by Satyajit Ray
In Jagdalpur, permission to shoot the creature was obtained from the conservator of forests, Mr Tirumalai. But he warned that Tulsi Babu and Prodyot Babu would have to go on their own as nobody could be persuaded to go into the forest any more.
Prodyot Babu asked if any information had been received from the shikaris who had preceded them. Tirumalai turned grave. ‘So far four shikaris have attempted to kill the beast. Three of them had no success. The fourth never returned.’
‘Never returned?’
‘No. Ever since then shikaris have been refusing to go. So you had better think twice before undertaking the trip.’
Prodyot Babu was shaken, but his friend’s nonchalance brought back his courage. ‘I think we will go,’ he said.
This time they had to walk a little further because the taxi refused to take the dirt road which went part of the way into the forest. Tulsi Babu was confident that the job would be over in two hours, and the taxi driver agreed to wait that long upon being given a tip of fifty rupees. The two friends set off on their quest.
It was spring now, and the forest wore a different look from the previous trips. Nature was following its course, and yet there was an unnatural silence. There were no bird calls; not even the cries of cuckoos.
As usual, Tulsi Babu was carrying his shoulder bag. Prodyot Babu knew there was a packet in it, but he didn’t know what it contained. Prodyot Babu himself was carrying his rifle and bullets.
As the undergrowth became thinner, they could see farther into the forest. That was why the two friends were able to see from a distance the body of a man lying spreadeagled on the ground behind a jackfruit tree. Tulsi Babu hadn’t noticed it at first, and stopped only when Prodyot Babu pointed it out to him. Prodyot Babu took a firm grip on the gun and walked towards the body. Tulsi Babu went halfway, and then turned back.
‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Tulsi Babu when his friend rejoined him. ‘Isn’t that the missing shikari?’
‘It must be,’ said Prodyot Babu hoarsely. ‘But it won’t be easy to identify the corpse. The head’s missing.’
The rest of the way they didn’t speak at all.
It took one hour to reach the neem tree, which meant they must have walked at least three miles. Prodyot Babu noticed that the medicinal shrub had grown fresh leaves and was back to its old shape.
‘Bill! Billie!’
There was something faintly comic about the call, and Prodyot Babu couldn’t help smiling. But the next moment he realized that for Tulsi Babu the call was quite natural. He had succeeded in taming the monster bird, which Prodyot Babu had seen with his own eyes.
Tulsi Babu’s call resounded in the forest.
‘Bill! Bill! Billie!’
Now Prodyot Babu saw something stirring in the depths of the forest. It was coming towards them, and at such a speed that it seemed to grow bigger and bigger every second.
It was the bird.
The gun in Prodyot Babu’s hand suddenly felt very heavy. He wondered if he would be able to use it at all.
The bird slowed down and approached them stealthily through the vegetation.
Andalgalornis. Prodyot Babu would never forget the name. A bird as tall as a man. Ostriches too were tall; but that was largely because of their neck. This bird’s back itself was as high as an average man. In other words, the bird had grown a foot and a half in just about a month. The colour of its plumes had changed too. There were blotches of black on the purple now. And the malevolent look in its amber eyes which Prodyot Babu found he could confront when the bird was in captivity, was now for him unbearably terrifying. The look was directed at its ex-master.
There was no knowing what the bird would do. Thinking its stillness to be a prelude to an attack, Prodyot Babu made an attempt to raise the gun with his shaking hands. But the moment he did so, the bird turned its gaze at him, its feathers puffing out to give it an even more terrifying appearance.
‘Lower the gun,’ hissed Tulsi Babu in a tone of admonition.
Prodyot Babu obeyed. The bird lowered its feathers too and transferred its gaze to its master.
‘I don’t know if you are still hungry,’ said Tulsi Babu, ‘but I hope you will eat this because I am giving it to you.’
Tulsi Babu had already brought out the packet from the bag. He now unwrapped it and tossed the contents towards the bird. It was a large chunk of meat.
