by Satyajit Ray
‘If that was the case, naturally, there would be no point in looking for him. But something told me I should make a few enquiries about Sharat Kundu. Judging by those twenty-minute films, he was no less gifted an actor than Ratanlal Raxit.
‘I went to Tollygunge and asked a few people I knew. I learnt that a journalist called Naresh Sanyal was doing research on the very early films made in Bengal, with a view to writing a definitive book on them and their makers. I managed to get his address, and turned up at his house one Sunday morning. Mr Sanyal admitted to knowing a few things about Sharat Kundu. Apparently, about five years ago, he had obtained Sharat Kundu’s address, after considerable difficulty, and visited him to conduct an interview. “Where did you find him?” I asked.
‘“In a slum in Goabagan,” Mr Sanyal told me. “He was almost a pauper at the time.”
‘“Are you interviewing all the actors who had appeared in silent films?” I wanted to know.
‘“As many as I can. Very few are still alive,” Mr Sanyal replied.
‘I told him about Ratanlal Raxit, adding that I could arrange an interview with him. Mr Sanyal greeted this news with great enthusiasm.
‘Now I asked him what I really wanted to know: “Did Sharat Kundu stop acting once the talkies started?”
‘“Yes. He was rejected after a voice test. He did not tell me how he survived after that, possibly because he did not want to talk about a bitter struggle. But I learnt a lot of facts about the silent era from him.”
‘After that, I went back to Tollygunge and spoke to some other people. It turned out that Sharat Kundu had continued to visit the studios for quite a while, even after it became clear that there was no future for him in the talkies. His financial situation had become grave. The manager of the Mayapuri Studio in Tollygunge told me that, just occasionally, Sharat Kundu was given a role as an extra, which brought him an income of just a few rupees. An extra is usually required to stand in the background in a crowd. He does not have to speak.
‘It was in the same Mayapuri Studio that I learnt something else from an old production manager called Dwarik Chakravarty. “Go to Nataraj Cabin in Bentinck Street,” he said. “I saw Sharat Kundu there, just a few years ago.”
‘By this time I was determined to drag Sharat Kundu out of oblivion. So I went to Nataraj Cabin. Before doing so—I forgot to mention this—I had been to Goabagan and learnt that he no longer lived there. Needless to say, in my efforts at rediscovering Sharat Kundu, I had the full support of Ratanlal Raxit. He was as enthusiastic as me, and seemed to have caught my obsession for Sharat Kundu, as if it was some sort of a contagious disease. He began telling me about their close friendship, and how popular their short films had been. When people went to the cinema, they were more interested in watching Bishu and Shibu than the main feature film. They had been an enormously popular duo, but now only one of them was around. This was not fair. The other had to be found.
‘Pulin Datta, the manager of Nataraj Cabin, said to me, “Three years ago, Sharat-da was a regular visitor here. But I haven’t seen him since.”
‘“Did he have a job?”
‘“I don’t know. I tried asking him, but never got a straight answer. All he ever said was, ‘There’s nothing that I haven’t done, just to keep myself from starving.’ But he stopped working in films, or even watching films, for that matter. Perhaps he could never forget that the arrival of talkies destroyed his career.”
‘A month passed after my meeting with Pulin Datta. I made some more enquiries, but drew a blank everywhere. Sharat Kundu seemed to have vanished into thin air. Mr Raxit was genuinely disappointed to hear that I had failed to find him. “He was such a talented actor!” he lamented. “Finished by the talkies, and now totally forgotten. Who would recognize his name today? Isn’t it as bad as being dead?”
‘I decided to drop the subject of Sharat Kundu since there was nothing more that I could do. I broached a different matter. “Would you mind giving an interview?” I asked.
‘“An interview? Who wants it?”
‘I told him about Naresh Sanyal. Mr Sanyal had called me that morning saying he wanted to come the next day.
‘“All right, tell him to come at ten. But I cannot spend a long time talking to him, tell him that.” I rang Naresh Sanyal, and passed on the message.
