by Satyajit Ray
Uncle Tarini took a sip of black tea, cleared his throat and continued.
‘A duel was fought according to a set of strict rules. Both parties had to use identical weapons, each had to have his “second” or referee to see that no rules were broken, an obligatory gap of twenty yards was necessary between the two opponents, and both pistols had to be fired the moment the challenger’s second gave the command.’
As usual we were impressed with Uncle Tarini’s fund of knowledge, which was as rich as his fund of experiences. We knew that all this rigmarole—or ‘instructive information’, as Uncle Tarini called it—was a prelude to yet another episode from his colourful life. All we had to do was bide our time before we would be regaled with what Uncle Tarini called fact but which struck us as being stranger than fiction.
‘I don’t know if you are aware,’ resumed Uncle Tarini, ‘that a famous duel took place in our country—in fact, in Calcutta itself—two hundred years ago.’
Even Napla didn’t know, so we all shook our heads. ‘One of the two who fought was a world-famous person: the Governor General Warren Hastings. His adversary was Philip Francis, a member of the Viceroy’s Council. Hastings had written an acrimonious letter to Francis which made the latter challenge him to a duel. You know the National Library in Alipur—the duel took place in an open spot not far from it. Since Francis was the challenger, a friend of his procured the pistols and served as his second. The pistols were both fired at the same time, but only one of the two men was felled by a bullet: Philip Francis. Luckily the wound was not fatal.’
‘That’s history,’ said Napla. ‘It’s time we had a story, Uncle Tarini. Of course, living in the twentieth century, you couldn’t possible have taken part in a duel.’
‘No,’ said Uncle Tarini, ‘but I watched one.’ ‘Really?’
He took another sip of black tea, lit an export-quality beedi and began his story.
‘I was then living in Lucknow. I had no regular job and no need for one because a couple of years earlier I had won a lakh and a half rupees in the Rangers Lottery. The interest on it was enough to keep me going. This was in 1951. Everything cost less then and, being a bachelor, one could live in comfort on six or seven hundred rupees a month. I lived in a small bungalow on La Touche Road, wrote occasional pieces for the Pioneer, and paid regular visits to an auction house in Hazratgunj. In those days one could still pick up objects belonging to the time of the great Nawabs. One made a sizeable profit by buying them cheap and selling them at a good price to American tourists. I was both a dealer and a collector. Although my sitting room was small, it was crowded with objects bought at this auction house.
‘At the auction house one Sunday morning, I saw a brown mahogany box lying amongst the items to be sold. It was a foot and a half long, about eight inches wide and three inches high. I couldn’t guess what it contained, and this made me very curious. There were other things being auctioned, but I had my eyes only on the mahogany box.
‘After an hour of disposing of other objects, the auctioneer picked up the box. I sat up expectantly. The usual praises were sung. “May I now present to you something most attractive and unique. Here you are, ladies and gentleman, as good as new although more than a hundred years old. A pair of duelling pistols made by the famous firm of Joseph Manton. A pair without compare!”
‘I was immediately hooked. I had to possess those pistols. My imagination had started working. I could see the duellists facing each other, the bullets flying, and the bloody conclusion.
‘As my mind worked and the bidding went on, I suddenly heard a Gujarati gentleman cry out, “Seven hundred and fifty!” I topped it at once with a bid of a thousand rupees. This ended the bidding and I found myself the owner of the pistols.
‘Back home, I opened the box and found that the pistols were even more attractive than I thought they were in the auction house. They were truly splendid specimens of the gunsmith’s art. The name of the maker was carved on the butt of each pistol. From the little I had read about weapons, I knew that Joseph Manton was a most distinguished name among the gunsmiths of eighteenth-century Britain.
‘I had arrived in Lucknow three months earlier. In the evenings, I usually stayed at home writing or listening to music on the gramophone. I had just sat down at my desk to write a piece on the Hastings—Francis encounter, when the doorbell rang. Perhaps a customer? I had already built up a small reputation as a supplier of antiques.
