by Satyajit Ray
There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Slow, measured steps.
Almost unconsciously, Phoni Babu began counting. When the other man reached the forty-ninth step, Phoni Babu began to feel convinced that it was indeed the owner of this flat who was coming up the stairs. And, in a flash, he remembered something else: he knew the owner!
Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He had once shared the same taxi with him right up to Dalhousie Square. The man had introduced himself as Adinath Sanyal. He was about fifty years of age. He had a stern demeanour, a fair complexion, and he was clad in a fine cotton kurta—greenish eyes below thick, bushy eyebrows.
Sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four . . . the footsteps were getting louder.
There were fresh noises inside the room. Someone scurried across the floor and then came a faint ‘Ouch!’ Perhaps a piece of broken glass had cut into the thief’s foot? Serve him right! The faint patch of light visible in the sky was covered for an instant and then it reappeared. The thief had turned to the right. He had no choice but to jump out of the window and go down the pipe.
The footsteps were now outside on the veranda. Phoni Babu rose, and walked towards the door, taking great care not to step on the shards of glass. Then he picked up his umbrella and went into the living room.
The footsteps stopped just outside the front door. Then, after a few moments of silence, came an explosion, ‘What! Why is the door . . .?’
The unmistakable raucous voice of Adinath Sanyal. He had talked quite a lot in the taxi.
There were other things about him that Phoni Babu could now recollect. His own next door neighbour, Naresh Biswas, had once told him that Adinath Sanyal had pots of money stacked away somewhere. Apparently, he owned three houses in Calcutta. All were rented out and he himself lived in these two rooms. The way he earned his living was reportedly not a straightforward one. The drawers of his table and the shelves of his cupboard were supposed to be filled with black money . . .
Mr Sanyal had now gone into the bedroom, breathing heavily and walking all over the broken glass, in the hope of catching the thief red- handed.
Phoni Babu had nothing to fear now. He slipped out of the front door that was still open, and silently went down the seventy-two steps that he had climbed only a few minutes ago. Then he made his way to number 17/2.
As he climbed up the steps of his own house and came to the spot where the empty cage hung, the lights came back. Much relieved, Phoni Babu looked down and found himself clutching a brand-new, fashionable, Japanese umbrella.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1978
The Class Friend
It was a quarter past nine in the morning. Mohit Sarkar had just placed his tie round his neck, when his wife entered the room and said, ‘Someone’s on the phone, asking for you.’
‘Who could it be at this time?’
Mohit Sarkar was used to reaching his office on the dot of nine- thirty. A frown appeared between his brows on being told he had to take a phone call just as he was about to leave.
‘He says he was in school with you,’ his wife told him. ‘In school? Just imagine! Did he give his name?’
‘Joy. He said that’s all you needed to be told, and you’d know who it was.’
Mohit Sarkar had left school thirty years ago. There had been about forty boys in his class. If he thought very carefully, he might be able to recall the names of twenty of those boys, possibly even their faces. Luckily, he could remember Joy—or Joydev—quite clearly, for Joy had been one of the brightest students in his class. He was a handsome young boy, did well in his studies, was good at the high jump, knew a few card tricks, and had once won a medal in a recitation competition. He had recited ‘Casablanca’. Mohit Sarkar had never seen him after leaving school. He realized now that it was giving him no great pleasure to learn that an old classmate had called him after so many years.
But he had to pick up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Who, is that you, Mohit? Can you recognize me? It’s Joy, Joydev Bose. Ballygunj School, remember?’
‘I cannot recognize your voice. But I remember your face. What can I do for you?’
‘You are a big officer now. I am flattered that you remember my name!’
‘Never mind all that. What made you call me?’
‘Er . . . I need to talk to you. In person, I mean. Could we meet?’
‘When?’
‘Whenever it’s convenient for you. But if it was sooner rather than later, I’d be . . .’
‘Very well, let’s meet this evening. I’m usually back by six o’clock.
Could you come to my house at seven?’
