Funny Ha, Ha

by Paul Merton

  ‘My answer seemed to please him. He said, “I have managed to collect, over the last few years, copies of most of my silent films. A room in this house now acts as a mini-cinema. I’ve got a projector in that room, and appointed someone to run it. It is very difficult to get hold of silent films. Perhaps you know about the fire in the main warehouse that destroyed copies of most silent films in Bengal? It happened not once, but twice. As a result, it is almost impossible to find prints of those films. But I refused to give up without trying. I advertised in the papers, and came to know eventually that many of my films were kept safe in the warehouse of one of my producers called Mirchandani. The reason for this was simply that Mirchandani was not just the producer, but also a fan of mine. He died four years ago. I spoke to his son, and bought from him what films he had. Then I advertised again, and over a period of time, collected the rest. My failing health has forced me to retire, but I cannot possibly stay away from films. So I watch my own films, and pass a pleasant evening every day. Your job will be to look after my film library, make a catalogue of all my films, and find out which ones are missing from my present collection. Can you do it?”

  ‘I said I would certainly do my best. It would not be too difficult to make a catalogue of the films he already had. Looking for the ones he didn’t would naturally be a bigger challenge. “I am not talking only of my silent films,” Mr Raxit added. “Some of the early talkies are missing as well. But I think if you went to the offices of a few producers and distributors in the Dharamtola area, you’d definitely be able to get copies of what you need. I want my collection to be complete, with not a single film missing. In my old age, I wish to entertain myself only by watching my own films.”

  ‘I got the job. Mr Raxit was an unusual man. His wife had died fifteen years ago. He had two sons, both of whom lived in south Calcutta. His only daughter was in Allahabad. Her husband was a doctor there. Occasionally, his grandchildren came to visit him. So did his sons, at times, but Mr Raxit was not really in close contact with his family. He lived with two servants, a cook, and a special personal bearer called Lakshmikant. Lakshmikant was in his sixties, and totally devoted to his master. Mr Raxit was lucky to have someone like him.

  ‘I began my work, and with Lakshmikant’s help, managed to produce a catalogue of all the films in the collection within ten days. Then I made a round of the film distributors’ offices in Dharamtola and located many of the early talkies Mr Raxit had featured in. He bought a print of each.

  ‘I worked from ten in the morning to five in the evening. But sometimes, I spent the evening with Mr Raxit, instead of going home at five. He usually started seeing his films at half past six, and finished at eight-thirty. The projectionist was called Ashu Babu, a cheerful man. The audience comprised only three people—Mr Raxit, Lakshmikant and myself. The bearer had to be present, for Mr Raxit liked smoking a hookah. Lakshmikant was required to take it away from time to time to refill it. Although it was always dark in the room, I could tell by glancing at Lakshmikant’s face that he enjoyed watching the films very much.

  ‘The silent films were the best of all. I’ve told you already that Mr Raxit had acted in comedies in the silent era. Many of these were short films. There were only two reels, which ran for twenty minutes. They showed the escapades of a duo called Bishu and Shibu, a bit like Laurel and Hardy. Mr Raxit played Bishu, and Shibu was played by an actor called Sharat Kundu. Twenty minutes simply flew when we began watching the antics of these two. In some films they appeared as businessmen, or gamblers. In others, they were clowns in a circus, or a zamindar and his hanger-on. I knew how popular they Were in their time. These short films were often shown before a longer feature film.

  ‘What I enjoyed watching more than these films, however, was Mr Raxit’s response to his own acting. He would roll around laughing every time he saw himself clowning on the screen. Sometimes, I found it hard to believe that a comedian could laugh so much at his own acting. Naturally, I had to laugh with him. He said to me at times, “You know, Tarini, when I acted in these films, I did not find them funny at all. In fact, they struck me often as slapstick, and the humour seemed forced. It used to annoy me. But now, I can see that these films contain a lot of pure, innocent fun which is far better than what you get to see in modern comedies.”

  ‘One day, I asked him something that had been bothering me for some time. “I am very curious about one thing, sir,” I said. “You played Bishu. But what about Sharat Kundu, who played Shibu? What happened to him? Aren’t you in touch?”

