by Satyajit Ray
Harun was surprised. ‘The newspaper?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘I don’t know what a newspaper has to do with this, but his memory came back last night. When he told me everything it was late and still raining pretty heavily. So I decided to wait until this morning. Now I have brought him back to you, and my duty is over. There’s just one thing I ought to mention before I go. There is a swelling on his head, which causes him pain at times. You may wish to consult a doctor. Goodbye, sir. Hey, Fotik, I am going. Goodbye!’
Harun left. Bablu continued to stand in the corridor, trying to grasp what had just happened. Before he could do so, his father called him back. ‘Bablu, come here for a minute.’
He went back to the room and moved closer to his father. Mr Sanyal stretched out an arm. ‘Where is it swollen?’ Bablu showed him. Harun was right. The swelling had subsided, but was not gone completely. Mr Sanyal did not touch the spot, in case it hurt.
‘Did you have a hard time?’ he asked his son.
Bablu shook his head, indicating that there had been no problems.
‘Very well. Now go upstairs. Tell Harinath to give you a hot bath. I will get Dr Bose to examine you today. If he says everything is all right, you can start going to school from tomorrow. But from now on, you will go everywhere by car. Go on, go and find Harinath.’ Bablu left. Mr Sanyal pushed aside the great pile of newspapers on his table and said, ‘A tea shop! Pooh!’ Rajani Babu had returned some time ago. Mr Sanyal turned to him. ‘Can you imagine? My son worked in a tea shop!’
Rajani Babu could think of only one thing, although he did not dare mention it to his employer. The man who had brought Bablu back had obviously not seen the offer of five thousand rupees. Mr Sanyal had simply taken advantage of his ignorance and done nothing to pay him even a single paisa. It was hardly the right thing to do.
About an hour later, Inspector Chand called. ‘Did anyone contact you, sir, after seeing your advertisement?’ he asked anxiously. When he heard Mr Sanyal’s reply, he was astounded. ‘This is excellent news, sir, but really, it’s all quite incredible. There are times when no solution seems to present itself and then something comes up as if by magic. Your son has been found, and those two culprits have been arrested.’
‘What! How did that happen?’
‘We received an anonymous call, from a man. He told us where the two were hiding. So we went and picked them up. They were still sleeping. But it did not take them long to wake up when they were brought to the police station. They’ve now made a full confession.’
The inspector rang off. Within ten minutes, Mr Sanyal was immersed in his work. The whole business of his son’s disappearance was wiped out of his mind.
When Bablu went upstairs and found his grandmother, all she could do was hold him close and stroke his head, touching repeatedly the very spot where it hurt the most. ‘Thank God! Oh, thank God, my precious. We’ve got you back, my darling. God is very kind.’ She soon rushed back to her prayer room, to offer her thanks yet again. Bablu realized afresh that although his grandmother lived in this house, her mind roamed in a different world.
Preetin left for Kharagpur at two o’clock. Before going, he said, ‘I can’t believe it. You were in Kharagpur, roaming in the streets, unable to remember either Baba’s name or your own and there I was, only a mile away and yet I was clueless. If I could get my hands on those scoundrels . . . one karate chop would have finished them. Anyway, I am going to leave you with some homework. Why don’t you write everything down? I mean, now that you can remember what happened, I think you should write a complete account. You are quite good at writing essays, aren’t you? Write it up and I will read it on my next visit.’
Left on his own, Bablu felt at a loose end. There was nothing for him to do, or look at. He knew every room, every corridor, every nook and corner of this house. In his own room, there was a damp patch high on the wall that looked a little like the map of Africa. Today, he glanced at it curiously and saw that it had spread somewhat, and now looked like North America.
Dr Bose arrived an hour later. He was plump and cheerful. A smile always seemed to be lurking on his face, even when there was no cause for amusement. Once, Bablu’s temperature had shot up to 104 degrees. Even then, when Dr Bose came, he appeared to be smiling. Preetin had told Bablu later that it was simply the structure of Dr Bose’s face and his facial muscles that had given him a permanent smile.
