by Satyajit Ray
Yes, Sudheen certainly could go and talk to Mr Chowdhury, although there was no guarantee that his request would be granted. But what on earth went on in that room, anyway?
Sudheen realized that in addition to his discomfort over the business of the light coming in through the window, he was also getting quite intrigued by his neighbour’s possible activities.
One of his friends, Mahim, often went to the races. He had a large pair of binoculars. Maybe that would help? A pair of binoculars were needed because the room was at some distance. The house Mr Chowdhury lived in was not exactly by the side of the road. There was an extension of the garden beyond the compound wall and a certain portion of the terrace had to be crossed to get to the room on the second floor.
Mahim’s binoculars brought the window of the room a lot closer, but nothing could be seen beyond a portion of the wall over the top of a curtain. All he could make out was that a couple of oil paintings hung on the wall. Was this the studio of Mr Chowdhury? But did no one work in it now?
Yes, someone did. A shadow moved behind the curtain, passing from the right to the left. But it was impossible to see who it was.
After about fifteen minutes of looking through the binoculars, Sudheen began to feel tired. How silly to waste time like this and spoil whatever chances there were of getting some sleep!
Sudheen put the binoculars down on the table and went to bed. He had made up his mind.
He would go straight to Gagan Chowdhury and ask him to keep that particular window closed. If he agreed, well and good. If he didn’t, Sudheen would have to learn to live with the situation. What kind of a man was Gagan Chowdhury? Sudheen wished he knew. It would be difficult to put up with fractious behaviour from a neighbour, no matter how old he was. But, in this case, that risk would have to be taken.
The gate was open and there was no chowkidar. This surprised Sudheen, though he was secretly quite pleased to have crossed the first hurdle so easily. He had decided to call on Mr Chowdhury at night simply so that he could actually show him how the light from the open window disturbed him.
It was around 11 p.m. The neighbourhood had fallen totally silent already. Last night there had been a full moon. Everything in the overgrown garden of the Chowdhurys was clearly visible in the moonlight. Sudheen passed a marble statue of a nymph and went across towards the dark, dank walls of the porch. The light on the second floor had not yet been switched on. With some luck, he would find Gagan Chowdhury downstairs.
Within seconds of his knocking on the front door, a middle-aged man opened it. He appeared to be a servant.
‘Who would you like to see?’ he asked.
‘Mr Chowdhury—Gagan Chowdhury—has he gone to bed?’
‘No.’
‘Is it possible to meet him? My name is Sudheen Sarkar. I live in that house opposite. I’ve come on some urgent business.’
The man went inside and reappeared a few minutes later. ‘Please come in.’
Everything was going smoothly. It was rather strange. Sudheen crossed a landing and entered the living-room. ‘Please sit down.’
A strip of moonlight had come in through a window and fallen on a sofa. Sudheen found his way to it and sat down. Why didn’t the man switch on the lights? Surely there was no power cut?
He began to look around the room and, suddenly, his heart skipped a beat. Had he arrived amongst a room full of people? Who were all these people staring down at him?
But as his eyes grew used to the semi-darkness, Sudheen realized the eyes fixed on him were not men but masks. Every mask seemed to have turned its eyes on him. It was easy to tell that these masks had come from abroad. Most were from Africa, some may have been from South America. Sudheen himself had once been interested in painting. In fact, if his father hadn’t put his foot down, he might have become a professional painter. He was still interested in art and handicrafts.
Sudheen could not help being impressed by his own courage. Anyone else would have had a heart attack sitting in a dark room, in this eerie atmosphere, surrounded by a gallery of fearsome masks.
He did not see anyone enter the room. The deep, sombre voice startled him.
He swivelled round and saw a man seated on the adjacent sofa. ‘What brought you here so late?’
Sudheen raised his hands mechanically in a namaskar but failed to find words to answer the man.
There was no doubt that this man came from an aristocratic family. The expensive shawl he was wearing bore evidence of that. But Sudheen had never seen anyone so deathly pale and with such a piercing look. The first sight of a man like this would render anyone speechless.
The man continued to stare at him. It took Sudheen about a whole minute to pull himself together. Then, finally, he found his tongue.
‘I . . . well, I have come to make a complaint. Please don’t mind. You are Mr Gagan Chowdhury, I presume?’
The man nodded. His pepper-and-salt hair hung like the mane of a lion around his broad forehead. He must be about sixty-five, Sudheen thought.
‘My name is Sudheen Sarkar,’ he continued. ‘I live in the first floor flat in the house opposite yours. The fact is . . . you see, the light in that room on your second floor disturbs me very much. It shines directly into my eyes. May I request you to keep your window closed? I can’t sleep at all because of that light. You will appreciate how annoying that can be after a hard day’s work . . .’
The man had not stopped gazing at him. Did this room not have even a single light?
Sudheen felt obliged to open his mouth once more. Perhaps he should take the matter a bit further.
‘I realize,’ he said, ‘that an easy way of keeping the light out is to shut my own window. But since it faces the south, I am somewhat reluctant . . .’
‘No, you don’t have to close your window.’
‘What?’
‘I shall close mine.’
