by Satyajit Ray
On the first of January, he resigned from his job and joined Samrat. His starting salary was two thousand five hundred. If the audience liked him, it would go up soon, he was assured.
No one in his old office had ever thought that he might leave them one day. ‘Well, change is inevitable, isn’t it?’ Nidhiram said to his colleagues philosophically. ‘It would be a mistake to assume that every man would remain the same, or do the same thing, all his life!’
Even so, he could not cut himself off completely from his old friends and colleagues. One Monday, he turned up during their lunch hour for a chat, and learnt that his vacant post had been filled. It was Phoni Babu who gave him this news. ‘This new man,’ he said, ‘is your opposite. I believe he used to be an actor before.’
Nidhiram felt curious. ‘An actor? What’s his name?’ ‘Manotosh Bagchi. Apparently, he had met a sadhu in Puri. This sadhu told him that a lot of changes were in store for him. The man was quite tired of his life in the theatre. He says he’s far happier now with a quiet, steady job!’
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1986
Nitai and the Holy Man
It has been said, by someone wise, that the category most human beings fall into can only be called average. These words may be true, but the category Nitai fell into was not even that. He was inferior in many ways to most people. Not only did he lack in height, but the growth and development of his mind had also remained stunted, ever since his childhood. He had just turned thirty-eight. His job in a bank—he worked as a petty clerk—was wholly insignificant. What he earned was barely adequate for him to support his wife and his thirteen-year-old son. Fortunately he did not have a daughter. If he did, he would have had to sell all his possessions just to get her married. Needless to say, his wife nagged and cursed him a good deal. Soudamini was a real shrew.
It simply meant that both at home and at work, Nitai had to tread cautiously. At home, there was Soudamini. At work, he had all his bosses to consider. How nice it would be if he could do something in life that he could be proud of, that might earn him a lot of praise! But no, Nitai did not think he could ever get that lucky. It was his belief that when God created him, He had something else on His mind, and so failed to pay enough attention to the job in hand. That was the reason why Nitai could never be a success.
Who were the people to whom God had been kind? What were they like? Well, Nitai knew one of them. If asked, he would have immediately cited this man’s name as an example. A few days ago, a new sadhu baba had arrived in Calcutta—Jeevananda Maharaj—who had endless followers. The man spoke well, had a good voice, often enchanted people with his explanations of the Gita, and commanded such a lot of respect that people queued up just to touch his feet. He was, it appeared, an incarnation of God Himself. Jeevananda Maharaj had arrived from Krishnanagar, and was staying at the house of a follower in Harrington Street. The whole city was talking about him. There had been holy men before, but none as powerful as him. Not for a long time, anyway.
Nitai and Soudamini both wanted to see him, but according to all reports, for ordinary people like them, that would be very difficult indeed. There was an open patch of ground in front of the house where he was staying. A shamiana had been put up there, and a dais built. Jeevananda sat there before his audience, every morning and evening, and spoke wisely on various spiritual matters. Only the very fortunate could get to sit in the front rows. If it took Jeevananda’s fancy, he sometimes called a few of these people and talked to them individually, which doubled their devotion to him.
Nitai could not have dreamt that, one day, he would get the chance not just to visit this holy man, but to sit in the first row. But it happened, thanks to his brother-in-law, Rasiklal Bose. Rasik was married to Soudamini’s sister. He had a good job in a big company, but he had no airs. He visited Nitai and his family often, and always spent a long time laughing and chatting with them. He had always been interested in sadhus and other holy men; so it had not taken him long to join Jeevananda’s band of followers, and become one of the few who were closest to him. One Saturday, Rasiklal arrived in Nitai’s house and said, ‘If you want to see a truly great man, I can take you to him.’
‘Who do you mean?’
‘Who? There’s only one man, my friend. He’s staying in Harrington Street. The look in his eyes would tell you what our ancient sages were like. Not being able to see him would really be a big loss for anyone.’
‘I know. But I believe it’s impossible to get within a hundred yards of that man.’