‘I opened the door and found an Englishman standing outside. He was in his mid-forties and looked clearly like someone who had spent a long time in India. Indeed, he could well have been an Anglo-Indian.
‘“Good evening.”
‘I returned his greeting, and he said, “Do you have a minute? There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”
‘“Please come in.”
‘There was no trace of an Indian accent in the man’s speech. I could see him more clearly by the light of the lamp once he came in. He was a good-looking man with blue eyes, reddish-brown hair and a stout moustache. I apologized for not being able to offer him any liquor, and asked if he would care for a cup of tea or coffee. The man refused, saying that he had just had dinner. Then he came straight to the reason for his visit.
‘“I saw you at the auction house in Hazratgunj this morning.”
‘“Were you there too?”
‘“Yes, but you were probably too preoccupied to see me.”
‘“The fact is, my mind was on something which had caught my eye.”
‘“And you succeeded in acquiring it. A pair of duelling pistols made by Joseph Manton. You were very lucky.”
‘“Did they belong to someone you know?”
‘“Yes, but he has been dead for a long time. I didn’t know where the pistols went after his death. Do you mind if I take a look at them? I happen to know an interesting story about them . . .”‘I handed him the mahogany box. He opened the lid, took out one of the pistols and held it in the light of the lamp. I could see that his eyebrows had gone up and a faraway look had come into his eyes. “Do you know,” he said, “that these pistols were used in a duel which was fought in this very city?”
‘“A duel in Lucknow!”
‘“Yes. It took place a hundred years ago. In fact, it will be exactly a hundred years three days from now—on October the sixteenth!”
‘“How extraordinary! But who fought the duel?”
‘The Englishman returned the pistols and sat down on the sofa. The whole thing was so vividly described to me that I can almost see it before my eyes. “There was a very beautiful woman in Lucknow in those days. She was called Annabella, the daughter of Doctor Jeremiah Hudson. She was not only beautiful but also extremely gifted. She could ride a horse and wield a gun as well as any man. Besides this she was an accomplished singer and dancer. A young portrait painter, John Illingworth by name, had just arrived in Lucknow hoping for a commission for the Nawab himself. When he heard of Annabella’s beauty, he turned up in the house of Doctor Hudson with an offer to paint her portrait. Illingworth got the commission, but before the portrait was finished he had fallen deeply in love with the sitter.
‘“Some time earlier, Annabella had been to a party where she had met Charles Bruce, a captain in the Bengal Regiment. Bruce too had lost his heart to Annabella at first sight.
‘“Soon after the party, Bruce called on Annabella at her residence. He found her seated on the veranda posing for her portrait to a stranger. Illingworth was an attractive young man and it took little time for Bruce to realize that he had a rival in the painter.
‘“Now, Bruce regarded painters with scant respect. On this occasion he chose to make a remark to Illingworth in the presence of Annabella which clearly showed his disdain.
‘“As befits the practitioner of a gentle art, Illingworth was of a mild disposition. Nevertheless, the insult in the presence of the woman he loved was something he couldn’t swallow. He challenged Bruce to a duel forthwith. Bruce took up the ch
allenge, and the date and time of the duel were settled on the spot. Now, I suppose you know that each participant in a duel has to have a second?”
‘I nodded.
‘“Usually the second is a friend of the challenger,” said the man. “Illingworth’s circle of acquaintances in Lucknow was not very large, but there was one whom he could call a friend.
‘“This was a government employee by the name of George Drummond. Drummond agreed to be his second and to procure a pair of identical pistols. On the opposite side, Charles Bruce asked his friend Philip Moxon to be his second.
‘“The day of the duel drew near. Everyone knew what the outcome would be, because Charles Bruce was a superb marksman while Illingworth was not nearly as adept with the gun as with the paint brush.”
‘He paused. Anxiously, I asked, “What happened next?” ‘The Englishman smiled and said, “You can find that out for yourself.”
‘“How?”
‘“Every year on October the sixteenth the duel is re-enacted.”
‘“Where?”
‘“In the same spot where it took place. To the east of Dilkhusha, below a tamarind tree by the river Gomti.”
‘“What do you mean by re-enacted?”
