by Satyajit Ray
This could only mean that he had found whatever he was looking for. One quick glance at the object showed something that looked like a carrom striker. But I failed to see why it had been hidden here, or why it had to be recovered after twenty-nine years.
Aditya rubbed it clean with his handkerchief before putting it in his pocket. When I asked him what it was, he simply said, ‘You’ll soon find out.’
We climbed down the steps, got back into our car, and went back the way we had come. Aditya stopped the car in front of a shop as we reached the main crossing. We got out once more.
The Crown Jewellers, proclaimed a sign.
We walked into the shop and found the jeweller. ‘Could you please take a look at this?’ asked Aditya, handing over the object to the owner of the shop. He was an old man, wearing glasses with thick lenses.
The man peered at the disc. Now I could see what it really was. ‘This appears to be quite old,’ the man said.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘You don’t often get to see such a thing these days.’ ‘No. Could you please weigh it and tell me how much it’s worth?’ The old man pulled his scales closer, and placed the grimy disc in it.
Our next stop was the house of Jogesh Kaviraj. A certain suspicion was raising its head in my mind, but looking at Aditya’s face, I did not dare ask a single question.
Two young boys, about ten years old, were playing marbles outside the house. They stopped their game and rose to their feet at the sight of a car, looking deeply curious. ‘Mr Sanyal?’ they said, on being asked where he lived. ‘His is the first room on the left, if you go through the front door.’
The front door was ajar. Someone was talking in the room on our left. As we got closer, it became obvious that Mr Sanyal was still reciting poetry, all by himself. It was another long poem by Tagore. He did not stop even when we appeared at his door. He went on, as if he could not see us at all, until he had spoken the last line.
‘May we come in?’ asked Aditya.
Mr Sanyal turned his eyes to look straight at us. ‘No one ever comes here,’ he said in a flat voice.
‘Would you object to our visiting you?’
‘No. Come in.’
We stepped in. There was no furniture in the room except a bed. We remained standing. Mr Sanyal continued to stare at us.
‘Do you remember Adityanarayan Choudhury?’ Aditya asked.
‘Of course,’ Mr Sanyal replied, ‘A thoroughly spoilt brat from a wealthy family. That’s what he was. A good student, but he could never beat me. So he was jealous . . . extremely jealous of me. And he told lies.’
‘I know,’ Aditya said. Then he took out a small packet from his pocket and handed it to Mr Sanyal. ‘Aditya sent this for you,’ he added.
‘What is it?’
‘Money.’
‘Money? How much?’
‘One hundred and fifty. He said he’d be very pleased if you took it.’
‘Really? I hardly know whether to laugh or cry. Aditya has sent me money? Why would he do that?’
‘People change with time, don’t they? Perhaps the Aditya you once knew does not exist any more.’
‘Rubbish! Aditya would never change. I got the prize. A silver medal it was, presented by the barrister, Ramsharan Banerjee. Aditya could not bear it. He took it from me, said he simply wanted to show it to his father. Then it just disappeared. Aditya said there was a hole in his pocket, and the medal had slipped through it. I never got it back.’
‘This money is what that medal was worth. You deserve it.’
Mr Sanyal stared, looking absolutely amazed. ‘That medal? But it was only a silver medal, worth maybe five rupees, at the most.’
‘Yes, but the price of silver has risen. It’s now thirty times the price it was when you won that medal.’
‘Really? I must admit I didn’t know that. But . . .’Mr Sanyal glanced at the fifteen ten-rupee notes he was clutching. Then he raised his face and looked directly at Aditya. His face now wore a strange, changed expression.
‘This smacks rather heavily of charity, doesn’t it, Aditya?’ he said.
We remained silent. Mr Sanyal went on gazing at Aditya. Then he shook his head and smiled. ‘When I saw you at the tea shop, I recognized you at once from that mole on your right cheek. But I could see that you had not recognized me. So I decided to recite the same poem for which I had won that medal, in the hope that it might remind you of what you had done. Then, when I saw that you had actually come to my house, I couldn’t help saying all those nasty things. It’s been many years, but I have not forgotten what you did to me.’
