by Satyajit Ray
The figure of Abhiram became hazy. It was already quite dark. Mriganko Babu heard his voice once more: ‘Now I have found peace. After so many years, at last I’ve been able to tell you the truth. Oh, it’s such a relief! . . . Goodbye, Babu. I must go.’
Abhiram disappeared before Mriganko Babu’s eyes. ‘I’ve brought the petrol, sir!’
The sound of Sudheer’s voice woke Mriganko Babu up. He had fallen asleep in the car, thinking of a suitable plot for a story. In his hand he still held his pen. As soon as he opened his eyes, he glanced quickly at the scarecrow. It was still standing in the distance, exactly as he had seen it before.
On reaching home, Mriganko Babu went straight to his room and searched under his wardrobe. He had no difficulty in finding his watch. He decided that if something ever got stolen from his house, from now on, he would never seek a witch doctor’s help.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1987
Kutum-Katam
‘Where did you find this?’
‘Quite near my house,’ Dilip replied. ‘There’s some empty land, you see; all it has are a few trees and bushes. I found it lying under a tree. I saw in Alok’s house that he had found a tree trunk and fixed a round sheet of glass on top and was using it as a table. So I thought perhaps I could do something similar. Well, I didn’t find a tree trunk, but this.’
‘This’ was just a part of a broken branch. Held at a certain angle, it looked like a four-legged animal. One could even make it stand on its four legs, although one of the legs being smaller than the rest, it leant to one side. Its back was arched like a bow. It had a long neck, and it was not altogether impossible to imagine the uneven portion at its end as some sort of a face. It also seemed to have a thick tail, about an inch long. All things considered, it was something worth looking at. I was surprised that Dilip had noticed it lying on the ground. But then, he had always had a special eye, the eye of an artist. When we were in school, he used to place petals or bits of fern between the pages of his books. There were various little artistic objects strewn all over his house which bore evidence of his refined taste. Once, he had gone from Bolpur to a place called Gushkora to see how the blacksmiths there made dhokra figures. He had brought back samples of their work for all of us—owls, fish, a figure of Ganesh, and a bowl. They were beautiful.
‘This is nice, but you are not the first to pick up something like this. Someone else was known to collect broken branches with strange shapes, long before you started,’ I told him.
‘I know. Abanindranath Tagore, wasn’t it? Rabindranath’s nephew? I believe he used to call his pieces “kutum-katam”. But what about this one? What kind of animal does it remind you of? What can we call it? A fox? A pig? A dog?’
‘We’ll think of a name. Where are you going to keep it?’ ‘On the shelf in my bedroom; for the time being, anyway. I only found it yesterday. I showed it to you because you happened to drop by.’ I work in an advertising agency. Dilip has a job in a bank. He has not married. I, on the other hand, have a family. My son is five years old and has just started going to school. A couple of our friends—Sitangshu and Ranen—join us occasionally, and we play bridge in Dilip’s house.
A few days after that day, Dilip showed the branch to the others. Ranen, matter-of-fact and devoid of any imagination, remarked: ‘Why are you filling your house with such rubbish? How can you say it looks like an animal? Why, I can’t see anything! Throw it away, do you realize it may be full of germs? Look, there are ants crawling all over it!’
No one paid him any attention. We played until half past nine that evening. Then, as the others took their leave, Dilip made a slight gesture to indicate that he would like me to wait.
‘What is it?’ I asked, when he returned after seeing the others to the door. ‘You look as if there’s something on your mind.’
Dilip took a deep breath before making his reply. ‘You will laugh the whole thing off, I know. But I have to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘About that branch. I don’t believe in supernatural things. Yet, I don’t know what else to call it.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘In the middle of the night . . . I can hear a strange sound. It comes from the shelf in my room where I’ve put that animal.’
‘What kind of sound?’
‘It’s a sort of whistle. You know, the kind of noise you might hear if wind blew through a small hole. But it sounds kind of sad, rather pathetic. As if someone’s crying.’