‘“Just what I say. If you were to come at six in the morning the day after tomorrow, you will see the whole incident before your eyes.”
‘“But that is impossible! Do you mean to say—”
‘“You don’t have to take my word for it. All you have to do is go and see for yourself.”
‘“I would very much like to, but I don’t think I could find my way there. I haven’t been here long, you know.”
‘“Do you know Dilkhusha?”
‘“Yes, I do.”
‘“I will wait outside the gate of Dilkhusha at a quarter to six in the morning of October the sixteenth.”
‘“Very well.”
‘He bade me goodnight and left. It was then that it struck me that I hadn’t asked his name. But then he hadn’t asked mine either. Anyway, the name wasn’t important; it was what he had said that mattered. It was hard to believe that Lucknow had been the scene of such chivalry and romance, and that I was in possession of a pair of pistols which had played such an important part in it. But who really won the hand of Annabella in the end? And which of the two did she really love?
‘The alarm clock woke me up at five on the morning of the sixteenth. I had a cup of tea, wrapped a scarf around my neck and set off for Dilkhusha in a tonga. Dilkhusha had been at one time Nawab Sadat Ali’s country house. There used to be a spacious park around it where deer roamed and into which an occasional leopard strayed from the forests nearby. Now only the shell of the house remained—and a garden which was tended and open to the public.
‘At twenty to six I reached my destination. In my best Urdu, I told the tongawallah to wait as I would be going back home in half an hour’s time.
‘I had to walk only a few steps from the tonga to find the Englishman waiting for me under an arjun tree. He said he had arrived only five minutes ago. We started to walk.
‘In a few minutes we found ourselves in an open field. The view ahead was shrouded in mist. Perhaps it had been misty on the morning of the duel too.
‘Another minute’s walk brought us to a dilapidated cottage which must have belonged to some Englishman in the last century. We stood with our back to the ruins and faced east. In spite of the mist I could clearly make out the huge tamarind tree at some distance from us. To our right, about twenty yards away, stood a large bush. Beyond the tree and the bush I could dimly discern the river, its water reflecting the eastern sky just beginning to turn pink. The surroundings were eerily quiet.
‘“Can you hear it?” asked my companion suddenly. ‘Yes, I could. The sound of horses’ hooves. I can’t deny that I felt a chill in my bones. At the same time, I was gripped by a keen anticipation of a unique experience.
‘Now I saw the two riders. They rode down our left, pulled up below the tamarind tree and dismounted.
‘“Are those the two duellists?” I asked in a whisper. ‘“Only one of them,” said my companion. “The taller of the two is John Illingworth, the challenger. The other is his friend and second, George Drummond. You can see Drummond is carrying the mahogany box.”
‘Indeed he was. I couldn’t make out the faces in the mist, but I could clearly see the box. It gave me a very strange feeling to see it in the hands of someone when I knew the same box was at this very moment lying in my house locked in my trunk.
‘Presently two more riders arrived and dismounted. ‘“The blond one is Bruce,” whispered my companion. ‘Drummond now consulted a pocket-watch and nodded to the two duellists. The two men stood face to face. Then they turned right about and each took fourteen paces in the opposite direction from the other. Then they stopped, swung round and faced each other again.
‘The pistols were slowly raised and they took aim. The next moment the silence was broken by Drummond’s command: “Fire!”
‘The shots rang out, and I was astonished to see both Bruce and Illingworth fall to the ground.
‘But there was something else that caught my eye now. It was the hazy figure of a woman running out from behind the bush and disappearing into the mist away from the group around the tamarind tree.
‘“Well, you saw what happened,” said my companion. “Both men were killed in the duel.”
‘I said, “Very well, but who was the woman I saw running away?”.
‘“That was Annabella.”
‘“Annabella?”
‘“Annabella had realized that Illingworth’s bullet wouldn’t kill Bruce, and yet she wanted both of them out of the way. So she hid behind the bush with a gun which she fired at Bruce the moment the command was given. Illingworth’s bullet went wide off the mark.”
‘“But why did Annabella behave like that?”
