by Satyajit Ray
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1982
Spotlight
We often came to this small town in Chhota Nagpur to spend our Puja holidays as many other Bengali families did. Some stayed in houses of their own, some rented a bungalow or went to local hotels. Ten days in a place like this was enough to add at least six months to an average lifetime. My father often said, ‘The cost of living may have gone up a little, but the water you drink and the air you breathe are still free. And no one can say that their quality has suffered in any way.’
We usually arrived in a large group, so ten days went by very quickly, although there were no cinemas, theatres, markets or other attractions. If one were to ask whether what we did in these ten days varied from one year to the next, it would be difficult to find an answer, for we inevitably ate the same stuff every day: chicken, eggs, arhar daal, fresh milk, guavas and other fruits from our own garden; we followed the same routine—to bed at 10 p.m., wake up at 6 a.m., spend the afternoon playing cards and Monopoly, walk to Raja Hill after tea in the evening, have a picnic at least once during our stay, by the side of Kalijhora; everything we saw was always just the same: bright sunshine and fluffy white clouds; the birds, the animals, the insects, the trees, the plants and the flowers.
But not this time.
On this occasion, things took a different turn.
Personally, I had never liked Anshuman Chatterjee. But, of course, that did not stop him from being the most popular film-star in West Bengal. My twelve-year-old sister, Sharmi, had filled a whole scrapbook with pictures of Anshuman from film magazines. There were boys in my own class who were his admirers, and had already started copying his hair-style, his speech and mannerisms as well as his style of dressing.
The famous Anshuman Chatterjee was in the same town this time, staying in the house the Kundus owned. He had brought three of his sycophants with him in a yellow air-conditioned Mercedes with tinted glass windows.
Once, on our way to the Andamans, I had noticed how the smaller boats rocked and swayed in the huge waves that our own ship kept throwing up. Here, Anshuman became a ship like that. When he came out on the street, the other visitors simply drowned in the ripples he left behind.
There had never been such excitement in this small town. Chhoto Mama was not interested in films. But palmistry intrigued him.
‘I must,’ he declared, ‘take a look at his fate line. I’d never get a chance back in Calcutta.’
Mother wanted to invite him to dinner. ‘Sharmi,’ she asked, ‘do your film magazines ever mention what kind of food he prefers?’ Sharmi promptly rattled off a long list that ended with ‘. . . but what he likes best is Chinese.’ Mother sighed. Father said, ‘I see no problem in asking him to dinner one evening. He might even accept. But I don’t like those hangers-on . . .’
Chheni-da was a cousin of mine. He worked for a newspaper as a journalist and almost never got any leave. This time he had come with us only to write a feature on a festival of the local Santhals. He felt he had to corner Anshuman for an interview. ‘That man has shooting three hundred and sixty-seven days a year. How on earth did he manage to come away on holiday? God, that itself would make a story!’
Chhoto-da was the only one who displayed no emotion. A student of Presidency College, he was a rather grave young man. He also happened to be a member of a film society and, having seen all kinds of German, Swedish, French, Cuban and Brazilian films, was now working on a critical thesis on the films of Bengal. He had spent three minutes watching Anshuman’s Sleepless Nights on television, before saying ‘Disgusting!’ and leaving the room. It was his view that the film-star’s arrival had spoilt the entire atmosphere of this beautiful place.
There were a few Bengalis who lived in the town permanently. Gopen Babu was one of them. He had lived here in a tiny house for twenty-two years and had a small farm. Slightly older than Father, he was a jovial old fellow. We all liked him.
He turned up a couple of days after our arrival, clad in a khadi kurta and a dhoti, a stout walking-stick in his hand, brown tennis shoes on his feet.
‘Mr Chowdhury!’ he yelled from outside, ‘are you home?’ We were having breakfast. Father went out and escorted him in.
‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed, ‘what a spread! All I want is a cup of tea.’ The last time we had seen him, he had a cataract in one eye. He had got it removed last March, he said. ‘Now I can see things quite clearly.’
‘Well, there’s certainly a lot going on here,’ said Father. ‘Why?’ Gopen Babu frowned.
‘Haven’t you heard? The stars from heaven have descended on earth!’