‘Yes, that’s true. That applies to most people. But I am very lucky, I am allowed to sit in the front. Babaji seems to have grown rather fond of me. When he speaks, he almost always looks straight at me. It gives me goose pimples sometimes. Would you like to go with me one day?’
‘Of course! I never imagined I’d get such a chance.’
‘He spent twenty-five years simply in meditation, you know, somewhere in the Himalayas. Near Gangotri, I believe. One look at him will tell you he is totally genuine. Here’s one man who has found the truth.’
They fixed a date and time. It was agreed that Rasik would come again at half past six the following Tuesday to collect Nitai and his wife.
‘Shall we really get to sit in the front row?’ Nitai asked, still unable to believe his luck.
‘Absolutely. I guarantee it,’ Rasik said emphatically. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he added, ‘wear a little attar, if you can. Babaji is very fond of attar.’
The month being October, it grew dark by six o’clock. Nitai and Soudamini arrived at the house of the barrister, Jatish Sengupta, in Harrington Street. The shamiana under which Jeevananda was sitting had fluorescent lights fixed here and there. The sadhu was visible to all, easily and clearly. At first, Nitai felt somewhat overwhelmed by the presence of a lot of well-dressed men and women; but Rasik dragged him to the front row. He threw himself prostrate on the ground before the sadhu, which meant that Nitai and his wife also had to show their respect and touch the feet of the holy man. Then Nitai took his seat among the fortunate few in the front row, and could finally look properly at Jeevananda.
He did cut a rather impressive figure. There was no doubt about that. His long beard touched his chest, wavy salt-and-pepper hair rippled down to his shoulders; he was wearing a long saffron robe, and three strings of large rudraksha beads round his neck. By his side rested a small heap of garlands made of white, fragrant bel flowers. Obviously, they had been presented by some of his followers. Nitai was not wearing attar or any other perfume, but he realized that many others in the vicinity were. Added to this was incense, burning in a corner. Its smell, combined with different types of perfume, had made the air quite heady.
The sadhu broke his silence by chanting a few lines from the Gita. Then he began explaining their meaning.
Nitai’s eyes remained fixed on Jeevananda. There was, in fact, a specific reason for this. Two reasons, to be precise. The first was simply that he appeared to have a slight squint. And the second was a big mole on his left cheek, just under his eye.
These two things made Nitai grow a little distracted. That squint and that mole.
He looked more carefully at Jeevananda’s face. He was well into his explanatory speech by this time. He had a melodious voice; it was likely that he was a good singer, too. The harmonium and drum placed beside him indicated that music would follow the discourse, and Babaji would sing.
Suddenly, he stumbled over a word. Only for a second, but the stammer was unmistakable. A thought flashed through Nitai’s mind, with the speed of lightning. Involuntarily, a name escaped through his lips, quite loudly: ‘Chheno!’
His voice rose higher than the sadhu’s. Many people exclaimed, a mixture of surprise and annoyance in their tone. Who was this thoughtless, ill-mannered brute, who could shout like that during an important religious discourse?
Rasiklal, like everyone else, was perfectly taken aback. What was the matter with hi
s brother-in-law? Had he gone mad? Who was Chheno, anyway?
Having uttered that one single word, Nitai had fallen silent. But so had Jeevananda. He was staring straight at Nitai.
What followed was something Nitai was not prepared for. Perhaps he should have been. The two chief followers who were seated beside Jeevananda got up, walked over to Nitai and said, ‘You’ll have to leave. Babaji’s instruction. He does not allow anyone to interrupt him.’
Nitai and his wife rose. Rasik was left with no choice but to follow suit. When they were outside the main gate, Rasik turned to Nitai. ‘What happened to you? I gave you the chance to sit so close to Babaji, and you ruined everything!’ he said.
‘But . . . but . . . it’s true!’ Nitai protested. ‘Your Babaji is Chheno. His real name is Srinath. He and I were in the same class in school, in Katwa.’