‘What do you do when you hear that noise?’
‘It doesn’t continue for very long. But that isn’t all. I keep that thing propped up on its legs. This morning, I found it lying on the shelf.’
‘It might have fallen. Why, a strong gust through the window would have been enough to knock it down!’
‘True. But how do you explain the crying? I used to boast about my courage. I wouldn’t any more. I could, of course, get rid of it. But I don’t want to. I seem to have grown quite attached to that funny little thing.’
‘Well, see how things go in the next couple of days. Tell me if this continues. I think you are quite mistaken in thinking the noise is coming from the animal. Maybe you simply had a dream.’
Honestly, what Dilip had just told me sounded like the ramblings of a lunatic. He always was very imaginative. Anyway, he agreed to wait and watch for a few days before drawing any firm conclusions.
Only two days later, he rang me at work. ‘Is that you,
Pramod?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Dilip? What’s up?’ ‘I need to see you. Today.’
I presented myself at his house in the evening. ‘Ring your wife,’ Dilip said on seeing me.
‘Ring my wife? What for?’
‘Tell her you’re going to spend the night here. You can explain the reason tomorrow, when you go back.’
Dilip appeared to be absolutely serious, so I could not refuse. However, he did not say much more on the subject, even when I asked. But I could guess that the problem involved that animal.
It was very difficult to accept that something extraordinary was happening here in New Alipur, in the twentieth century; but I had read, more than once, that if a supernatural event had to occur, time and place were of no consequence.
When we retired to his room after dinner, Dilip said, ‘The more I see it, the more I like that animal. If only it didn’t behave so strangely!’
‘Are we to keep awake all night?’
‘Yes, I think so, if you don’t mind. It probably won’t be long before something happens. I haven’t slept for many nights.’
I said nothing more to Dilip. Whatever happened, this time I would see and hear it for myself.
We sat on his bed. Dilip switched off the light. There was plenty of moonlight. In just two days, we would have a full moon. Some of its light poured in through a window and fell on the floor. In its reflected glow, I could see the animal quite clearly on the shelf.
‘May I smoke?’ I asked Dilip.
‘Of course.’
Dilip himself did not smoke. He did not even drink tea, or chew paan.
I had my first cigarette at eleven. At half past twelve, just as I was about to light my second, I heard the noise. It did sound like wind whistling. Faint, thin, but not without a definite tone. The best way to describe it would be to call it a wail. There was no doubt that the noise was coming from the shelf.
Then I noticed something else. It seemed as if the animal was moving. It kept bending low to raise its hind legs and strike the shelf with them. As a result, there was a tapping noise as well.
Now I could no longer doubt Dilip’s words. I could see everything with my own eyes. Dilip was sitting very still next to me, clutching my sleeve with his left hand. He seemed absolutely terrified. Seeing him like that, my own fears diminished somewhat, although I could still feel my heart galloping away.
However, neither of us was prepared for what foll
owed next. It chilled my blood.
The animal suddenly leapt from the shelf and landed on Dilip’s chest. Dilip screamed. I managed to reach over and pull it away. But I could feel it struggling in my grasp. Even so, gathering all my courage, I held it tightly in my hand. Slowly, its struggles ceased and it became inert once more.
I rose and put it back on the shelf.
What remained of the night passed without further event, although neither of us could sleep. As soon as dawn broke, Dilip said: ‘I am going to take it back and leave it where I had found it.’
I said, ‘I’ve got a different idea.’
‘What is it?’
‘I didn’t think of taking it back. But we need to visit that spot immediately.’
Dilip had not fully regained his composure as yet. I saw him shudder a couple of times. ‘Yes, isn’t that what I just said? We must go back, and leave it there!’ he said.
‘Whether or not we must get rid of it is something we can decide later. Let’s just go there.’
‘With the branch?’