‘You are fully justified in feeling the way you do. Everything you said about me is true. Still, if you took the money, I’d be very grateful.’
‘No,’ Mr Sanyal shook his head again. ‘This money will not last for ever, will it? One day, I will have spent it all. I don’t want your money, Aditya. What I would like is that medal, if it could be found. If someone gave it to me now, I could forget that one very unpleasant incident that marred my childhood. I would then have no more regrets.’
The medal, hidden in a niche in an attic twenty-nine years ago, finally returned to its rightful owner. The words engraved on it were still clearly legible: ‘Master Shashanka Sanyal, special prize for recitation of poetry, 1948’.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1981
Bhuto
Naveen came back disappointed a second time. He had failed to get Akrur Babu’s support.
It was at a function in Uttarpara that Naveen had first learnt about Akrur Babu’s amazing talent—ventriloquism. Naveen did not even know the word. Dwijapada had told him. Diju’s father was a professor and had a library of his own. Diju had even taught him the correct spelling of the word.
Akrur Chowdhury was the only person present on the stage but he was conversing with someone invisible, hidden somewhere near the ceiling in the middle of the auditorium. Akrur Babu would throw a question at him. He would answer from above the audience’s heads.
‘Haranath, how are you?’
‘I am fine, thank you, sir.’
‘Heard you have become interested in music. Is that true?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Classical music?’
‘Yes, sir, classical music.’
‘Do you sing yourself?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you play an instrument?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘What kind of instrument? The sitar?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Sarod?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What do you play, then?’
‘A gramophone, sir.’
The auditorium boomed with laughter and applause. Akrur Babu looked at the ceiling to ask a question and then bent his head slightly to catch the reply. But it was impossible to tell that he was answering his own questions.
His lips did not move at all.
Naveen was astounded. He had to learn this art. Life would not be worth living if he did not. Could Akrur Chowdhury not be persuaded to teach him? Naveen was not very interested in studies. He had finished school, but had been sitting at home for the last three years. He simply did not feel like going in for further studies.
Having lost his father in his childhood, he had been brought up by an uncle. His uncle wanted him to join his plywood business. But Naveen was interested in something quite different. His passion lay in learning magic. He had already mastered a few tricks at home. But after having seen a performance by Akrur Chowdhury, all that seemed totally insignificant.
Naveen learnt from the organizers of the show that Akrur Babu lived in Amherst Street in Calcutta. He took a train to Calcutta the very next day and made his way to the house of the man who, in his mind, had already become his guru. But the guru rejected his proposal outright.
‘What do you do?’ was the first question the ventriloquist asked him. The sight of the man at close qua
rters was making Naveen’s heart beat faster. About forty-five years old, he sported a deep black bushy moustache and his jet black hair, parted in the middle, rippled down to his shoulders. His eyes were droopy, though Naveen had seen them sparkle on stage under the spotlights.
Naveen decided to be honest. ‘I’ve always been interested in magic,’ he said, ‘but your performance the other day got me passionately interested in ventriloquism.’
Akrur Babu shook his head. ‘This kind of art is not for all and sundry. You have to be extremely diligent. No one taught me this art. Go and try to learn it by yourself, if you can.’
Naveen left. But only a week later, he was back again, ready to fall at Akrur Babu’s feet. During the last seven days he had dreamt of nothing but ventriloquism.
But this time things got worse. Akrur Babu practically threw him out of his house. ‘You should have realized the first time I was not prepared to teach you at all,’ he said. ‘This clearly shows your lack of perception and intelligence. No one can learn magic without these basic qualities—and certainly not my kind of magic.’
After the first visit Naveen had returned feeling depressed. This time he got angry. Let Akrur Chowdhury go to hell. He would learn it all by himself.