‘Certainly. Thank you very much. I’ll see you later.’ Mohit Sarkar left in the light blue Standard that he had recently bought. On the way to his office, he tried to remember a few things about his school days. Those were such happy days, despite the stern look in the eyes of Girin Sur, their headmaster with a bad temper. Mohit himself had been a good student. Shankar, Mohit and Joydev—these three boys always vied with one another for the top three positions in their class. Mohit and Joydev became close friends from class six, and studied together in the same class until they left school. At times, they sat next to each other on the same bench. Even when it came to playing football, they found themselves next to each other. Mohit played right- in, and Joydev right-out. At the time, Mohit thought their friendship would last for ever. But they lost touch as soon as they passed out of school.
Mohit’s father was wealthy, and a well-known barrister in Calcutta. He got into a good college, and found a well-paid job in a merchant firm within two years of finishing his graduation. Joydev left Calcutta after school and moved to a different town, for his father had a transferable job. Only a short time after his departure, Mohit was surprised to find that he was not missing Joydev any more. He had made new friends who had taken Joy’s place.
Eventually, his friends in college were replaced by another set, when he started working. Today, Mohit was one of the four seniormost officers in his company; and his closest friend was one of his colleagues. The only friend from school he saw occasionally at his club was Pragyan Sengupta, who also had a good job in a reputed firm. Strangely enough, Pragyan did not feature anywhere in his memories of school. It was Joydev who featured prominently. The same Joydev, who he had not seen in the last thirty years.
Mohit’s office was in Central Avenue. As his car approached the junction where Chowringhee met Suren Banerjee Road, the noise of the traffic broke his reverie and pulled him sharply back to reality. A glance at his watch told him that today he was going to be delayed by three minutes.
When he finished work and returned to his flat in Lee Road in the evening, all thoughts of Ballygunj Government School had disappeared from his mind. To tell the truth, he had forgotten all about Joydev’s phone call, and was reminded only when his bearer, Bipin, brought him a folded piece of ruled paper in his sitting room. The paper had been torn out of an exercise book. ‘Joydev Bose, as per appointment’, it said.
Mohit switched off the BBC news bulletin he had been listening to on the radio, and said to Bipin, ‘Ask him to come in.’ It suddenly dawned upon him that he should have got some snacks for Joy. After all, he was going to visit him after so many years. Mohit could easily have stopped at Park Street on the way back from his office and bought a cake or something, but he had just not thought about it. Would his wife have arranged something to eat, without being told?
‘Remember me?’
The feeling that rose in Mohit Sarkar’s mind on hearing the voice, and then beholding its owner, was similar to the feeling one might get if one had finished climbing a flight of stairs, and then taken an extra step, thinking there was one more to go.
The man who had crossed the threshold and entered the room was wearing grey, absurdly loose cotton trousers, and a cheap printed bush shirt, neither of which seemed to have ever seen an iron. The face that stared
back at him bore no resemblance at all to the face of Joydev Bose that Mohit Sarkar remembered. This man’s eyes were sunken, his skin badly sunburnt, his cheeks hollow. The heavy salt and pepper stubble on his chin was at least three days old, and the top of his head was bald. The few remaining strands of hair around his ears were long and unkempt. Since he had asked the question with a smile, Mohit had caught a glimpse of his teeth, and thought immediately that if someone had such awful teeth, worn and stained by years of chewing paan, then he should never smile without covering his mouth.
‘I’ve changed a lot, haven’t I?’
‘Sit down.’
Mohit had risen to his feet. He sat down again when his visitor had taken a seat. Mohit had a few old photographs taken when he was in school. If anyone were to compare the face of Mohit at the age of fourteen with the present Mohit Sarkar, they would not find it too difficult to spot some similarities. Why, then, was it so difficult to find anything of his old friend in this man? Could a person’s appearance change so completely in thirty years?