It was not possible to explain the whole thing standing in the street. They returned to Nitai’s house in Nilmoni Acharya Lane. There, seated on a divan, Nitai told them the whole story.
Srinath, alias Chheno, was a pest, infamous in the entire school. He was older than Nitai, but having failed in his exams three times in a row, he studied in the same class with him. Chheno had a slight squint in one eye, a mole on his left cheek, and stuttered occasionally. But he was good looking, could sing well, and was a good actor. It was because of his ability to sing and act that the school had allowed him to remain in the same class, year after year. If he did not have these redeeming qualities, he would have been rusticated long ago.
The same Chheno had turned into Jeevananda Babaji, who had countless followers, whose discourses were so good that people actually spent hours listening to him, or thought that their lives were fulfilled if they so much as caught a glimpse of the man.
Rasiklal heard him in silence. Then he said, ‘Look, it doesn’t matter what your Chheno did in school. Anyone can change. I have no doubt that today he is a truly knowledgeable man. Forget what happened in school. We can go back to him tomorrow, and you can beg to be forgiven. Baba is infinitely kind. I am sure he will forgive you.’
But Nitai could not agree. Memories of his school days came rushing back. He had been a simple boy, and Chheno was extremely clever. He had teased and bullied Nitai endlessly. Nitai could never forget how he had suffered at Chheno’s hands. At the time, he had been totally unable to defend himself or settle scores. Chheno was far too cunning. And yet, today it was the same Chheno who . . .
Nitai could think no more. He realized he should not have shouted his name like that in front of so many people, but he did not do it purposely. It just happened. After all, how could anyone always behave with propriety, without making a single slip, ever?
Going back to Chheno to apologize was out of the question. No, Nitai could not do it.
The next day was Wednesday. Nitai’s office started at ten o’clock. He usually left his house at half past nine. At seven o’clock, when he had just had his tea and opened the morning newspaper, someone knocked on his door. The door opened to the main street. Nitai found a smart and bespectacled young man standing outside.
‘You are—?’ he began.
‘I work for the Daily News,’ the man said, ‘My name is Debashish Sanyal. I am a reporter. I was present in the audience yesterday, when Jeevananda was speaking. I saw what happened. Then I followed you all the way here, just to see where you lived.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Because I want to know what made you shout like that, and why you were removed from there. I’d like to record everything you tell me, and then write a report on the whole incident.’
It suddenly dawned upon Nitai that he had acquired an extraordinary power. It was an amazing thing for an ordinary, insignificant man like him. If he spoke to this reporter and told him the full story, he could expose the famous Jeevananda. What a furore that would create among his followers!
Should he do that? Should he unmask the great sadhu for the cheat and the fraud that he was? All he had to do was tell this man something about Jeevananda’s school life.
In the next instant, Nitai realized something else. The real reason why he wanted to expose Chheno was simply that, today, somehow, he had become an eminently successful man. Nitai was envious of his success. But that was not all. He could not forget the way Chheno had tormented him. In wishing to talk to this reporter, there was a strong element of wanting to take revenge, to pay Chheno back for what he had done in the past.
No, revealing Jeevananda’s past was not going to bring Nitai any pride and glory. There was no reason to take away his success, just because Nitai himself had not been successful in life. Besides, it was true that people changed with age. Who could say for sure that Chheno had not changed completely over the years? The way the human mind worked was so complex, so difficult to grasp. Perhaps Chheno had become a better person? Who knew?
The reporter was looking anxiously at him, waiting for his reply.
Nitai shook his head. ‘No, I don’t have anything to say about what happened yesterday. It’s nothing worth reporting.’
‘Nothing?’ the young man sounded openly disappointed. ‘Surely you have got something to say?’
‘No. I just told you. I have nothing to say, nothing at all.’
Needless to say, the Daily News did not publish the story. Strangely enough, Jeevananda Babaji, who was supposed to remain in Calcutta for another week, suddenly announced the day after this incident that he had received an urgent telegram and was obliged to leave at once for Patna.