‘No. There’s no need to take it with us. Not yet, anyway.’ We left. The empty plot of land was within five minutes’ walking distance. There were buildings on three sides of the plot. In it, I could see a palm, a jackfruit and another tree, which I failed to recognize. There were several shrubs and bushes, too. Dilip pointed at a particular bush and said, ‘That’s where I found the branch.’
I began looking around. It did not take me long. Only about three minutes later, I picked up another branch, which might have been a twin of the first one. The only difference was that this one did not have a tail.
‘What will you do with it?’ Dilip asked.
‘I shall do nothing. You, my dear, will take it and keep it together with the other one, on the same shelf. I’ll spend another night in your house. Let’s see what happens.’
Both animals stood quietly, side by side, the whole night. There was no problem at all.
‘It’s clear that the two are friends,’ I said to Dilip the next morning. ‘You separated them. Hence all that wailing.’
‘But . . . but . . . how is it possible? In this day and age?’ In reply, I quoted the famous lines from Shakespeare:
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
‘But what am I going to call them?’ Dilip wanted to know. ‘Kutum and Katam.’
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1987
The Case of Mriganko Babu
It was from his colleague, Salil Basak, that Mriganko Babu first learnt about man’s evolution from a species of apes. Today, every educated person is aware of this fact; but, somehow, Mriganko Babu had never heard such a thing before. As a matter of fact, his knowledge about most things was extremely limited. As a student, he had been just about average. He never read anything except the books in his syllabus, and even in later life, failed to find any interest in reading.
‘What! You don’t say. Man has evolved from monkeys?’ he asked in profound amazement. ‘That’s right,’ said Mr Basak. ‘Millions of years ago, man was a four-legged creature. You can still find apes, but that particular species from which the human race evolved has become extinct.’
Mriganko Babu and Salil Basak worked as clerks in Hardinge India Company. Mriganko Babu had been there for the last twenty-two years, and Salil Basak for fifteen. They sat next to each other, which was why a friendship had developed between them. Generally speaking, Mriganko Babu was not a person who could make friends easily.
What he learnt that day about men and apes made a deep impression on his mind. He went to a book shop in College Street and, after rummaging around for a while, found a book on evolution. He realized after reading it that Salil was right. Seeing his friend’s words in black and white, Mriganko Babu could no longer question what he had said. How very strange—why did it take a few million years for apes to turn into men? And his book said that there were still some areas about which not enough was known, but that anthropologists were still engaged in research. He also learnt that there was something called the ‘missing link’, which referred to the stage just before the emergence of the human form.
Mriganko Babu was not fully satisfied with what was written in the book. He went to the museum to find out more. One look at a picture of ancient man and the bones that had been discovered told him that his early ancestors had indeed borne a strong resemblance to monkeys. He then went to the zoo, and spent a long time inspecting the primates. Monkeys had tails, he realized; the ones without tails were called apes. There were several species of these animals. In addition to Indian monkeys and langurs, there were gorillas from Africa, as well as chimpanzees and baboons. There were also the orangutans from Sumatra.
African chimpanzees struck him as being the closest to human beings. Not only that, one particular chimpanzee seemed quite interested in him. It cast frequent glances at him, then came closer and stood staring straight at him through the iron bars in its cage. It even made faces and, finally, grinned at him. Mriganko Babu could not help feeling as if he had known the animal for years.
He spent an hour in the zoo. On his way back from there, he suddenly thought of an uncle of his, who he called Kalumama. When Mriganko Babu was about twenty-five years old, Kalumama had once visited his house. He had, on that occasion, addressed Mriganko Babu as ‘markat’. ‘Hey, markat, go and get me a packet of cigarettes from the corner shop,’ he was often heard saying.
One day, Mriganko Babu felt he had to ask his uncle to explain. ‘Why do you call me markat?’ he asked.
