The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘Remarkable!’ sighed Mama.

  A week after our return to Calcutta, Chhoto-da arrived one evening with a large, fat book under his arm. But no, it was not really a book, but a few issues of a magazine called Bioscope bound together. The editor of Navarang magazine, Sitesh Bagchi, had taken a deposit of fifty rupees from Chhoto-da before letting him borrow the book for a day. A bus ticket flagged one of the pages. Chhoto-da opened the book at that page and threw it before me.

  There was a still from an old mythological film, printed on glossy art paper. The film was called Shabari. The caption below the picture read, ‘The newcomer Kalikinkar Ghoshal and Kiranshashi as Shree Ram Chandra and Shabari in Pratima Movietone’s film Shabari still under production.’

  ‘Check the resemblance, stupid,’ said Chhoto-da.

  I did. The man was of medium height, had a clear complexion, a sharp nose and a mole on his right cheek. He appeared to be a man in his mid-twenties.

  The pit of my stomach suddenly felt empty. ‘When,’ I gasped, ‘was this picture taken?’

  ‘Sixty-eight years after the revolt. In 1924. It was a silent film. And Kalikinkar Ghoshal was its hero. That was the first and the last film he ever made. A review was published about three months later in the same magazine. Do you know what it said? “No difference would have been made if this newcomer had never made an appearance. He has absolutely no future as an actor in films.”’

  ‘Then . . . that means his age . . .’

  ‘Yes, he is what he appears to be. About eighty. If he was twenty-five in 1924, then that lady who was with him must have been his own wife, not his grandson’s wife. Gopen Babu was right.’

  ‘Then the man must be . . .’

  ‘Bogus. A cheat. A crook. But you know what? I shall do nothing to have him exposed. After all, he’s got quite a sharp brain. One must appreciate that. In his youth he may have failed. But now, in his old age, just look at how, with a nice white lie, he snatched the spotlight from the top star and turned it on himself! Bravo!’

  Translated by Gopa Majumdar

  First published in Bengali in 1983

  Uncle Tarini and Betal

  It was a day in early August. It had been drizzling all day. Uncle Tarini turned up in the evening as soon as it got dark. He snapped shut his Japanese umbrella and propped it up against the door, before climbing on the divan to take his place. Then he pulled a cushion closer and said, ‘Where’s everyone else? Go and call them, and please tell Nikunja to put the kettle on. I’d like a cup of tea, and I want the water freshly boiled.’

  As it happened, there was a power cut. The two candles burning in our sitting room created a specially spooky atmosphere.

  Nikunja poured fresh water into a kettle, set it to boil, and went off to call the other boys from the neighbouring houses. Within minutes, Napla, Bhulu, Chotpoti and Sunanda arrived.

  ‘On a dark, wet evening like this, in this flickering candlelight . . .’ began Napla.

  ‘ . . . You’d like a ghost story?’ Uncle Tarini finished. ‘Yes, if you have any left in your stock.’

  ‘My stock? What’s left in my stock would make two Arabian Nights.’

  ‘You mean two thousand and two nights?’

  It was only Napla who could banter with Uncle. ‘Yes, sir,’ Uncle replied, ‘but not all are ghost stories.’

  Uncle Tarini’s stories were always immensely interesting. What none of us had ever asked him was whether they were true, or if he simply made them up. We did know, however, that he had travelled very widely all over the country for forty-five years, and had had a lot of strange and exciting experiences.

  ‘So what kind of a story are you going to tell us today?’ Bhulu asked him.

  ‘Well, you might call it a ghost story, or the story of a skeleton.’

  ‘I didn’t know a ghost and a skeleton were the same thing!’ Napla exclaimed.

  ‘How much do you know, young man? They may not be the same, but at times, they can merge and become one. At least, that’s what I saw happen. If you think you have the courage to hear about it, I am prepared to tell you the story.’

  ‘Of course we do! Yes, we do! Sure, we do!’ the five of us chanted.