‘Your vision cannot be clear enough,’ said Chhoto Mama, ‘if you haven’t noticed the great hullabaloo over the arrival of the film-star.’
‘Film-star?’ Gopen Babu was still frowning. ‘Why make a fuss over a film-star? They’re all shooting stars, aren’t they? They spend their lives shooting. You know what a shooting star is, don’t you, Sumohan?’ he said, turning towards me. ‘Here today, gone tomorrow. Liable to slip from the sky any minute and burn to ashes. There wouldn’t be anything left of it after that. Nothing at all.’
Chhoto-da coughed gently. Clearly, Gopen Babu’s words had pleased him.
‘This can only mean you haven’t heard of the real star,’ Gopen Babu added, sipping his tea.
‘Real star?’ asked Father. All of us stared at Gopen Babu. ‘You must have seen the bungalow behind the church,’ he said. ‘You know, the one with a garden? That is where the gentleman is staying. His name, I think, is Kalidas . . . or is it Kaliprasad . . .? Something like that. The surname’s Ghoshal.’
‘Why do you call him a star?’
‘Because he is one. Absolutely the pole star. Steady. Eternal. More than a hundred years old, but doesn’t look it at all!’
‘What! A centurion!’ Chhoto Mama gaped, a half-eaten piece of toast stuck in his open mouth.
‘Century plus twenty-six. He is a hundred and twenty-six years old. Born in 1856. Just a year before the revolt. A few years before Tagore. Tagore was born in 1861.’
We fell silent. Gopen Babu continued sipping his tea. After about a whole minute of silence, Chhoto-da asked, ‘How do you know his age? Did he tell you himself?’
‘Yes, but not deliberately. He’s a most unassuming man. I learnt of it by accident. We were sitting in the front veranda of his house. Through the curtain, I happened to catch a glimpse of a woman—grey hair, glasses in a golden frame, a sari with a red border. So I said, “I hope this climate here suits your wife?” Mr Ghoshal smiled at this and replied, “Not my wife. My grandson’s.” I was amazed! After a while I said, “Please forgive my asking, but how old are you?” Again he smiled and said, “How old do you think?” “About eighty?” I said. “Add another forty-six,” he told me. Now you know. It’s a simple calculation.’
None of us could eat our breakfast after this. A piece of news like this was enough to kill one’s appetite. The very thought that the oldest man in the country—no, possibly in the whole world—was actually staying in the same town as us made my head reel.
‘You must meet him,’ said Gopen Babu. ‘I couldn’t keep this news to myself, so I told a few people before you came—Sudheer Babu, Mr Sen, Mr Neotia of Ballygunje Park. They’ve all visited him. Now it’s just a matter of time before you get to see the attraction of a real star.’
‘Is his health . . .?’ asked Mama.
‘A couple of miles. Twice a day.’
‘You mean he walks?’
‘Yes, he walks. He does take a walking-stick. But then, so do I. Just think—he’s twice my age.’
‘I must look at his life line . . .’ muttered Mama, his mind running along the same old track.
‘Yes, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you looking at his palm!’
Chheni-da was sitting quietly in a corner. Now he sprang to his feet.
‘Story! I couldn’t get a better story. This could be a scoo
p!’
‘Are you going to meet him right away?’ asked Father. ‘Yes. If he’s a hundred and twenty-six years old, I’m taking no chances. Anything can happen to a man of that age, any time. He may not even have a period of illness before he dies. So, if I must interview him, I had better hurry before the word spreads.’
‘Sit down,’ Father ordered, ‘we shall all go together. You’re not the only one who’d like to meet him. You may bring your notebook and jot things down.’
‘Bogus!’ said Chhoto-da softly. Then he added with a little more force, ‘Bogus! Fraud! Liar!’
‘What do you mean?’ Gopen Babu sounded annoyed. ‘Look, Suranjan, you’ve read Shakespeare, haven’t you? “There are more things in heaven and earth . . .” You do know the line, don’t you? So you mustn’t dismiss everything as bogus.’
Chhoto-da cleared his throat.