‘You’ve been the cause of my shame. I hope you will behave yourself from now on.’
Amazed, Prodyot Babu watched as the bird picked up the chunk with its huge beak, and put it inside its mouth.
‘This time it really is goodbye.’
Tulsi Babu turned. Prodyot Babu was afraid to turn his back on the bird, and for a while walked backwards with his eyes on the bird. When he found that the bird was making no attempt to follow him or attack him, he too turned round and joined his friend.
A week later the news came out in the papers of the end of the terror in Dandakaranya. Prodyot Babu had not mentioned anything to Tulsi Babu about Andalgalornis, and the fact that the bird had been extinct for three million years. But the news in the papers obliged him to come to his friend. ‘I’m at a loss to know how it happened,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can throw some light on it.’
‘There’s no mystery at all,’ said Tulsi Babu. ‘I only mixed some of my medicine with the meat I gave him.’
‘Medicine?’
‘An extract of chakraparna. It turns one into a vegetarian. Just as it has done with me.’
Translated by Satyajit Ray
First published in Bengali in 1980
The Attic
If you left National Highway number forty and took a right turn only ten kilometres later, you would find Brahmapur. A few minutes before we reached this turning, I asked Aditya, ‘Hey, would you like to visit the place where you were born? You never went back there after you left, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t. That was twenty-nine years ago. I’m sure our house is now just a pile of rubble. It was nearly two hundred years old when I left it. For that matter, I wonder what happened to my old school? If it’s been repaired and renovated extensively, I don’t think I’ll be able to recognize it. So if I go back there in the hope of reliving childhood memories, I know I’ll be disappointed. However, what we could do,’ Aditya said, ‘is stop at Noga’s tea shop and have a cup of tea. That is, if it’s still there.’
I turned right and began driving down the road that went to Brahmapur. Aditya’s ancestors had once been the local zamindars. His father, Brajendranarayan, left Brahmapur permanently only a year after Independence, and started a business in Calcutta. Aditya remained in Brahmapur until he finished school. Then he moved to Calcutta and went to the university there. I was his classmate in college. When his father died in 1976, Aditya took charge of his father’s business. I was now his partner as well as his friend. We were building a new factory in Deodarganj, and were on our way back from there. The car belonged to Aditya. He had driven it on the way to Deodarganj. I was driving it on our return journey. It was now half past three in the afternoon. The month was February, the sunshine pleasantly warm, and there were open fields on both sides, stretching to the horizon. The winter crop had been harvested. It had been a good year for the farmers.
Ten minutes later, we could see buildings and trees. Brahmapur turned out to be a thriving town. Within a few minutes of reaching it, Aditya suddenly said, ‘Stop.’
The school building stood on our left. A semi-circular iron frame, fixed over the gate, proclaimed its name in iron letters: Victoria High School, estd. 1892. A driveway ran through the gate, ending before a two-storey building. To the left of the driveway was the sports ground. We parked the car outside, got out and stood at the gate.
‘Does it match your memories?’ I asked Aditya.
‘Not in the least,’ Aditya replied. ‘Our school did not have a first floor; nor did it have that other building on the right. There used to be an open ground, wher
e we used to play kabaddi.’
‘You were a good student, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, but I always stood second. The top position invariably went to another boy.’
‘Do you want to go inside?’
‘Are you mad?’
We stood and stared for about a minute before returning to our car. ‘Where is that tea shop you mentioned?’
‘About three furlongs from here. Straight down that road, near a crossing. A grocery store was next to it, and a Shiva temple just opposite. People from Calcutta used to come to look at it. It was made of terracotta.’
We drove off. ‘Where’s your house?’
‘At the far end of town. I have no wish to see it. I’d only get depressed.’
‘Still . . . don’t you want to have just one look?’
‘OK, may be. I’ll think about it. Let’s have a cup of tea first.’