Sudheen suddenly felt as though a huge load had been taken off his shoulders.
‘Oh. It is most kind of you. Thank you so much. I really am very grateful.’
‘Are you leaving?’
Sudheen had half-risen from the sofa but, surprised by this question, sat down again.
‘It’s quite late, isn’t it? I’m sure you’d like to go to bed?’ he asked.
‘I don’t sleep at night.’
The eyes of the man were still fixed on Sudheen.
‘Do you read a lot?’ Sudheen asked. His throat was beginning to feel a little dry. Gagan Chowdhury’s company in these weird surroundings was not really something that one might enjoy, he had to admit.
‘No.’
‘What do you do then?’
‘I paint.’
Sudheen recalled having seen a couple of paintings through his binoculars.
Mr Nag, too, had mentioned that Mr Chowdhury used to paint once.
‘Does that mean that room is your studio?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘But I don’t think too many people in the neighbourhood know about it.’
Gagan Chowdhury gave a twisted smile. ‘Do you have a little time to spare?’
‘Time? Now? I mean . . .’
‘Allow me to tell you a few things. I have wanted to speak for a long time, but never found the chance to do so. The words have been piling up.’
Sudheen realized it was quite impossible to ignore the man’s request.
‘All right,’ he said.
‘My neighbours don’t know about my work because they are not interested. Nobody’s even mildly curious about a man who has spent his whole life as an artist. There was a time when I used to have my own exhibitions. A few people saw what I drew, some even uttered words of praise. But when the trend began to change, when abstract art wiped out the old traditions in painting and portraits ceased to be appreciated, I withdrew. I have never been one for newfangled notions. In my heart, I looked upon da Vinci as my guru. I still do.’
But . . . what kind of things do you paint?’
&
nbsp; ‘People.’
‘People?’
‘Portraits.’
‘From your imagination?’
‘No. I never learnt to do that: I cannot paint unless I have a model sitting for me.’
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘Yes, I do get models. Every night.’
Sudheen did not know what to say. What on earth was the man talking about? Was he, perhaps, slightly mad?
‘You find that difficult to believe, don’t you?’
There was a hint of a genuine smile on his lips this time. Sudheen remained silent.
‘Come with me.’
Sudheen could not disregard the summons. There was something hypnotic in the man’s eyes and his words. Besides, his curiosity had been aroused. What kind of portraits had been done? Who came for sittings in the dead of night? How did Mr Chowdhury get hold of them?
‘I have retained an electric connection only in my studio,’ said Gagan Chowdhury, as they began climbing up the wooden stairs in the hazy, yellow light of a kerosene lamp. ‘I’ve had it disconnected everywhere else in the house.’
Sudheen was surprised to note that there was not a single painting on the landing, or the walls by the stairs or the living room. Were all his works kept together in his studio?
There was a door just as they turned left upon reaching the second floor. Mr Chowdhury pushed it open, went in with Sudheen, and then closed it again. Then he pressed a switch on the wall and the whole room was flooded with light.
This was obviously the studio. Every material an artist might need was strewn about the room. There was an easel under the lamp and on it a new white canvas. Mr Chowdhury was probably going to start on a new painting.
Apart from the material for painting, the other thing that claimed one’s attention was the large number of portraits that hung on the wall. A lot more were piled up on the floor. There were at least a hundred of these. But it was not possible to see them unless one picked them up from the floor one by one. The ones staring at him were those that were placed on the wall. Most of them were portraits of men. Sudheen’s experienced eye immediately caught the touch of an expert in the works, all done in the old traditional style. Once again, he felt as though he was surrounded by a lot of people, all of them alive. At least fifty pairs of eyes were looking straight at him.
But who were these people? A few faces did look vaguely familiar, but . . .
‘How do you like these?’ asked Gagan Chowdhury. ‘The work of a master,’ Sudheen had to admit.
‘And yet, the whole tradition of oil painting is now extinct. In such a situation, can you imagine how artists like me had to struggle?’
‘But, judging by what you’ve got in this room, it doesn’t seem as though you lack work.’
‘Yes, but I found work only recently. Before that, for fifteen long years, I kept advertising in the papers. Not a single person responded. In the end I had to give up.’
‘And then? How did you happen to start again?’
‘The circumstances changed, you see.’
Sudheen refrained from saying anything further for his whole attention was now fixed on the paintings. He had managed to recognize three people. One of them had died four months ago. He was the well-known singer, Anantalal Niyogi. Sudheen had been to a live performance and had heard him sing about eight years ago.
The second was Ashimananda Swami. He had once been a freedom fighter, but later became a sanyasi. He, too, had died a year ago. Sudheen remembered seeing his picture in newspapers.
The third man was a Bengali pilot of Air-India, Captain Chakravarty. He had been killed three years ago in an air crash on his way to London, together with two hundred and fifty others. Sudheen had met him once on a flight to Rome, where he was going on official work.
At this point, Sudheen could not help but ask a question. ‘Did all these people come here simply to get their portrait done with no thought of owning them?’
For the first time, Sudheen heard Gagan Chowdhury laugh loudly.