He bought a book on ventriloquism from College Street and began to practice. Everyone—including he himself—was surprised at his patience and perseverance.
The basic rule was simple. There were only a few letters in the alphabet like ‘b’, ‘f’, ‘m’ and ‘p’ that required one to close and open one’s lips. If these letters could be pronounced slightly differently, there was no need to move the lips at all. But there was one other thing. When answering one’s own questions, the voice had to be changed. This required a lot of practice, but Naveen finally got it right. When his uncle and some close friends openly praised him after a performance at home, he realized he had more or less mastered the art.
But this was only the beginning.
The days of the invisible audience were over. Modern ventriloquists used a puppet specially designed so that it was possible to slip a hand under it and make its head turn and its lips move. When asked a question, it was the puppet who answered.
Pleased with the progress he had made, his uncle offered to pay for such a puppet for Naveen. Naveen spent about a couple of weeks trying to think what his puppet should look like. Then he hit upon the most marvellous idea.
His puppet would look exactly like Akrur Chowdhury. In other words, Akrur Babu would become a mere puppet in his hands! What a wonderful way to get his own back!
Naveen had kept a photograph of Akrur Babu that he had once found on a hand-poster. He now showed it to Adinath, the puppet maker.
‘It must have moustaches like these, a middle parting, droopy eyes and round cheeks.’
What fun it would be to have a puppet like that! Naveen hoped fervently that Akrur Babu would come to his shows.
The puppet was ready in a week. Its clothes were also the same as Akrur Chowdhury’s: a black high-necked coat and a white dhoti under it, tucked in at the waist.
Naveen happened to know Sasadhar Bose of the Netaji Club. It was not difficult to get himself included in one of their functions.
He was an instant hit. His puppet had been given a name—Bhutnath, Bhuto for short. The audience thoroughly enjoyed their conversation. Bhuto, Naveen told them, was a supporter of the East Bengal Football Club and he himself supported their opponents, Mohun Bagan. The verbal exchange was so chirpy that no one noticed Bhuto say ‘East Gengal’ and ‘Ohan Agan’.
Naveen became famous practically overnight. Invitations from other clubs began pouring in. He even started to appear on television. There was now no need to worry about his future. He had found a way to earn his living.
At last, one day, Akrur Babu came to meet him. Naveen had, in the meantime, left Uttarpara and moved into a flat in Mirzapur Street in Calcutta. His landlord, Suresh Mutsuddi, was a nice man. He knew of Naveen’s success and treated him with due respect. Naveen had performed recently in Mahajati Sadan and received a lot of acclaim. The organizers of various functions were now vying with one another to get Naveen to perform for them. Naveen himself had changed over the last few months. Success had given him a new confidence and self-assurance.
Akrur Babu had probably got his address from the organizers of his show in Mahajati Sadan. Bhuto and he had talked about the underground railway that evening.
‘You know about pataal rail in Calcutta, don’t you, Bhuto?’ ‘No, I don’t!’
‘That is strange. Everyone in Calcutta knows about it.’ Bhuto shook his head. ‘No. I haven’t heard of that one. But I do know of hospital rail.’
‘Hospital rail?’
‘Of course. It’s a huge operation, I hear, the whole city’s being cut open under intensive care. What else would you call it but hospital rail?’
Today, Naveen was writing a new script on load shedding. He had realized that what the audience liked best were subjects that they could relate to—load shedding, crowded buses, rising prices. His script was coming along quite well when, suddenly, someone knocked on the door. Naveen got up to open it and was completely taken aback to find Akrur Babu standing outside.
‘May I come in?’
‘Of course.’
Naveen offered him his chair.
Akrur Babu did not sit down immediately. His eyes were fixed on Bhuto.
Bhuto was lying on the table, totally inert.
Akrur Babu went forward, picked him up and began examining his face closely.