We reached the crossing quite soon. The spire of the temple was the first thing we saw. As we approached it, Aditya gave a sudden exclamation. My eyes fell on a signboard at once. ‘Nogen’s Tea Cabin’, it said. The grocery store was also there. Perhaps it was only the appearance of people that was likely to change dramatically in twenty-nine years. Shops and lanes in a town like Brahmapur would never change that much in that time.
It was not just the tea shop that still existed. Its owner, too, was there. He had turned sixty, and had a rather thin and shrivelled appearance. He was clean shaven, but his white hair had been carefully brushed. The lower portion of a blue striped shirt peeped from under a green cotton shawl, draped over a short dhoti.
‘Where are you coming from?’ he asked, glancing first at the car, then at its two passengers. Naturally, there was no question of his recognizing Aditya.
‘Deodarganj,’ Aditya replied, ‘We’re on our way to Calcutta.’
‘I see. So why—?’
‘We stopped here simply to have a cup of tea in your shop.’ ‘Good. Do sit down, sir. I can offer you some nice biscuits, too, and chanachur.’
‘Thank you. Give us a couple of nankhatai biscuits.’
We took two tin chairs. There seemed to be only one other customer in the shop, sitting at a corner table, though he had neither a cup of tea, nor a plate of biscuits before him. In fact, he appeared to be asleep.
‘Mr Sanyal!’ Nogen Babu addressed him, raising his voice quite high. ‘It’s nearly four o’clock. Time you went home, don’t you think? I’ll soon start getting more people in.’ Then he turned to us, winked and said, ‘He’s deaf. His eyesight’s not very good, either. But he cannot afford to get glasses made.’
It became clear that people here liked making fun of this man. But that was not all. From the way Mr Sanyal reacted to Nogen Babu’s words, I began to doubt his sanity. He stared at us for a few moments, then suddenly shook himself and burst into poetry. He stretched out his thin right arm, widened his short-sighted eyes, and began reciting:
Hark, there come the plunderers from Maratha,
Get ready to fight them!
Called the Lord of the Ajmer Castle,
Dumoraj was his name.
Starting with these lines, he got to his feet, then went on to recite the whole of Tagore’s ‘Keeping A Promise’. He ended by folding his hands in a namaskar and bowing his head, without looking at anyone in particular. Then he walked out of the shop rather unsteadily, and went down one of the roads that met at the crossing, possibly to find his own house. There were plenty of people near the crossing. I could see at least ten different people sitting in the sun outside the tea shop, but none of them paid the slightest attention to Mr Sanyal. His recitation of that long poem did not appear to have any effect at all on his audience. The reason was not difficult to guess. Who would want to take any notice of the ravings of a madman?
Having seen many other lunatics before, it did not take me long to get over my surprise at Mr Sanyal’s behaviour. But one look at Aditya’s face startled me. He seemed to have been stirred by some strong emotion. I asked him what the matter was, but instead of giving me a reply, Aditya turned to Nogen Babu and said, ‘Who is that man? What does he do?’
Nogen Babu had brought us tea in two steaming glasses, with a plate of biscuits. ‘Shashanka Sanyal?’ he asked, placing these before us. ‘What can he do? His is truly a cursed life, sir, I can tell you that. I’ve already told you about his hearing and eyesight. Perhaps his mind is going too. But he has not forgotten anything from his past. He keeps reciting the poems he had learnt in school, and drives everyone up the wall. His father was a school teacher, but he died many years ago. He owned a little land. Most of it had to be sold when Shashanka Sanyal got his daughter married. Then he lost his wife, about five years ago. His only son did his B Com. and was working in Calcutta; but last year, he fell off a mini bus and died. Mr Sanyal changed after that . . . I mean, he’s been behaving strangely ever since his son died.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Jogesh Kaviraj was his father’s friend. Mr Sanyal lives in a room in his house. They feed him, too. He comes to my shop to have tea and biscuits. He never forgets to pay for what he eats here; he still has his pride, you see. But God knows how long he’ll be able to go on like this. After all, things don’t always remain the same, do they? But, sir, you live in a big city like Calcutta. You would know far more about life and people. Who am I to tell you anything?’