Today, Harinath came with him, carrying his bag. Rajani Babu was also there, and Grandma was peering from behind the curtain. His father was still at court. The doctor beamed at Bablu and said, ‘Do you know how much you are worth? If there were five of you, you would be the same price as a new Ambassador.’
At first, Bablu failed to get his meaning. Slowly understanding dawned when the doctor finished his examination, patted his back and turned to Rajani Babu. ‘Who is the lucky guy?’ he asked. ‘Five thousand rupees is no joke, is it?’ At this, Rajani Babu shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat and said, ‘Well, yes . . . a man brought him back. But . . . er . . . I didn’t catch his name.’ Dr Bose sensed immediately that there was something wrong, and asked no further questions. ‘All right, Bablu, I will come back another time and hear the whole story from you,’ he said and took his leave. Rajani Babu and Harinath went with him.
Bablu slowly realized that his father had deceived Harun. Bablu did not read a newspaper every day, but he had read them often enough in the past to know that, in addition to the sports page and information on films and film stars, they sometimes carried advertisements and notices regarding missing people. Cash awards were offered to track them down. Had his father done something similar?
He went downstairs again. All the newspapers were kept in his father’s office. It took him only a few minutes to realize that as many as ten papers in five different languages were carrying his picture. It was the one Preetin had taken of him in Darjeeling. Five thousand rupees had been offered to anyone who could bring news of Nikhil Sanyal, age twelve, pet name Bablu.
Harun had not seen this advertisement, so he had not bothered to wait for the payment. But he deserved to be paid. Bablu’s father had done something very wrong by not giving him what was rightfully his.
This made Bablu feel so depressed that he had to go out into the garden and sit quietly under the guava tree. He did not feel like talking to anyone. How could his father do this? With five thousand rupees in his pocket, Harun could have bought many more things to add to his show; he could have moved to a better place, found a bigger room. He would not have had to worry about money for a long time. He could have just enjoyed himself.
Perhaps he had seen that notice by now. What would he be thinking?
Bablu returned to the house. Here was their drawing room. It was huge, filled with sofas, chairs, tables, pictures, statues and vases. Everything looked drab, there was no colour anywhere that might lift one’s spirits. The covers on the sofas were dirty. No one had changed them for a long time. Had his sister been around, she might have noticed those covers and had them cleaned. There was no one left now to worry about such things.
Bablu sat alone on a sofa for quite some time. The clock on the wall struck four. Duke barked from the house next door. Perhaps he had seen another dog outside in the street. Harun had called him a stray dog. In his present frame of mind, even being a stray appeared to be a better option to Bablu.
12
At four-thirty, Harinath came down with a cup of tea in his hand, and discovered that Bablu was not at home. This did not worry him unduly; he assumed that Bablu had gone to see his friend who lived only three houses away. No doubt he had many things to tell his friend. He would soon be back.
Harinath was right in thinking that Bablu had gone to look for his friend. But it was not the friend who lived nearby. He had given their chowkidar the slip, and sneaked out of the house by climbing over the wall behind their garden. Then he went down Loudon Street, Park Street, Lower Circular Road, and finally found CIT Road. He had to ask a number
of people before he could find that bridge. Then he went down the steps, and a little later, saw a tube well where a lot of women were filling their buckets. He remembered having seen that tube well before. Harun’s room could not be far from here. Only a second later, however, he ran into some of the local boys who recognized him. ‘Are you looking for Harun? He’s gone!’ they said.
Gone? Bablu’s heart sank. He could not speak for several seconds. ‘Where has he gone?’ he finally managed. This time, an old man in a lungi emerged from an equally old house, crumbling with age. ‘You want Harun? He’s gone to catch a train to Madras. A circus company there wants him.’
Bablu realized he would have to go to Howrah Station. But how was he going to get there? ‘You’ll need bus number ten,’ said one of the boys. Then they took him back to the main road, on the other side of the railway line, and showed him where the bus stop was.
The money Upen Babu had paid him as advance was still in his pocket. He had not spent any of it. Now it came in handy to pay for his bus ticket to Howrah, and to buy a platform ticket at the station.
What if Harun’s train had left already?