‘You have not changed all that much,’ the visitor went on speaking, ‘If I saw you in the street, I’d have recognized you easily enough. The thing is, you see, I have suffered a lot. My father died before I could leave college. So I had to forget about my studies, and look for a job. I needn’t tell you how difficult it is to find a good job without knowing anyone in the right places, and without a bit of luck. I mean, for an ordinary . . .’
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Tea? Why, yes, thank you.’
Mohit called Bipin and told him to bring two cups of tea. Thank goodness he had not bothered to get cakes or anything fancy. For this man, a plate of biscuits should be enough.
‘You cannot imagine,’ the man was still speaking, ‘how many times I thought today of our days together!’ Mohit refrained from admitting that he, too, had spent considerable time reminiscing.
‘Do you remember LCM and GCM?’ the visitor asked. Mohit had forgotten, but now it came back in a flash. LCM was their PT teacher, Lal Chand Mukherjee; and their maths teacher, Gopen Mitter, was known as GCM.
‘Do you remember who made us stand side by side behind the water tank, and took a photo with his box camera?’
Mohit’s lips spread in a slight smile to indicate that he did remember. Everything this man was saying had really happened. It was all true. If he was not the real Joydev, how did he know all these things?
‘Those five years in school that we spent together were the best time of my life. Those days will never come back. I don’t think I could ever be so happy again,’ the visitor remarked.
This time, Mohit could not help asking a question: ‘As far as I remember, you were the same age as me—’
‘Yes, I was younger than you by only three months.’ ‘—In that case, why do you look so much older? What happened to all your hair?’
‘Struggle,’ the man replied. ‘I’ve had to struggle so hard. Mind you, there’s a history of baldness in my family. My father and grandfather both became bald by the time they were thirty-five. So it’s not surprising that I lost my hair. If my cheeks look hollow, it’s because of a lack of proper diet, and gruelling hard work. I’ve never had a desk job, not like you. For seven years, I worked in a factory; then became a medical salesman, then an insurance agent . . . then an agent for various other things. I’ve never been lucky enough to find a single steady job. Like a shuttlecock I’ve been thrown around in different directions. So my health suffered . . . that’s not surprising, is it?’
Bipin brought the tea, accompanied by samosas and sweets. Mohit’s wife was a thoughtful woman. How she might react if she saw this character who was supposed to be his class friend, Mohit could not imagine.
‘Won’t you have any?’
Mohit shook his head. ‘No, I’ve just eaten.’
‘Just one sweet?’
‘No, thanks. You eat whatever you want.’
The man picked up a samosa and took a bite. ‘My son,’ he said, chewing, ‘is soon going to have his exams. But I don’t even have enough money to pay his exam fees.’
There was no need to hear any more. Mohit had fully grasped the purpose of this visit. In fact, it should have occurred to him before. All his visitor wanted to do was ask for financial assistance. How much would he ask for? If it was no more than ten or twenty, perhaps it would be wise to pay it quietly. If he didn’t, where was the guarantee that the man would stop bothering him?
‘My son’s a bright lad, you know. I hate to think he might have to give up his studies just because I can’t find the money. I worry about it so much that at times I cannot sleep at night.’ The second samosa also disappeared from the plate. Mohit looked steadily at his visitor, taking every chance he could get to compare his face with that of the young Joydev he had once known. With every passing minute, he began to feel increasingly convinced that this middle-aged man had nothing whatever to do with that adolescent boy.
‘. . . So I was wondering,’ the visitor concluded, slurping his tea, ‘if you could help an old friend out. A hundred, or a hundred and fifty, would be much—’
‘Very sorry.’
‘What?’
By now, Mohit had decided not to pay a single paisa. But perhaps he need not have been quite so brusque. Somewhat embarrassed, he made himself speak more gently.
‘I am sorry. I mean, the problem is that I don’t have ready cash at the moment.’
‘Then I’ll come back tomorrow. Or whenever you say, any time.’
‘I have to go out of town tomorrow, for about three days. You can come on Sunday.’
