them high in the air, and catch them gently as they came down. ‘This art that you are now learning,’ he had said, ‘was in existence in Egypt five thousand years ago. As a matter of fact, it has been in existence not just for five thousand, but for millions and millions of years, ever since this earth came into being.’
This struck Fotik as an exaggeration. But Harun explained, ‘This earth is like a ball, isn’t it? Think of the other planets—Mercury, Mars, Venus, Neptune, Jupiter, Saturn. Each one of them is like a ball, and they are revolving around the sun. And the moon? The moon circles the earth. Yet, not once do any one of these collide with other. Can you imagine? It’s juggling of the highest order. You’ll realize what I mean if you look at the sky at night. Think about it when you practise juggling with your wooden balls.’
Fotik heard all this attentively, but looking at Harun’s face, he could sense that he was still worried about those two men. At times, Fotik even felt that it was something more than just anxiety, although he could not put a name to it. Just occasionally, he noticed Harun’s bright eyes lose their lustre. What could he be thinking of?
Today, however, none of these thoughts occurred to Fotik when he found himself back at Shaheed Minar with Harun. A lot of people were already gathered where Harun had performed the previous Sunday. Fotik recognized some of them instantly. There was that boy with the pockmarked face. One of his eyes was damaged. And there was that dwarf, who had looked like a child from a distance; but a closer look had revealed his beard and moustache, which had startled Fotik. There was also a tall boy in a lungi, whose teeth were large and protruding. They saw Harun and started clapping loudly.
Harun sat down on the grass, then looked quickly at the sky. Fotik knew why he did this. Clouds had started to gather on the western horizon. If it began raining, everything would be spoilt. Please God, don’t let it rain. Please let Harun amaze everyone with his skill, let them see how well he can perform even with his eyes blindfolded. Let him earn more than eighteen rupees and thirty-two paise today. Oh, if only there were sahibs and memsahibs here! Who was going to throw five and ten-rupee notes?
Harun began his show amidst the noise of distant thunder. A little later, he called Fotik closer. A top was still spinning on his palm. ‘Open your hand!’ he said to Fotik. Then he transferred the spinning top on to Fotik’s hand. Fotik felt a slight tickle on his palm and, at the same time, a wave of joy swept over him. Today, he was not just a spectator. He was Harun’s assistant, his pupil!
By this time there was another spinning top in Harun’s hand. He took the first one back from Fotik and, for as long as the two tops remained in motion, juggled with them with as much ease as he did with the balls.
Then he put the tops away, and called Fotik once more. This time, he took out the dotted silk handkerchief. A murmur rose from the crowd as soon as Fotik tied it around his eyes. It was getting dark, but that would not make any difference to Harun. Fotik knew he did not need any light for this particular item. More people had come and joined the crowd. Today, they were definitely going to make more money than the last time.
Harun rummaged in his bag and took out the balls made of brass. There was another clap of thunder—this time, louder and closer—as Harun quietly saluted his ustad and threw the first bal
l in the air. All three balls went round, and passed through Harun’s hands—one, two, three, four times—and then disaster struck. If the sky had fallen down on his head, Fotik would have felt less upset. God knew what went wrong, but as one of the three balls was going up and another coming down, they struck against each other just above Harun’s head, making an ear- splitting noise. Then they flew off in different directions before landing on the grass.
This was bad enough. What was worse was that the same people who had been applauding and cheering so far suddenly turned into monsters and began jeering. Some sneered, others laughed openly, and booed.
That enthusiastic crowd took only a few seconds to disperse. Harun untied the handkerchief himself and began putting everything back in his bag. Fotik bent down to gather the few coins that had been dropped earlier, but Harun forbade him. He then sat on the grass and lit a beedi. Slowly, Fotik walked over to join him. He, too, sat down. He could not bring himself to say anything. Suddenly, everything seemed to have gone quiet. He could hear the traffic in Chowringhee—something he had been totally unaware of even a few minutes ago.
Harun inhaled a couple of times, then threw the beedi away. ‘There’s such a close link between one’s mind and one’s hands, Fotik, that if one is preoccupied, the other won’t work, either. Today, you saw that happen for yourself. I must make better arrangements for you, and until I do so, no more blind juggling.’
This made no sense to Fotik. What arrangements was Harun talking about? Fotik was just fine in Upen Babu’s shop. But Harun was still speaking. ‘. . . Since that day, I’ve been thinking. When I saw Shyamlal, I guessed what had happened. Now I can see their whole plan. They had kidnapped you with the intention of asking your father for a big ransom. They would have kept you hidden somewhere until they got what they wanted. But then the car had an accident. Two of their partners died on the spot. Shyamlal and the fourth man escaped, but when they saw you lying unconscious, they assumed that you were also dead. So they left you and ran away. But, only a few days later, they found you purely by chance in Upen-da’s shop, and realized that they could still make their plan work.