‘Where’s the train to Madras? Which platform? Please, someone help me!’ Bablu cried, his heart thudding fast.
‘Madras? Platform number seven,’ answered a voice. ‘Look, there it is!’
The train was so long that it covered the entire length of the platform. It appeared to be taking a deep breath before starting its long journey. Dusk had just started to fall. Bablu pushed his way forward, still panting and looking around wildly. This was a third class compartment . . . and another . . . and another . . . and now it said first class . . . where on earth could he find Harun? Bablu kept going, dodging coolies with heavy luggage, jumping over trunks and suitcases, pushing aside people who blocked his way. Then he came to a tea stall and stopped abruptly.
A lot of people were gathered round the stall. Bablu could see three empty teacups rise above their heads, go down and rise again. Everyone was laughing and clapping.
There were a few minutes left before the train’s departure. So Harun was holding a little show. Bablu made his way through the crowd, and stood facing him.
‘You! What are you doing here?’ asked Harun, raising his voice, for his audience was still cheering loudly. Then he returned the cups to the owner of the stall, and turned back to Bablu.
‘Did you go to that slum? And they told you I had gone?’ Bablu did not reply. Harun went on speaking. ‘Remember that letter from Venkatesh I told you about? Well, I thought things over and decided it would be foolish to miss this chance. They want me to ride a monocycle, and juggle with various objects, with a blindfold on. I need to practise for at least a month. So I had to leave immediately.’
Bablu opened his mouth to tell him about the money he could claim, then thought better of it. Harun had found a new opportunity. Perhaps now he was going to earn a lot more. He seemed cheerful enough. What if a mention of the five thousand rupees caused him grief and disappointment? But what about his own sadness? Should he tell Harun about it? As it turned out, he did not have to. One look at his face told Harun everything.
‘You don’t like being back home, do you?’ he asked. ‘No, Harun-da.’
‘Fotik keeps coming back, doesn’t he? And he says, how nice it would be if you could stay on at the tea shop. You could meet so many people, and you wouldn’t have to go to school. And then Harun-da would have taken you to his shows, and both of you could have roamed the streets together. Isn’t that what young Fotik has been telling you?’
Harun was absolutely right. Bablu nodded.
‘Pay no attention to Fotik,’ Harun said firmly. ‘If you do not tell him to shut up, he won’t let you finish your studies. And that would be a disaster. You cannot imagine how deeply I have regretted not having finished school, or studying further.’
‘But how does it matter? You are so gifted. You are an artist.’
‘There are different kinds of artists, dear boy. You don’t necessarily have to be a juggler. You can stay in your beautiful home, receive a good education, and still be an artist. Art does not begin and end with wooden balls, don’t you see? You can play with words, or colour, or music, there are endless possibilities, believe me. When you are older, you will realize which is best for you, you will then develop your own style, and you will know when to . . .’
The guard’s whistle rang out, drowning out Harun’s remaining words. Bablu could no longer contain himself. He had to tell Harun, he must. So he shouted, interrupting what Harun was still trying to tell him, and said, ‘Baba did not pay you the money you deserved, Harun-da! Five thousand rupees. Aren’t you going to claim it?’
By this time, Harun had climbed into his coach, but he stopped for a second at the door. Then he turned back and grinned. ‘What did they do to your photo?’ he asked, leaning forward. ‘You looked like a goblin!’
Harun-da knew! He had seen the papers.
The driver blew the whistle this time. Harun went into his compartment but Bablu could still speak to him through a window. ‘Tell your father,’ Harun said, ‘that I would not normally refuse an offer of five thousand rupees. But . . . in the last few days, I have come to look upon you as a brother. Tell me, can anyone sell his brother?’
The train started. Bablu could not think straight. But he could still hear Harun’s voice:
‘The Great Diamond Circus . . . don’t forget the name. When it comes to Calcutta, you must go and see the blind juggler on a cycle!’
‘You . . . you will come back here?’
Bablu was now running on the platform, trying to keep pace with the moving train. He would have to give up soon.
‘Of course,’ Harun replied. ‘I will have to. No other city in the whole country appreciates a circus as much as Calcutta does. I will be back, never fear.’