‘That evening, I remained in the projection room to watch the antics of Bishu and Shibu. There were forty-two films in all. Thirty-seven of them were already in Mr Raxit’s collection when I started my job. I had managed to get the remaining five. That day, watching some of these films, I was struck again by Sharat Kundu’s acting prowess. He was truly a gifted comedian. I heard Mr Raxit click his tongue in regret at the disappearance of his partner.
‘The following morning, Mr Sanyal turned up within ten minutes of my own arrival. Mr Raxit was ready to receive his visitor. “Let’s have some tea before our interview,” said Mr Raxit. Mr Sanyal raised no objection.
‘It was our daily practice to have a cup of tea at ten o’clock. Usually, this was the time when Mr Raxit and I discussed what needed to be done. Then I started on my job, and he went back to his room to rest. I had finished making the catalogue. Now I was making a synopsis of each of the films featuring Bishu and Shibu, and a list of other actors, the director, the cameraman and other crew. Such a list is known as filmography.
‘Anyway, today a plate of hot kachauris arrived with the tea, in honour of our visitor. Mr Sanyal was speaking when the tea was brought. He broke off abruptly the instant the tray was placed on the table. I saw him staring at the bearer who had brought it in. It was Mr Raxit’s personal attendant, Lakshmikant.
‘I, too, found myself looking closely at him; and so did Mr Raxit. Lakshmikant’s nose, his chin, his broad forehead, and that sharp look in his eyes . . . where had I seen those before? Why, I had never looked properly at him in all these months! There was no reason to. When do we ever look closely at a servant, unless there is a specific reason to do so?
‘The same name escaped from our lips, almost in unison: “Sharat Kundu!”
‘No, there could possibly be no doubt about it. Sharat Kundu, once his partner, was now Mr Raxit’s personal attendant.
‘“What is this, Sharat?” Mr Raxit shouted. “Is it really you? All this time . . . in my house . . .?”
‘Sharat Kundu took some time to find his tongue. “What could I do?” he said finally, wiping his perspiring forehead. “How was I to know this gentleman would recognize me? If he didn’t, you certainly wouldn’t have. You didn’t realize who I was, did you? How could you, it’s been forty years since you last saw me. What happened was simply that I went to Mirchandani’s office one day to look for a job. There I heard that you had bought copies of all our old films. So I thought I might get the chance to watch my own films again, if I could work for you in your house. I didn’t even know those films were still available. So I came here and asked if you needed a bearer. Luckily for me, you did. So I got the job, although you did not recognize me. I did not mind at all. I have worked as a coolie in the past. The job of a bearer is sheer heaven after that, I can tell you. Besides, I really enjoyed being here. All those films that we made before the talkies started . . . they weren’t bad, were they? But now, I guess I won’t get to see them any more.”
‘“Why? Why shouldn’t you?” Mr Raxit jumped to his feet. “From now on, you are going to be my manager. You will sit in the same room as Tarini, and you’ll live here with me in my house. We’ll watch our films together every evening. A stroke of misfortune may have broken the famous duo, but that breakage has now been put to right. What do you say, Tarini?”’
‘I looked at Naresh Sanyal. I had never seen anyone look so totally dumbstruck. But what could be a better scoop, from a journalist’s point of view?’
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1985
A Dream Come True
No one is ever fully satisfied with his appearance.
Ram might wish he had a little more flesh on his body—all his bones stuck out so! Shyam might wonder why he could not sing, when the fellow next door played the harmonium every evening and sang to his heart’s content. Jodu might say—if only I could be a sportsman! Look at Gavaskar, he has created so many records and become so famous. Modhu’s wish might be to become a film star in Bombay. If he could have his wish, money and glamour would both come pouring in.