‘“Because she loved neither of the two men. She realized that Illingworth would be killed in the duel leaving Bruce free to court her against her will. She didn’t want that because she loved someone else—someone she went on to marry and find happiness with.”
‘I could see the scene of a hundred years ago swiftly fading before my eyes. The mist was growing thicker by the minute. I was thinking of the extraordinary Annabella when a woman’s voice startled me.
‘“George! Georgie!”
‘“That’s Annabella,” I heard my companion saying.
‘I turned to him and froze. Why was he suddenly dressed in the clothes of a hundred years ago?
‘“I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself,” he said in a voice which seemed to come floating across a vast chasm. “My name is George Drummond. It was me, Illingworth’s friend, that Annabella really loved. Goodbye . . .”
‘On getting back home, I opened the mahogany box and took out the pistols once more. Their muzzles were warm to the touch, and an unmistakable smell of gunpowder wafted up to my nostrils.’
Translated by Satyajit Ray
First published in Bengali in 1984
The Millionaire
Unable to contain his annoyance any longer, Tridib Chowdhury pressed the bell to call an attendant bearer. For quite some time now, he had had the feeling that his compartment was not as cool as it ought to have been. And yet, the three other passengers were already snoring. Tridib Babu failed to figure out how this could possibly happen. The basic problem, of course, was that no one ever thought of protesting against injustice. No wonder the entire race was going to the dogs.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
The door slid to one side and an attendant appeared. ‘What is the temperature inside this room?’ said Tridib Babu, somewhat aggressively.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Why? Why don’t you know? Why should one make a booking in an air-conditioned coach and still have to suffer the heat? Do you not have a responsibility in this matter?’
What could the at
tendant say? He only looked on, smiling foolishly. Tridib Babu’s voice had woken the South Indian gentleman on the upper berth. Tridib Babu had to swallow his anger.
‘All right, you may go. Don’t forget to bring me a cup of tea exactly at six-thirty in the morning.’
‘Very well, sir.’
The attendant left. Tridib Babu closed the door and lay down. He would not have had to suffer such inconveniences if he had gone by air. People like him would normally fly if they had to go to a place like Ranchi from Calcutta. But Tridib Babu suffered from an abject fear of flying. About twelve years ago he had flown to Bombay. What a terrible experience that had been! The weather was awful that day, and the bumping that started as soon as the plane took off did not stop until it had actually landed. Tridib Babu had vowed that day never to ride a plane again. When it became necessary to go to Ranchi on this occasion, he booked himself on the Ranchi Express straightaway. But now it was obvious that all thoughts of comfort in an air-conditioned coach would have to be abandoned. Tridib Babu closed his eyes in the darkened room and was left alone with his thoughts.
Thoughts of his childhood came back to him. He was born in Ranchi. His father, Adinath Chowdhury, was a well-known doctor. After finishing school, Tridib Babu went to Calcutta for further studies. He stayed in an uncle’s house there and completed his graduation. Soon afterwards, a Marwari friend advised him to start his own business. A small beginning—dealing with scrap metal—showed him that Lady Luck was certainly going to smile on him. Money began pouring in. He stayed on in Calcutta, though his parents continued to live in Ranchi.
At first he took a flat on Sardar Shankar Road. Then, as his income grew, he shifted to a ground floor flat in a two-storey house on Harrington Street. But he stayed in touch with his parents. He went back to Ranchi once every year and spent at least a week with them. At his parents’ request, he married when he was twenty-six. A couple of years later his son was born—he was now studying in America. Tridib Babu had no other children. His wife had died three years ago. He lost his mother in 1972 and his father two years later. The house in Ranchi was looked after by a servant and a gardener. Tridib Babu had been paying them regularly for the last ten years. The aim behind keeping the house was simply to have somewhere to go and rest for a few days. But his busy life very seldom gave him the opportunity to do so. Besides, being away even for three days meant a loss of at least five thousand rupees. For a man whose sole mission in life was to make money there was no question of taking a break. Tridib Babu was a millionaire today, a living contradiction to the general belief that Bengalis could not flourish in private enterprise.