Pat came Kalumama’s reply: ‘Because you look like one. Don’t you ever look at yourself in the mirror? You have a small forehead, tiny eyes, such a big gap between your nose and your mouth . . . what else can I call you but a markat? Don’t you know what it means? A markat is a monkey. That blue ring that you wear . . . I can see that the letter “M” is engraved on it. Well, I think it stands for “monkey”, not “Mriganko”. You’ll never have to look for a job, there will always be a vacancy for you in the zoo!’
After this, Mriganko Babu spent a long time studying his face in a mirror. Having done that, he had to admit that Kalumama was right. There were discernible resemblances between his face and that of a monkey. Then he remembered a teacher in his school called Mahesh Sir. He had sometimes said to him, ‘Oy you, stop monkeying around.’ Mriganko Babu was only twelve or thirteen at the time. It had not occurred to him till then that he might actually look like a monkey.
It was not just his face, either. The way he slouched, and the abundance of hair on his body also gave him quite a simian-like look. He thought again of what Salil had said. There were traces of the ancient ape in Mriganko Babu’s body, the same ape from which the human race had evolved. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable did he feel. Even when he was typing in his office, he couldn’t help thinking: ‘I am not fully evolved, I am still partly an ape.’ But, in the next instant, he would think: could an ape sit at a desk and type? If he looked like a monkey, surely it was only by chance? Other men bore resemblances to animals, too. Why, Suresh Babu in their accounts department looked so amazingly like a mole! No, Mriganko Babu was a man. One hundred per cent human. There could be no doubt about that.
Only a few days later, however, he suddenly realized that he had a special fondness for bananas and peanuts. On his way back from his office, almost every day, he bought either a banana or a packet of peanuts. Weren’t monkeys too fond of these? Was this similarity also an accident? It had to be. Plenty of other people like eating bananas and nuts. They weren’t all monkeys, were they? Mriganko Babu tried to push the thought away, only to discover that it would not go. ‘Man came from apes . . . apes became men . . . am I a complete man, or is there something of an ape still left in me?’
He began making mistakes in his work. His boss called him into his room one day. ‘Your typing has always been flawless. Why have you su
ddenly started making mistakes?’ he asked. Mriganko Babu hardly knew what to say. ‘I . . . I haven’t been feeling too well, sir,’ he mumbled.
‘In that case, see a doctor. We have our own doctor, don’t we? Speak to Dr Gupta.’
‘No, sir. I am all right now. I don’t have to see a doctor. There won’t be any more mistakes in my typing, I promise. Please forgive me, sir.’
His boss agreed to drop the matter. But Mriganko Babu himself could find no peace. He decided to see Dr Gupta, anyway. ‘Please give me something to help me concentrate more on my work,’ he said. ‘I have been feeling quite distracted lately. It’s affecting my job.’
Dr Gupta stared at Mriganko Babu for a few seconds. Then he said, ‘You don’t look well. You have lost weight, and there are dark circles under your eyes. Medicines alone can’t help. Can you take some time off?’
‘Yes. I haven’t taken any leave at all in the last couple of years.’
‘Well then, I suggest you take a week off and have a holiday. You need a change of air. I will prescribe some tablets for you, but going out of town is more important.’
Mriganko Babu took ten days’ leave. Where could he go?
A cousin of his lived in Varanasi, near a ghat. The fresh air from the river might do him good. This cousin had invited him to visit Varanasi several times in the past, but Mriganko Babu had not been able to go. Now, he decided, it was to Varanasi that he would go.
What he did not know was that Varanasi was full of monkeys. In the streets, on the ghats, roofs of buildings, trees, even in temples—no matter where he looked, there were monkeys everywhere. Mriganko Babu couldn’t help commenting on it. ‘This is nothing!’ his cousin, Neelratan, said with a laugh. ‘I’ll take you to Durgabari. Then you’ll know what a monkey-infested area looks like!’
The sight of Durgabari left Mriganko Babu quite speechless. More than fifty monkeys ran and surrounded him as soon as he walked in through the gate. Their constant screeching wiped out any other noise. ‘Wait, let me go and get some peanuts,’ said Neelratan.