  ‘Mr Raxit shook his head. “As far as I know, Sharat Kundu stopped acting in films when the talkies started. We were quite close when we worked together. We used to rack our brains and plan our acts ourselves. There was a director, but only in name. We did everything, including providing the props and costumes. Then, one day, we read in a press report that films in Hollywood were being made with sound; so when the characters spoke, the audience could now hear their voices. That was in either 1928 or 1929. Three or four years later, the same thing happened in Indian films. It created a major stir. The entire process of film-making changed, as did the style of acting. Personally, I did not find that a problem. I had a good voice, so the talkies could do me no harm. I was then in my early thirties. The film industry in Bengal needed a hero with a good voice, and I had no difficulty in meeting that demand. That put an end to clowning around for twenty minutes. I became a hero. But, for some reason, Sharat Kundu disappeared. I asked a few people about him, but no one could tell me where he was. God knows if he died young.”

  ‘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 live
d 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

  IS IT JUST ME?

  Simon Rich

  Simon Rich (1984–) is an American humourist, novelist and screenwriter. He has published two novels and three collections of stories, several of which appeared in The New Yorker. Rich was one of the youngest writers ever hired on Saturday Night Live, and has written for Pixar and The Simpsons.

  When I found out my ex-girlfriend was dating Adolf Hitler, I couldn’t believe it. I always knew on some level that she’d find another boyfriend. She’s smart, cool, incredibly attractive—a girl like that doesn’t stay single forever. Still, I have to admit, the news really took me by surprise.

  I first found out about them from my friend Paul. We were at Murphy’s Pub, watching the World Cup. Argentina was playing, and when they showed a close-up of the crowd, he chuckled.

  “I wonder if we’ll see Anna and Adolf!”

  I could tell by how casually the names rolled off his tongue that they’d been a couple for a while. Everyone, apparently, had been keeping the news from me. I took a sip of bourbon and forced a smile.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I wonder if we’ll see them.”

  Paul’s eyes widened.

  “You knew they were dating, right?”

  “Of course!” I lied. “I mean, everyone knows that.”

  *

  That night, with some help from Facebook, I pieced it all together. Anna met Hitler a few months after dumping me while vacationing in Buenos Aires. He’d been in hiding there ever since the war, earning money as a German-language tutor. She saw him at a café, recognized his moustache, and struck up a conversation. They hit it off almost immediately.

  The relationship progressed quickly, and within a few months, he’d agreed to move into her place in Prospect Heights. It made me nauseous to think about them sharing that apartment. I could still picture it vividly—the clanging of her radiator, the smell of her toothpaste, the softness of her sheets. He’d taken all of it away from me. I knew it was irrational, but I couldn’t help hating the guy.

  *

  A few weeks later, I was at a friend’s party when Anna strolled in with the fuehrer. I bolted for the kitchen and closed the door behind me. I hadn’t seen Anna since we broke up. What was I going to say to her? And what was I going to say to Hitler?

  “You’ve got to at least say hi to them,” Paul begged me. “If you don’t, things will get weird.”

  “Things are already weird,” I said. “She’s dating Adolf Hitler!”

  Paul stared at me blankly.

  “So?”

  I closed my eyes an
d massaged my temples.

  “Well, for starters, he’s a hundred and twenty-four. That makes him old enough to be her great-great-grandfather.”

  Paul shrugged.

  “Other than the wheelchair, he seems pretty youthful.”

  I craned my head out the door just in time to hear Hitler quote a line from Parks and Recreation. His accent was pretty thick, but Anna burst into laughter anyway. The sound of it made my stomach hurt. We’d dated for almost two years and I couldn’t remember ever making her laugh like that.

  “I just don’t like that guy,” I whispered. “I mean, he murdered millions of people.”

  Paul laughed.

  “You don’t like him because he’s dating Anna.”

  I sighed.

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “But don’t you think it’s weird she’s dating him, of all people? I mean, I’m Jewish—he hates Jews.”

  “Don’t make this about you,” Paul said. “Come on, you need to be adult about this.”

  He grabbed my shoulder and shoved me into the living room. As soon as Anna saw me, she sprinted over and hooked her skinny arms around my torso.

  “How are you!” she cooed.

  “Great!” I answered, my body tensing. “Really great!”

  Hitler wheeled over and stretched out his palm.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Adolf Hitler.”

  “Hi,” I said, shaking his hand. “Seth Greenberg.”

  Hitler’s pale lips curled into a grin.

  “Greenberg?” he said. “Uh-oh!”

  Everyone laughed, and I had no choice but to join in. I looked down at my cup; somehow, I was already out of bourbon.

  “Seth’s an artist,” Anna told Hitler. “You should buy some of his paintings.”

  I started to protest but she ignored me.