Like most people, Nidhiram Datta too had a lot of unfulfilled desires. To start with, there were many things about himself that he did not like. For instance, he could see others eating fruit and enjoying it. Mangoes, lychees, apples, grapes . . . each fruit was well known for its taste and good qualities. People who ate them found such nourishment from each of them. But Nidhiram? He did not like eating fruit at all. He just wasn’t interested. Why did God have to make him such a strange exception?
He was not happy with his appearance, either. He was reasonably good looking, but not very tall. Once he had got his height measured. It was five feet six inches. One of his colleagues was six feet tall. Nidhiram often looked at him and his heart filled with envy. If only he could gain a few inches!
Nidhiram worked in the office of Mukherjee Builders & Contractors. He had been there for the last fourteen years. His employers were quite happy with him. His salary was enough to keep him, his wife and his two children in reasonable comfort. But the truth was that Nidhiram did not like the idea of doing a job. So many people made a living by writing novels and stories. Of course they had to work hard, but they were not forced to spend several hours, from ten in the morning to five in the evening, bent over a desk. Besides, one could make a name for oneself only by becoming a writer, or artist, or musician, not by doing a job in an office. But that was all Nidhiram felt he was destined to do. He would never know what it meant to bring joy to a large number of people. It was, to him, a great cause for regret.
One of his friends, Manotosh Bagchi, was an actor. He was really quite gifted, and had joined the theatre as a professional actor. He played the lead most of the time, and had, by now, become quite well known. Nidhiram had said to him, more than once: ‘Why don’t you teach me how to act, Manotosh? I really want to learn. If I could get even a couple of small roles in amateur theatre, people would come to know me!’
Manotosh’s reply had been, ‘Not everyone can do it, Nidhiram. You need a good, powerful voice to be an actor. You haven’t got that. If people in the back rows couldn’t hear you, they’d boo so loudly that you’d forget all your lines!’
This year, Nidhiram went to Puri during the Puja holidays. There, he found a sadhu baba. The baba was standing on the beach, surrounded by a group of about twenty men and women. The sight of a sadhu always made Nidhiram curious. This one, in particular, looked so powerful that he felt he had to go and see him more closely.
Nidhiram pushed his way through the crowd. Babaji’s eyes fell on him almost at once.
‘What are you trying to do, Nidhiram?’ he asked. ‘Why do you wish to be what you are not?’
Nidhiram’s jaw fell open. How did the sadhu learn his name? Clearly, he had some psychic powers. ‘Why, n-no, I mean . . .’ Nidhiram faltered.
‘No? Are you denying it?’ the sadhu cut him short. ‘I can see it all so vividly. Your body has been divided into two. One is what you are. The other is what you desire to be. It is your desire that’s getting stronger. What are you going to do?’
‘You tell me!’ Nidhiram cried. ‘Please tell me what’s going to happen. I am a simple man, Baba, I know nothing.’
‘You will get what you want,’ the sadhu replied. ‘But not right away. It will take time. After all, the whole thing must be uprooted. Then new roots must grow, and spread under new earth, to gain a foothold. It won’t be easy. But, as I just said, one day it will happen.’
Nidhiram returned to Calcutta a few days after this incident. One day, soon after his return, he suddenly felt like eating a banana. He spotted a man selling a whole basketful at the crossing of Bentinck Street. Nidhiram bought one from him, ate it, and found it quite tasty. Could this mean that, even at the age of thirty-nine, one might find one’s tastes changing? Nidhiram did not, at the time, think that this had anything to do with what the sadhu had said. But this was the first of the many changes that slowly came over him.
He went back to his office but, for several days, could not concentrate on his work. His mind kept going back to what the sadhu had told him in Puri. One day, Phoni Babu, his colleague who sat at the next table, lit a cigarette when it was time for their lunch break, and said, ‘Why are you so preoccupied, Mr Mitter? What’s on your mind?’