‘Jogesh Kaviraj . . . isn’t his house to the west of that ground where a big fair is held every year?’
‘You know? Are you—?’
‘Yes, I had connections here at one time.’
Other customers entered the shop. Nogen Babu had to move away, so the conversation could go no further. We paid for our tea and left the shop.
A group of small boys had gathered round the car. I had to get rid of them before we could get in. This time, Aditya sat in the driver’s seat. ‘The way to our house is a little complicated. It would be simpler if I drove,’ he explained.
‘Oh? So you do want to go and see it?’
‘It has now become essential.’
The look on his face told me that even if I asked him why he had suddenly changed his mind, he would not speak. His face was set, every muscle tense and taut.
We set off. Aditya took the road that ran east from the crossing. After a few turnings to the left, and some more to the right, we could finally see a house with a high compound wall. In order to reach its old, crumbling front gate, complete with a naubatkhana, we had to negotiate yet another turning.
It was obvious that the three-storey house had once been very impressive, but what remained of it was no more than its basic structure. It might even be haunted, I thought to myself. A broken signboard hung from a wall, from which I gathered that, at some time or another, the house had acted as the office of a development board. It was now totally deserted.
Aditya drove through the gate, then took the car right up the driveway, which was covered with weeds and other wild plants, before stopping at the front door. There was no sign of another human being. It seemed as if no one had bothered to visit this house in the last ten years. There must have been a large garden in front of the house. Now it was a veritable jungle.
‘Are you thinking of going inside?’ I asked. I was obliged to ask this question, as Aditya had got out of the car and begun walking towards the front door.
‘Yes. I couldn’t climb up to the roof without going in.’ ‘The roof . . .?’
‘The attic,’ replied Aditya, sounding more mysterious than ever.
He was clearly not going to be dissuaded. So I got out, too, and followed him.
The house looked far worse from inside. The beams of the ceiling looked as if they had no wish to go on doing their job; it would not be long before the ceiling caved in. The front room had obviously been where visitors were entertained. Three pieces of broken old furniture were piled in a corner. The floor had disappeared under a thick layer of dust.
A veranda ran behind the front room
, at the end of which stood the remains of a large hall. Aditya had told me about the many pujas, jatras, music competitions and other events that used to be held in this hall. Now, its only inhabitants were pigeons, rats, bats and cockroaches. I would not have been surprised if a number of snakes slipped out of the cracks in the wall.
We crossed the hall and turned right. A few feet away was a staircase. We began climbing the steps, removing cobwebs on our way. The top floors were of no interest to us, so we continued climbing until we reached the roof.
‘This is the attic,’ said Aditya. ‘It was my favourite room.’ A lot of children have a special fondness for the attic. I did, too. It is the only place in a house where a child can have supreme command.
In this particular attic, a portion of the wall had crumbled away, to create an artificial window. Through it, I could see the sky, the open fields, a portion of a rice mill, and even the spire of the eighteenth- century terracotta temple.
It seemed that this room had suffered more damage than any other in the whole house, for the ravages of time had acted on the top of the house far more strongly than the rooms below. The floor was covered with bird droppings, pieces of straw, dried grass and other rubbish. In one corner stood a broken easy chair, a similarly broken cricket bat, a twisted wicker waste paper basket and a wooden packing crate.
Aditya pulled the packing crate to one side, and said, ‘If this thing collapses when I stand on it then you’ll have to help me out. Well, here goes . . .!’
There was a niche fairly high up on the wall. Aditya had to stand on the crate in order to reach it. As he began rummaging in it, a couple of sparrows had to suffer a loss, for their freshly built nest got destroyed. It fell to the ground, spreading more rubbish over quite a large area. ‘Oh, thank God!’ exclaimed Aditya.