Two years have passed since that day. Jeevananda has not returned to Calcutta.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1986
Uncle Tarini, the Maharaja
‘Why are you frowning, Uncle?’ asked Napla. We had noticed it, too. Uncle Tarini was sitting cross legged on a divan, his right hand placed on one foot, and was rocking himself gently, backwards and forwards. Between his eyebrows lay a deep crease.
‘On a wet evening like this,’ Uncle replied, ‘until you can provide me with a hot cup of tea, boys, that frown will remain where it is.’
Tea had been ordered only a few minutes ago, as soon as Uncle Tarini had made an appearance. Even so, I raised my voice and called out to our cook to remind him.
‘Have you finished concocting a story?’ Napla went on. There was no end to his impertinence.
‘I do not concoct my stories!’ Uncle snapped, pulling a face. ‘I have had such a lot of strange and wonderful experiences that if I were to relate each one, it would take me years to finish. You’d be an old man by then.’
The tea arrived. Uncle took a noisy sip, and began: ‘You may have heard of the man who became a sultan just for a day. It happened during the time of Humayun. I had a similar experience once. Did I ever tell you the story of how I spent five days as the Maharaja of a princely state?’
‘No!’ we cried.
‘Did you actually have to sit on the throne?’ Napla wanted to know.
‘No, sir. It happened in 1964. Rajas had stopped sitting on thrones by then. It was a long time after India’s independence. However, Raja Gulab Singh was still pretty well known. Everyone in his state addressed him as Maharaja. Anyway, let me get on with my story.’
Uncle Tarini gulped down some more tea and continued: ‘I was in Bangalore at the time, looking for something to do. I had worked as the manager of a hotel in Madras for two years, but was now at a loose end once more, roaming like a vagabond. One day, my eyes fell on an advertisement in a newspaper. It was rather peculiar. I had never seen anything like it before. There was the picture of a man. Underneath it, in large letters, it said: “REWARD OF RS 10,000”. Then, in smaller letters, it went on to say that if anyone thought their appearance was similar to that of the man in the picture, they should apply with a photo. If found suitable, they would then be called for an interview. The address given was: Bhargav Rao, Diwan, Mandore State, Mysore. I had heard of Mandore, and knew that it was a
princely state. But who was the man in the picture? I had no idea, but realized immediately that I did not look all that different from him. In fact, if I trimmed my moustache a little, there would be hardly any dissimilarities left.
‘So I trimmed my moustache, and went to Victoria Photo Studio to get a passport-size photo taken. Then I sent it to Mandore with an application. Ten thousand rupees in those days was a lot of money. It was difficult to resist the temptation.
‘A reply came within a week. I had been selected for an interview. All expenses for my travel, board and lodging would be met by the advertisers. All I was required to do was leave for Mandore without a moment’s delay. The letter also stated that I should pack enough clothes for ten days.
‘I sent them a telegram the next day and left Bangalore. Mandore was only a couple of stations from Hubli. I was going to be met upon arrival. It was a long journey, so I had a lot of time to think. What puzzled me the most was the purpose of the advertisement. What could it mean? The man in the picture appeared to be from a well-todo family. But why was it suddenly necessary to find his double? It just did not make any sense.
‘I got off the train at Mandore clutching my suitcase, and began looking around. Soon, a man in his sixties approached me. “You are Mr Banerjee?” he asked, stretching his right hand towards me. It was clear that the man was startled by my appearance.
‘“Yes, I am Banerjee,” I said, shaking his hand.
‘“My name is Bhargav Rao,” the man replied. “I am the Diwan of Mandore. We are fortunate indeed, sir, to have found a candidate like you.”
‘“A candidate for what?”
‘“Let’s get into the car. I’ll explain everything on the way. The palace is seven kilometres from here. I believe I shall be able to answer all your questions in the time it takes us to get there.”
‘We got into an old-fashioned but large and comfortable Armstrong Siddeley. The Diwan sat in the back with me. I could see a range of hills through the window; it was most picturesque.