‘No, Mr Sarkar,’ he said, ‘none of these people needed a portrait for themselves. These were made only for my personal collection.’
‘Do you mean to say someone or the other still comes and sits for you? Every night?’
‘Yes, you will soon see what I mean. I am certainly expecting someone tonight.’
Sudheen’s head began to reel.
‘But . . . but . . . how do you contact all these people?’ ‘Wait, I shall explain it all to you. My system is a little different.’
Gagan Chowdhury brought down a ledger from a shelf. ‘Open it and see what’s inside.’
Sudheen took the ledger near the lamp and opened it.
It was really a scrapbook, each page of which was filled with clippings from newspapers. They were all obituaries. Some of them had a picture of the deceased. A few of these had a pencil mark against them.
‘That mark means that a portrait has already been made,’ said Mr Chowdhury.
‘But you still haven’t told me how you get in touch . . .’ Gagan Chowdhury took the scrapbook from Sudheen and put it back on the shelf. Then he turned around and said, ‘Not many can do it. But I am an exception. It’s not a matter of sending a letter or making a phone call. There is no way of reaching these people through such means. The place where they live has neither a telephone connection nor a postal system. I have to use a totally different way to get in touch.’
Sudheen’s blood chilled, his throat was parched. But even so, he simply had to ask another question. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you made these portraits after all these people died?’
‘How could I have known about them unless they were dead, Sudheen Babu? I don’t know many people in Calcutta. In any case, no one can be totally free before death. Only a man who is no more has endless freedom, boundless time and patience. He does not mind sitting in that chair for hours, quite motionless, until every detail in the portrait is perfect.’
A clock struck somewhere, shattering the stillness of the night. It must be the clock Sudheen had seen by the staircase.
‘Midnight,’ said Gagan Chowdhury. ‘Time for him to come.’
‘Who?’ Sudheen’s voice sounded abnormally hoarse. He had started to feel giddy.
‘The man who will sit for me tonight. There—can you hear his footsteps?’
Sudheen’s ears were still functioning. He could clearly hear the footsteps downstairs.
‘Come and have a look!’
Gagan Chowdhury had moved towards an open window. ‘If you don’t believe me, come and see for yourself,’ he said.
Again, Sudheen felt the hypnotic power behind his words. He moved liked a robot and stood beside Gagan Chowdhury. Then he looked down and screamed involuntarily, ‘I know this man!’
The man had the same swift stride, the same height and was wearing the same grey safari suit. It was the same man who had, until recently, been Sudheen’s boss—Nagendra Kapoor.
A wave of dizziness swept over Sudheen. He clutched the easel to stop himself from falling.
The footsteps were now coming up the stairs. The whole house seemed to echo with the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs.
Then the sound stopped.
In the silence Gagan Chowdhury spoke again.
‘Were you not talking about establishing contact, Sudheen Babu? It’s very simple. They come just as I beckon at them. Like this.’
Before Sudheen’s horrified eyes, Gagan Chowdhury took his right arm out of his shawl and stretched it towards him. It was the arm of a skeleton.
‘The same hand that beckons also paints!’ said Mr Chowdhury.
Just before he finally lost consciousness, Sudheen heard someone knock on the door.
Rap, rap, rap, rap . . .
Rap, rap, rap, rap . . .
‘Dada Babu! Dada Babu!’
Sudheen woke with a start, squinting in the daylight. God—what a terrible dream that was!
‘Open the door, Dada Babu!
’
It was the voice of his servant, Adheer.
‘Wait a minute.’
Sudheen rose from his bed and unlocked the door. Adheer came in looking deeply worried.
‘It’s so late . . .’
‘Yes, I know. I overslept.’
‘We had such a commotion in front of our house. Didn’t you hear anything?’
‘Commotion?’
‘The old Mr Chowdhury passed away last night. Gagan Babu. He was eighty-four. He’d been ailing for quite some time. They left the light on all night in his room. Didn’t you notice it?’
‘You knew about his illness?’
‘Of course! I used to meet his servant—Bhagirath—so often in the market.’
‘Well!’ said Sudheen, bereft of speech.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1984
A Duel in Lucknow
‘Do you know what the word “duel” means?’ asked Uncle Tarini.
‘Oh yes,’ said Napla. ‘Dual means double. Some actors play dual roles in films.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Uncle Tarini said, laughing. ‘D-U-E-L, not D-U-A-L. Duel means a fight between two persons.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ we all shouted together.
‘I once read up on duels out of curiosity,’ went on Uncle Tarini. ‘The practice of duelling spread from Italy to the rest of Europe in the sixteenth century. Swords were then part of a gentleman’s dress, and sword-play or fencing was part of their education. If a person was insulted by someone, he would immediately challenge the other to a duel in order to save his honour. Whether the honour was saved or not depended on the challenger’s skill as a swordsman. But even if skill was lacking, the duel took place, because to swallow an insult was looked upon in those days as the height of cowardice.
‘In the eighteenth century the pistol replaced the sword as the duelling weapon. This led to so many deaths that there was a move to pass a law against duelling. But if one ruler banned it, the next one would relax the law and duelling would rear its head again.’