  Uncle Tarini began his story:

  ‘After a successful stint in buying and selling cardamom in Malabar, I was at a loose end once again. From Cochin, I went to Coimbatore; from there to Bangalore; from Bangalore to Coonoor, and then to Hyderabad. My pockets were full at the time. So I travelled only by first class, stayed in good hotels, and if I wanted to travel within a city, took taxis everywhere. I went to Hyderabad chiefly to see the Salar Jung Museum. I couldn’t have believed, until I saw it, that it might be possible for a whole museum to be filled with a single individual’s personal collections.

  ‘After seeing the museum, I went off to Golconda. Then I returned to Hyderabad and was planning another journey, when I saw an advertisement in the local press. An artist in Hyderabad, called Dhanaraj Martyand, was looking for a model for a painting with a mythological theme. Have you heard of Ravi Varma? He came from the royal family of Travancore. His mythological paintings made him quite famous towards the end of the nineteenth century. Many old palaces in India still have his oil paintings. Dhanaraj Martyand had a similar style to Ravi Varma’s. At the time—about thirty-five years ago—Martyand was a well-known and a very busy artist.

  ‘I found his advertisement most interesting. He had asked for a male model. The model had to be good looking, and should be able to sit for the artist every day. He would be handsomely paid. As I have told you before, when I was a young man, I used to look like a prince. Besides, regular exercise had kept me quite fit. If I donned a silk robe, wore a crown on my head and slung a sword from my waist, I could easily pass as a raja. Anyway, I applied and was called for an interview within a week.

  ‘On the day of the interview, I shaved with a new blade, wore my best clothes and presented myself at Martyand’s address. The house he lived in must have been a haveli, once owned by a nawab. Everywhere I looked, I saw marble and mosaic. Clearly, there was money to be made from mythological paintings.

  ‘A bearer in uniform showed me into a room with rows of chairs. Five candidates were already sitting there, as if it was the waiting room in a doctor’s surgery. One of them looked vaguely familiar, but I could not place him immediately. Within a minute of my taking a seat, the same man was called in. “Vishwanath Solanki!” cried the bearer. Now I could recognize him. I had seen his photos in film magazines. Why was he looking for a job?

  ‘Curious, I asked the man sitting next to me: “Er . . . that man who just left . . . isn’t he a film star?” The man smiled. “If he was, he wouldn’t be here, would he? No, he tried to become a film star but three of his films flopped at the box office. So he’s looking at alternatives.”

  ‘He told me something else. Apparently, Solanki came from a wealthy family in Hyderabad. Having squandered a lot of money in gambling, he had gone to Bombay to become a film hero. Now he was back where he belonged.

  ‘My informant was a candidate, too. All five were here in the hope of becoming an artist’s model, though it was only Solanki who was reasonably good looking. But he lacked what is known as manliness.

  ‘I was the last to be called. It turned out that the room where interviews were being held was the studio. There was a large window on one side, an easel, and paints and brushes on a table. A desk had been placed in the middle of the room, with a chair on either side. Mr Martyand was seated on one of them. He had a hooked nose, a goatee, and his hair rippled down to his shoulders. I was struck by the dress he was wearing. It seemed likely that he had designed it himself, for I had never seen such an odd mixture of Japanese, European and Muslim styles of clothing. But he spoke well. His English was fluent, like a real Englishman’s.

  ‘We spoke for about five minutes. Then he asked me to take my shirt off. One look at my chest and my muscles settled the matter. I was selected for the job. For each sitting, I wo
uld be paid a hundred rupees. If he worked every day, then in a month I could make three thousand rupees. Today, that would be worth about fifteen thousand.

  ‘The work began from the very next day. I was to be the model for the main male character, no matter what story he chose. His wife and their daughter, Shakuntala, acted as models for the female characters. There were plenty of other models to pose for minor male characters. Martyand had a huge stock of costumes to fit every part. There were turbans, crowns, robes, dhotis, cummerbunds, amulets, necklaces and every conceivable item a figure from Indian mythology might wear. The first painting he started working on was going to show Arjun shooting the eye of a bird. Martyand had had a large and impressive bow made for this purpose.