There was nothing that Naveen could do. He had started to feel faintly uneasy, but the memory of his humiliation at Akrur Babu’s house had not faded from his mind.
‘So you have turned me into a puppet in your hands!’ Akrur Babu finally sat down.
‘Why did you do this?’
Naveen said, ‘That should not be too difficult to understand. I had come to you with great hope. You crushed it totally. But I must say this—this puppet, this image of yours, has brought me all my success. I am able to live decently only because of it.’
Akrur Babu was still staring at Bhuto. He said, ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard this already. I had a show in Barasat the other day. The minute I arrived on the stage, the cat-calls began—”Bhuto! Bhuto!” Surely you realize this was not a very pleasant experience for me? I may be responsible, in a way, for your success, but you are beginning to threaten my livelihood. Did you think I would accept a situation like this so easily?’
It was dark outside. There was no electricity. Two candles flickered in Naveen’s room. Akrur Babu’s eyes glowed in their light just as Naveen had seen them glow on the stage. The little man cast a huge shadow on the wall. Bhutnath lay on the table, as droopy-eyed as ever, silent and immobile.
‘You may not be aware of this,’ said Akrur Babu, ‘but my knowledge of magic isn’t limited only to ventriloquism. From the age of eighteen to thirty-eight I stayed with an unknown but amazingly gifted magician, learning his art. No, not here in Calcutta. He lived in a remote place at the foothills of the Himalayas.’
‘Have you ever shown on stage any of those other items you learnt?’
‘No, I haven’t because those are not meant for the stage. I had promised my guru never to use that knowledge simply to earn a living. I have kept my word.’
‘But what are you trying to tell me now? I don’t understand.’
‘I have come only to warn you, although I must admit I have been impressed by your dedication. No one actually taught me the art of ventriloquism. I had to teach myself, just as you have done. Professional magicians do not teach anyone else the real tricks of the trade—they have never done so. But I am not prepared to tolerate the impertinence you have shown in designing your puppet. That is all I came to tell you.’
Akrur Babu rose from his chair. Then he glanced at Bhutnath and said, ‘My hair and my moustaches have only recently started to grey. I can see that you have, in anticipation, already pl
anted a few grey strands in your puppet’s hair. All right, then. I’ll take my leave now.’
Akrur Babu left.
Naveen closed the door and stood before Bhutnath. Grey hair? Yes, one or two were certainly visible. He had not noticed these before, which was surprising since he held the puppet in his hand and spoke to it so often. How could he have been so unobservant?
Anyway, there was no point in wasting time thinking about it. Anyone could make a mistake. He had obviously concentrated only on Bhutnath’s face and not looked at his hair closely enough.
But it was impossible to rid himself of a sneaking suspicion.
The next day, he stuffed Bhuto into the leather case made specially for him and went straight to Adinath Pal. There he brought Bhuto out of the case, laid him flat on the ground and said, ‘Look at these few strands of grey hair. Did you put these in?’
Adinath Pal seemed quite taken aback. ‘Why, no! Why should I? You did not ask for a mixture of black and grey hair, did you?’
‘Could you not have made a mistake?’
‘Yes, of course. Those few strands might have been pasted purely by mistake. But would you not have noticed it immediately when you came to collect the puppet? You know what I think? I do believe someone has planted these deliberately without your knowledge.’
Perhaps he was right. The whole thing had happened without his knowledge.
A strange thing happened at the function organized by the Friends Club in Chetla.
A clear evidence of Bhuto’s popularity was that the organizers had saved his item for the last. In the midst of a rather interesting dialogue on the subject of load shedding, Naveen noticed that Bhuto was uttering words that were not in the script. These included difficult words in English which Naveen himself never used—he hardly knew what they meant.
This was a totally new experience for Naveen, although it made no difference to the show for the words were being used quite appropriately and drawing frequent applause from the crowd. Thank goodness none of them knew Naveen had not ever been to college.