Then he inhaled deeply, letting out in the next instant a cloud of smoke, which got into Nidhiram’s throat and made him cough. This was surprising, since Nidhiram often smoked himself. He was used to it. Why then did it upset him today? Why, he had a packet of Wills in his own pocket! It suddenly occurred to him that he had not had the cigarette he normally had at around eleven, after a cup of tea. This had never happened before. So here was another change—a big one—that had crept into his daily habits. Nidhiram realized it, but said nothing about it to Phoni Babu.
After that day, Nidhiram began to change very quickly. He gave up wearing a lungi at home, and began wearing dhotis. Then he became a vegetarian, and started going to a homoeopath instead of his own doctor. He even switched the parting in his hair from the left to the right. He had always been clean shaven. Now he grew a small, thin moustache. His hair grew longer, over his neck.
One Saturday, Nidhiram took his wife to see a play. His friend, Manotosh Bagchi, was playing the hero. Nidhiram realized what a capable actor he was. He knew how to impress the audience; and the audience, too, showed its appreciation by breaking into frequent spontaneous applause.
Nidhiram felt a fresh longing to become an actor. He went to see his friend backstage after the show, and praised his acting prowess with the utmost sincerity. Then he added a few words of regret about his own failure to appear on the stage. Manotosh slapped his back. ‘Why do you wish to invite trouble, my friend? Do you realize how uncertain things are in the theatre?’ he asked. ‘I may be here today, but tomorrow I may well be gone. You are better off with your steady job, far more secure.’
Nidhiram had gone to the matinee show. On his way back from the theatre, he stopped in College Street and bought a few plays, as well as books on the theatre. Manorama, his wife, asked, ‘What will you do with these?’
‘Read them,’ Nidhiram replied briefly.
‘But I’ve never seen you read plays!’
‘Now you shall,’ said Nidhiram.
Manorama had not failed to notice the changes her husband had undergone. But she had not commented on them. She did not know anything about the sadhu or what he had told Nidhiram, for she had not accompanied him to Puri. On that occasion, she had had to go back to her own house to look after her ailing father. Nidhiram had decided not to tell her anything, either.
However, so many changes had occurred over the last few months that they were bound to attract his wife’s attention. To tell the truth, she was happy with these changes, for they were all for the better.
Nidhiram read all his new books over the Christmas holidays. Then he learnt a number of lines the hero of one of the plays was supposed to speak, and held a little performance for his wife. Manorama’s eyes nearly popped out. She could never have imagined that such talent was hidden within her husband.
Nidhiram was thirty-nine years old. No one at that age can possibly grow taller. The average male grows in height up to the age of twenty- five, at the most. But Nidhiram noticed one day that the sleeves of his shirts appeared shorter. He measured his height once more. It was now five feet nine inches. He did not disclose this extraordinary occurrence to anyone except his wife. Manorama had to be told because he needed to get new clothes made. It proved to be an expensive business, but overjoyed by this unexpected turn of events, Nidhiram did not mind spending
the extra money. Besides, it was not just his height that had improved. His complexion now looked clearer, and his physical strength had increased considerably.
One day, he returned from work and spent a long time standing before the mirror fixed on his wardrobe. Then he took a decision. He would go to Shambazar, where most of the theatre companies had their offices. He had heard that the Samrat Opera Company had recently lost Moloy Kumar, who used to play their male lead. Nidhiram would go and talk to the manager of Samrat.
He did not waste any time. Soon, he was sitting face to face with the manager, Priyanath Saha. ‘Have you had any experience?’ the manager asked.
‘No, none,’ Nidhiram admitted frankly, ‘but I can act. Would you like me to show you? I know all the lines Moloy Kumar spoke in your play Echoes.’
‘Really?’ said Priyanath Saha. ‘Akhil Babu!’ he called a second later. A bald, middle-aged man lifted a curtain and entered the room.
‘Did you call me?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Arrange an audition for this man. He says he knows Moloy’s lines. See if he’ll do.’
It did not take them long to find out. In only a few minutes, Nidhiram proved that he was not just good, but in fact, much better as an actor than their departed hero.