‘Let me tell you something, Gopen Babu. It has been proved that those who claim to be more than a hundred are either liars or barbarians. Once there were reports of a group of people who lived in a village in Russia at a high altitude. A majority of them were supposed to have completed a hundred years and were still fit enough to ride. So there was an investigation and it showed that these people were all totally primitive. There was no record of their birth. When asked about things that had happened in the past, their replies were all mixed up. It’s not easy to cross the nineties. There is a limit to man’s longevity. That is how nature has created man. Bernard Shaw, Bertrand Russell, P.G. Wodehouse—none of them lived to be a hundred. Jadunath Sarkar in our own country couldn’t. And here’s your man saying he’s a hundred and twenty-six. Ha!’
‘Have you heard of Zoro Agha?’ snapped Mama.
‘No. Who’s he?’
‘Man from Turkey. Or maybe from Iran. Can’t remember now. He died sometime between 1930 and 1935 at the age of a hundred and sixty-four. Every newspaper in the entire world covered the event.’
‘Bogus!’ said Chhoto-da adamantly.
However, when we left for Kali Ghoshal’s house, he joined us, possibly only to have his scepticism reinforced. Gopen Babu led the group.
‘It would be nice,’ said Father, ‘if you could introduce us. After all, we’re just strangers, and we cannot drop in casually simply because we’ve heard about his age.’
Chheni-da did not forget to take a notebook and a ball point pen.
‘You go first,’ said Mother. ‘I’ll go and visit some other time.’
The front veranda of Kali Ghoshal’s house was full of cane and wooden chairs and stools. Obviously, he had started to receive a large number of visitors. We had gone within an hour of breakfast as Gopen Babu said that was the best time to get him. He came out in answer to Gopen Babu’s greeting spoken from the veranda, ‘Are you home, Mr Ghoshal?’ A hundred and twenty-six? No, he really didn’t look more than eighty.
A clear complexion, a mole on his right cheek, a sharp nose, a bright look in his eyes and a bald dome, except for a few strands of grey hair over his ears. Of medium height, he must once have been good looking. Today he was wearing a white silk kurta and pyjamas and had white slippers on his feet. If his skin had wrinkles at all, it was only around the eyes and below the chin.
Introductions over, he asked us to sit down. Chhoto-da was probably planning to stand behind a pillar, but when Father said, ‘Do sit down, Ranju,’ he pulled up a stool and sat down. He was still looking grave.
‘We are sorry to barge in like this,’ Father said, ‘but you see, none of us has been lucky enough to have met a man like you . . .’
Mr Ghoshal smiled and raised a hand in protest, ‘Please do not apologize. I do realize my age is my only distinction and the only thing that makes me special. Once people learnt the truth about my age, I knew they would wish to come and take a look at me. It’s only natural, isn’t it? Besides, isn’t it a privilege for me to have met all of you?’
‘Well, then,’ said Father, ‘perhaps I should tell you something frankly. This nephew of mine, Srikanta Chowdhury, is a journalist. He is very keen to have our discussions published. If you have no objection, that is.’
‘No, not at all. Why should I object?’ said Mr Ghoshal, still smiling. ‘If a certain amount of fame comes my way at this late age, I should consider myself lucky. I’ve spent most of my life living in a village. Have you heard of a place called Tulsia? You haven’t? It’s in Murshidabad. There is no connection by rail. One has to get off at Beldanga and travel further south for another seventeen kilometres. We used to be landowners in Tulsia. There is, of course, nothing left of our old glory, except the ancestral house. That is where I live. People there call me “Reject”. Rejected even by death. And they’re right. My wife died fifty-two years ago. I have no living children or brothers and sisters. All I have is a grandson, who was supposed to come with me. But he’s a doctor, you see, and he had a patient in a rather critical condition. So he couldn’t leave him and come away. I was prepared to come alone with a servant, but my granddaughter wouldn’t let me. She came with me herself and has already settled down here comfortably.’
A ball point pen writes noiselessly. But I could see Chheni-da scribble furiously in his notebook. His tape recorder had no batteries, which was something he had discovered the day before we left. Everything, therefore, depended on how fast he could write. He had borrowed a Pentax camera from somewhere. No doubt it was going to be used at some stage. No article of this kind could be complete without a picture.
‘Er . . . I happen to be interested in palmistry,’ said Mama. ‘Could I look at your hand, just once?’