Harun was waving.
He was moving further and further away.
Then he slowly disappeared. The train pulled out of the platform.
There it was—a round, green light. It was called a signal. Bablu could now remember the word easily enough. It meant the line was clear.
He wiped his tears on his sleeve, slowly moving toward the exit. In his pocket were two wooden balls. And in his heart was a man. He would cherish his memories always; he knew that in future this man would help him in whatever he did.
The name of the man was Fotikchandra Pal.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1975
Ashamanja Babu’s Dog
On a visit to a friend in Hashimara, Ashamanja Babu was able to fulfil one of his long-cherished desires.
Ashamanja Babu lived in a small flat on Mohini Mohan Road in Bhowanipore. A clerk in the registry department of Lajpat Rai Post Office, Ashamanja Babu was fortunate as he could walk to his office in seven minutes flat without having to fight his way into the buses and trains of Calcutta. He lived a rather carefree life as he was not the kind of person to sit and brood about what might have been had Fate been kinder to him. On the whole, he was quite content with his lot. Two Hindi films and a dozen packets of cigarettes a month, and fish twice a week—these were enough to keep him happy. The only thing that perturbed him at times was his lack of companionship. A bachelor with few friends and relatives, he often wished he had a dog to keep him company. It need not be a huge Alsatian like the one owned by the Talukdars, who lived two houses down the lane, it could be any ordinary little dog which would follow him around morning and evening, wag its tail when he came home from work and obey his orders with alacrity. Ashamanja Babu’s secret desires were that he would speak to his dog in English. ‘Stand up’, ‘Sit down’, ‘Shake hands’—how nice it would be if his dog obeyed such commands! Ashamanja Babu liked to believe that dogs belonged to the English race. Yes, an English dog, and he would be its master. That would make him really happy.
On a cloudy day marked by a steady drizzle, Ashamanja Babu went to the mark
et in Hashimara to buy some oranges. At one end of the market, beside a stunted kul tree, sat a Bhutanese holding a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. As their eyes met, the man smiled. Was he a beggar? His clothes made him look like one. Ashamanja Babu noticed at least five sewn-on patches on his trousers and jacket. But the man didn’t have a begging bowl. Instead, by his side was a shoe-box with a little pup sticking its head out of it.
‘Good morning!’ said the man in English, his eyes reduced to slits as he smiled. Ashamanja Babu was obliged to return the greeting.
‘Buy dog? Dog buy? Very good dog.’ The man had taken the pup out of the box and had put it down on the ground. ‘Very cheap. Very good. Happy dog.’
The pup shook the raindrops off its coat, looked at Ashamanja Babu and wagged its minuscule two-inch tail. Ashamanja Babu moved closer to the pup, crouched on the ground and stretched out his hand. The pup gave his ring finger a lick with its pink tongue. Nice, friendly dog.
‘How much? What price?’
‘Ten rupees.’
A little haggling, and the price came down to seven-fifty. Ashamanja Babu paid the money, put the pup back in the shoe-box, closed the lid to save it from the drizzle, and turned homewards, forgetting all about the oranges.
Biren Babu, who worked in the Hashimara State Bank, had no idea about his friend’s wish to own a dog. He was naturally surprised and a bit alarmed to see what the shoe-box contained. But when he heard the price, he heaved a sigh of relief. He said in a tone of mild reprimand, ‘Why come all the way to Hashimara to buy a mongrel? You could easily have bought one in Bhowanipore.’
That was not true; Ashamanja Babu knew it. He had often seen mongrel pups in the streets in his neighbourhood. None of them had ever wagged its tail at him or licked his fingers. Whatever Biren might say, this dog was something special. But the fact that the pup was a mongrel was something of a disappointment to Ashamanja Babu too, and he said so. Biren Babu’s retort came sharp and quick. ‘But do you know what it means to keep a pedigree dog as a pet? The vet’s fees alone would cost you half a month’s salary. With this dog you have no worries. You don’t even need to give it a special diet. He’ll eat what you eat. But don’t give him fish. Fish is for cats; dogs have trouble with fish-bones.’