‘Sunday?’ The man sounded a little disappointed. But Mohit’s mind was made up. There was no evidence that this man was the real Joy. A large number of people in Calcutta made a living out of fraud and deception. What if this man was one of them? It could be that he knew the real Joydev. Was it so difficult to speak to someone’s old classmate and learn a few things about their school life?
‘When should I come on Sunday?’
‘In the morning. That would suit me better. Say, between nine and nine-thirty?’
The coming Friday was a holiday. His office would be closed for Id. Mohit had already made plans to go out with his wife, to spend the whole weekend with a friend. They would not be back until Sunday night. So, if this man came in the morning on Sunday, Mohit would not be home.
If Mohit were able to refuse outright to part with his money, this act of deception would have been unnecessary. But he was one of those people who could not be openly rude. If this man returned yet again, even after Sunday, Mohit would find another excuse to avoid him. Hopefully, he would take the hint after that, and never bother him again.
His visitor finished his tea and put the cup down. Almost in the same instant, another man entered the room. It was Banikanto Sen, a close friend of Mohit. Two other men were expected. When they arrived, the four of them would sit down with a pack of cards. They did this every evening.
Banikanto cast a suspicious look at the visitor, which Mohit did not fail to notice. He made no attempt to introduce the two men to each other.
‘Well, I guess I had better be off,’ the visitor stood up. ‘I’ll really be grateful if you can do this for me, my dear friend. Truly grateful.’
As soon as he was out of the room, Banikanto glanced at Mohit, frowning. ‘Who was that man?’ he asked. ‘He called you “my dear friend”!’
‘Yes. That was for your benefit, I think, to show how well he knew me.’
‘Who is he?’
Instead of giving him a reply, Mohit Sarkar went to a bookshelf and picked up an old photo album. Then he opened a particular page and showed it to Banikanto.
‘A group photo? Was this taken at your school?’ Banikanto wanted to know.
‘No, the Botanical Garden. We had gone there for a picnic.’ ‘Who are these five boys?’
‘Can’t you recognize me?’
‘Wait, let me see.’
; Banikanto picked up the album and held it closer to his eyes. He had no difficulty in recognizing his friend.
‘Now look at the boy on my right,’ Mohit said. Banikanto peered closer at the photo. ‘All right, I’ve looked,’ he said. ‘That boy and the man who just left are the same.’
‘Tell me, had this boy started gambling even before he had left school?’ Banikanto asked, snapping the album shut and throwing it on a sofa. ‘I have seen that man at the races at least thirty times.’
‘I am not surprised,’ Mohit replied, and explained briefly what had happened.
‘Inform the police,’ Banikanto advised him. ‘This city has become a depot for cheats and crooks. That boy in the photo and that gambler who’s been visiting you can never be the same. It’s impossible!’
Mohit smiled. ‘He’ll go away, I think, when he comes back on Sunday and finds that I’m out. I don’t expect him to cause any more trouble.’
Mohit Sarkar and his wife spent a very pleasant weekend with his friend in a place called Baruipur. The friend owned a farm, so they had fresh fish, fresh eggs from his poultry, and mangoes, coconuts and guavas from his orchard. The afternoons were spent in the shade of a bokul tree, sitting or lying on a durrie, leaning against soft cushions, and playing cards. Much refreshed, both physically and mentally, they returned home at around eleven on Sunday evening. Bipin told him that the gentleman who had visited a few days earlier had come again that morning.
‘Did he say anything before he left?’
‘No, sir.’
Good. What a relief. The subterfuge had worked, it seemed. But no. If it had worked, it was only for that day. The following morning at eight o’clock Bipin found his master reading the morning newspaper in his sitting room, and handed him another folded piece of paper. Mohit unfolded it and saw that it was a short letter. It said:
Dear Mohit,
I have sprained my right foot, so I am sending my son to you. If you can give him whatever little you can spare, it will help me enormously. I hope you will not disappoint me.
Yours ever, Joy.