  ‘After getting this job, I moved to a new place, within walking distance from Hussain Sagar Lake. I took two rooms for a hundred and fifty rupees a month. My landlord, Mutalaif Hussain, was a very good man. I left each morning after breakfast—which usually consisted of toast and eggs—to report for duty at nine o’clock. I had to sit for the artist until one, except for a short tea break at eleven. After my work was over, I was free for the rest of the day. So I roamed all over the city, took a walk by the lake in the evening, and went to bed by ten. I had one other job besides this: it was to read the stories in our mythology to find suitable subjects for Martyand. He had read virtually nothing apart from the Ramayan and the Mahabharata and that too, not very thoroughly. The subjects he chose, therefore, inevitably became repetitive after a while.

  ‘It was I who told Martyand about the stories of Raja Vikramaditya, some of which he liked very much. I knew my physical appearance was such that I would suit the part of Vikramaditya very well. But, as things turned out, I did not get to dress up as Vikramaditya. Let me tell you what happened.

  ‘For four months, things went very well. I gave sittings every day, and the artist completed eight paintings in that time. Then, one evening, while walking back from the lake, someone hit me on the head. It was a quiet and lonely spot, not far from a mosque. I had just passed the mosque and was walking under a tamarind tree, when I was attacked. Just for a few seconds, bright stars flashed before my eyes, then everything went black.

  ‘When I regained consciousness, I found myself in a hospital. A kind gentleman had found me lying unconscious by the roadside, and brought me to the hospital in his car. There was a great deal of pain in my head and in one of my arms. When I fell, my arm hit a large stone and my elbow was fractured. But that was not all. I had had one hundred and fifty rupees in my wallet; and on my wrist was an Omega watch, worth seven hundred rupees. Both the wallet and the Omega were missing. The police had been informed, but such an occurrence was so common that they did not hold out much hope of ever catching the culprit.

  ‘For three weeks, I had to stay in bed with my arm in plaster. Four days after the incident, I sent a postcard to Martyand and told him what had happened. Martyand’s reply arrived within three days, containing more bad news. He had been commissioned to do a whole series on Vikramaditya. Six paintings were required by a certain date, so he had been forced to employ another model. The new model was not as good as me, Martyand said, but he had no choice. He also said he would let me know when he finished the series.

  ‘There was nothing for me to do. So, simply to pass my time gainfully, and to earn what little I could, I began to write for the Andhra Herald. Martyand would take at least three months to finish six paintings. Thanks to what a local hooligan had done to me, I was going to lose nine thousand rupees.

  ‘However, barely a month later, Martyand rang my landlord and left a message for me. Apparently, he needed to see me urgently.

  ‘Feeling quite curious, I went back to his studio. What did he want me for?

  ‘“Can you get me a skeleton?” Martyand asked me. “I’ve asked a couple of other people, but they couldn’t help. So I thought of you. If you can, I’ll pay you a large commission.”

  ‘“A skeleton? Why do you need a skeleton?” ‘Martyand explained that his next painting was going to be based on Betal Panchavingshati. Raja Vikramaditya was going to be shown with a skeleton on his shoulders. I do not know if children today read the stories of Betal. We used to enjoy them immensely. Vikramaditya once met a sadhu, who said to him: “Four miles from here, there’s a cremation ground. A dead body is hanging from the branch of a tree over there. Go and get it for me.” Vikramaditya had to obey the sadhu. So he went to the cremation ground and found the body, still hanging by its neck. He then cut the noose off with one stroke of his sword. The body dropped to the ground, and burst into laughter.

  ‘When I was a child, I had seen a Hindi film called Zinda Laash (The Live Corpse). This was another zinda laash. It was a body occupied by an evil spirit. It is this body that’s called Betal. Vikramaditya picked it up, and Betal promptly climbed on his shoulders. Then it said, “I know you have to take me to the sadhu. On the way there, I am going to ask you a number of riddles. If you can solve them all and give me correct answers, I will leave you and go back to the tree. If you can’t, your heart will burst and you will die instantly.”

  ‘I could recall this story, but from what I remembered, Vikramaditya had found a corpse, not a skeleton. I said as much to Martyand.

  ‘“I know,” he replied. “If I can find a skeleton, in my painting I can turn it into a corpse. That’s not a problem. The problem is finding a skeleton. I’ve got to have it!”

  ‘“All right, but will your model agree to place it on his shoulders?”