‘Of course.’
Kali Ghoshal offered his right palm. Mama bent over it eagerly and, after a minute’s silence, nodded vigorously and said, ‘Naturally. Naturally. Your life line could not have been longer than usual. It would have had to come right down to your wrist if it were to reflect your age. I don’t suppose the human hand has any provision for those who live to be more than a hundred. Thank you, sir!’
Father took over again.
‘Is your memory still . . . I mean . . .’
‘Yes. I can remember most things.’
‘Didn’t you ever visit Calcutta?’ asked Chheni-da.
‘Oh yes. Certainly. I went to the Hare School and Sanskrit College. I used to stay in a hostel on Cornwallis Street.’
‘Horse-driven trams—?’
‘Yes, I often rode in them. The fare was just two paise from Lal Deeghi to Bhawanipore. There were no rickshaws. But there was a big palki stand just off the main crossing at Shyam Bazar. The palanquin bearers once went on strike—I remember that. And there were the scavenger birds. As common as crows and sparrows nowadays. Quite large in size, high enough to reach my shoulders. But perfectly harmless.’
‘Do you remember any famous personalities of the time?’ Chheni-da continued.
‘I saw Tagore a few times, much later. I didn’t know him personally, of course. Who was I, anyway, to get to know him? But I saw the young Tagore once, an occasion I remember very well. He was reading poetry at the Hindu Mela.’
‘That’s a very well-known event,’ said Father.
‘I never saw Bankimchandra, which I might have done, had I stayed on in Calcutta. But I went back to my village soon after college. I did see Vidyasagar, though. That was a memorable incident. I was walking along the road with two other friends and Vidyasagar was coming from the opposite side, carrying an umbrella, a cotton chadar on his shoulder, slippers on his feet. His height must have been even less than mine. Someone had left a banana peel on the footpath. He slipped on it and fell. We ran and helped him to his feet. His umbrella rolled away. One of us collected it and returned it to him. Do you know what he did as soon as he was back on his feet? Only he could have done such a thing. He picked up the banana peel, threw it into a dustbin and calmly walked away, without showing the slightest sign of annoyance.’
We spent another half-an-hour with Mr Ghoshal. Tea was served and with it came home-made sweets,
no doubt a contribution from the grandson’s wife. When we rose to take our leave, Chheni-da had filled more than half of a brand new notebook with his scribbles. He had also taken at least ten photographs.
He posted a parcel to his office in Calcutta the same day. Five days later, a copy of his newspaper reached us, carrying the article he had written, together with a photo of Mr Ghoshal. The headline said, ‘I had helped Vidyasagar’.
It was undoubtedly a scoop, and Chheni-da’s office duly recognized his efforts. But soon after that, as many as seven different magazines and dailies from Calcutta sent their representatives to interview Kali Ghoshal.
Something else had happened in the meantime. Anshuman Chatterjee, the film-star, cut short his holiday and returned to Calcutta with his entourage. He was apparently called away for shooting. Sharmi did not seem to mind since she had already taken his autograph. To tell the truth, she had lost at least a quarter of her admiration for her hero the minute he had said to her, ‘What’s your name, little girl?’ Besides, she was quite overwhelmed to have met the world’s oldest man.
‘I suppose,’ said Father, ‘the star felt offended at so much attention being paid to an old man.’
Kali Ghoshal and his grandson’s wife dined with us the day before we returned. He ate very little, but with relish. ‘I have never smoked in my life,’ he told us, ‘and I’ve always eaten moderately and walked as much as possible. Perhaps that is why death hasn’t dared to approach me.’
‘Were there others in your family who lived long?’ asked Father.
‘Oh yes. Both my grandfather and great-grandfather lived to be more than a hundred. The latter used to practise tantra. At the age of a hundred and thirteen, he called my grandfather one day and said, ‘It is now time for me to go. Please make all the arrangements.’ There was no sign of illness. His skin had no wrinkles, his teeth were intact, his hair only mildly touched with grey. But the arrangements for his funeral were made on the bank of the Ganga. Half immersed in water, Haranath Ghoshal closed his eyes, chanting hymns and breathed his last. I was standing by his side. I was then forty-two. I can never forget that scene!’