  ‘“Yes. I’ve already spoken to him, and he said he wouldn’t mind at all. He’s a brave man. Now you tell me if you can get me a skeleton.”

  ‘“I shall try my best. But it may cost you a great deal of money. And, once you’ve finished your painting, the skeleton may well have to be returned to the supplier.”

  ‘Martyand gave me two thousand rupees immediately. “That’s how much I am willing to pay to hire a skeleton for a week. I don’t wish to buy one. You will get two hundred.”

  ‘As you all know, it is not easy to get hold of a skeleton today. Virtually all available skeletons are exported abroad. Even in those days, particularly in a place like Hyderabad, I knew it was going to be difficult to find one. So, instead of wasting my time looking everywhere, I went straight to my landlord, Mr Hussain. He had lived in Hyderabad for forty-two years. He knew a lot about the city.

  ‘On hearing my request, he frowned for a while. Then he said, “I know of a skeleton. What I don’t know is whether it is a real one, or whether it is artificial; nor do I know if its owner has still got it.”

  ‘“Who is its owner?”

  ‘“A magician. I don’t know his real name, but he used to call himself Bhojraj. One of his items involved a skeleton. It sat with him at the same table, drank tea, played cards, and then got up and walked about the stage with Bhojraj. It was truly amazing. The man made quite a name for himself. Then he retired, and for nearly fifteen years now, I haven’t heard of him.”

  ‘“Was he from Hyderabad?”

  ‘“Yes, but I don’t know his address. You can try asking the Andhra Association. They used to organize his shows every year.”

  ‘The Andhra Association were quite helpful. From them, I got the last known address where Bhojraj used to live. To my astonishment, I discovered that he had not moved. I found him in a two-room apartment in Chowk Bazar. Probably in his eighties, the man had a thick reddish- brown beard, a shiny bald dome, and skin as dark as ebony. He took one look at me, and said, “The Bangali babu seems to be going through a rough patch.”

  ‘How did he know? Was he a fortune teller? Anyway, I decided to come straight to the point. After explaining why I needed a skeleton, I said, “If you have still got it, could you lend it to me for a week? My luck might improve if you did. The man who wants to hire the skeleton is prepared to pay two thousand. Have you still got it?”

  ‘“Got what? A skeleton? Why, I have two! Ha ha ha ha!”

  ‘I star
ed, taken aback. “For that matter, babu, you have a skeleton, too,” Bhojraj went on, “If you didn’t, how could you move about? I can see your skeleton quite clearly. Your elbow cracked, then the doctors put it back together. The crack healed only because you are young. If a similar thing happened to me, do you think I’d ever recover?”

  ‘I seized this chance to ask him a question: “Do you know who attacked me?”

  ‘“A very ordinary goonda. What I don’t know is whether there is someone else behind the attack. There may well be. My skeleton would know. It knows a lot more than me. I am prepared to lend it to you, babu. I haven’t earned a penny for a long time. Two thousand rupees will settle all my debts. I can then die in peace. But there is something I would like you to know. The skeleton I will give you is no ordinary skeleton. It is that of a yogi. He had extraordinary powers. He could levitate six feet above the ground. He derived sustenance from the air, food for him was unnecessary. Once, while he was sitting in meditation outside his hut, a thief stole in and tried to remove some of his meagre possessions. The instant he stretched a hand to lift the first object, his hand was struck by leprosy. His fingers got twisted and bent. A cobra tried to bite this yogi, but just a glance from him reduced it to a handful of dust. He was so powerful.”

  ‘“But . . .” I couldn’t help saying, “you managed to master his skeleton, didn’t you? I’ve heard you could make it obey your every command. It performed a lot of tricks for you on the stage, didn’t it?”

  ‘“No,” Bhojraj smiled. ‘I was never the master of that skeleton. Whatever happened was simply because the yogi willed it. People thought the skeleton was mechanized, and that I had fitted gadgets inside it. That is not true. What happened was this: I was so impressed by the yogi’s powers that I became his follower and, for ten years, did what I could to serve him. I was only a young man at the time. I had a certain curiosity about magic, but that was all. I could never have imagined that I would become a magician one day.