by Satyajit Ray
SATYAJIT RAY
The Mystery of Munroe Island and Other Stories
Translated from the Bengali by Indrani Majumdar
Introduction by Victor Banerjee
PUFFIN BOOKS
Contents
Introduction
1. Dr Schering’s Memory
2. Hypnojen
3. The Black Night of Professor Shonku
4. Shonku’s Golden Opportunity
5. The Mystery of Munroe Island
6. A Messenger from Space
7. Nakur Babu and El Dorado
8. Shonku’s Expedition to the Congo
9. Shonku and the UFO
10. EA
Translator’s Note
Footnote
Introduction
Follow Penguin
Copyright
Introduction
I’d be lying if I told you I had read Shonku as a child. For starters, I went to a boarding school in the hills where my Bengali teacher was a waddly wobbly wheezer who spat through the gaps in his rotting teeth as he spoke and smothered us with vaporous clouds of halitosis that drove me to study the plebian language of rickshawallahs and phuchkawallahs instead, Hindi. In other words, it eventually stood me in good stead.
The truth, of course, is that Shonku landed from the Red Planet into our Sandesh when we were studying for our Senior Cambridge and solving algebraic puzzles and geometric theorems and staring like idiots at calculus, logarithm tables and dividers and protractors. All this was under the stern gaze of an enormous and powerful Irish Christian Brother called Cooney, who looked like a bulldog and dressed in an unwashed black habit all year long that smelled of the tobacco which spilled from his pipe into his pockets and everywhere he went. This monstrous Irishman would whimper ‘meow’ under his breath so his clouded pet alley cat could hear him and follow him around with its tail held erect and twitching.
Now let me put two and two together in arithmetic progression and tell you that it was on one rainy afternoon in Shillong that that smelly bundle of linguistics, our Bengali teacher (for he, like Shonku, spoke several languages that he probably picked up on his trek through Japanese battle lines in Burma into India, like our Bengali Chemistry professor had), terrified of Cooney and allergic to his cat, slunk into the shadows of our hallway with a snuff-smeared handkerchief stuffed up his nose, to let the monsters pass and whispered, ‘Byata Irish Byomjatri aar Newton,’* and thus, quite fortuitously, introduced us to the crazy world of Professor Shonku—and sneezed.
Worlds in which sailing ships sailed through Southern seas, in waters traumatized by Black Hole Brandon the Pirate with a gouged-out hole for an eye, suddenly disappearing in the mysterious Bermuda waters with all hands on board, or flying to Tibet to hover over unicorns in Utopia, or where under the curse of an enraged fakir, Professor Shonku brings a dinosaur to life from its skeletal remains. Ray mesmerizes you with extraterrestrial beings and potions and magic and inventions that are creations of a mind which dwelt in fantasies and romance that would one day produce Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne, arguably the most successful film in Bengal’s fantastical box office history.
From the corridors and laboratories of Scottish Church College in Calcutta to the world of the Third Reich, Subhash Chandra Bose might have gone to Germany to meet Adolf the Führer, but his college’s young physics Professor Shonku had gone there to teach Herr Goering a trick or two and slyly slip away from Nazi Germany before the world war began.
Indrani Majumdar’s charming volume of work isn’t a translation at all. Indrani seems more like a mesmerized raconteur of Professor Shonku’s adventures and Satyajit Ray’s magical mischief in prose. How else can you interpret ‘holding a freshly-delivered egg in your hand is strikingly similar to the experience of gazing at so fine a sky’?
While I sit back on my rocking chair, by a log fire in the mountains where the air is thin, having popped a tablet of ‘Cerebrilliant’ and snorted a line of ‘oximore’ that jumpstarts an addled brain, I watch my Persian cat lick the saucer clean of ‘Marjarin’ that has the power to immortalize the purring Newtons of this world and contemplate strafing the globe with ‘Hypnojen’ from sleek black stealth bombers and UFOs, so we can forever forget the atrocities we perpetrate on fellow men and destroy Shonku’s ‘Remembrain’ so we would never remember them again. Shonku’s worlds are an enthralling escape, a consummation, in a sea of troubles, devoutly to be wished.
This is a thrilling volume for all ages of man. Gripping, analytical, suspenseful and amusing. I loved it—cover to cover.
Victor Banerjee
June 2015
Dr Schering’s Memory
2 January
What a splendid morning! The clear blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds, as well as the bright sunshine, can almost give you the mistaken feel of autumn. The pleasure you get holding a freshly-delivered egg in your hand is strikingly similar to the experience of gazing at so fine a sky.
Of course there’s another reason for my happiness. I’m actually resting after a very long time. This morning I finished working on my latest gadget. After returning from my garden to the laboratory, I sat down to take a long look at my new invention; this act of introspection gives me a feeling of great satisfaction. The device doesn’t look much when viewed from the outside. At the most, it gives you an impression of a fashionable helmet or hat. The inside of this helmet contains 72,000 wires interwoven intricately into a dense electric circuit. It’s the result of three years of untiring hard work. Let me give you an easy example to demonstrate how the invention works.
Just now, as I was resting on my chair, my man Friday, Prahlad, brought me a cup of coffee. I asked him, ‘What fish did you buy on the 7th of last month?’ After scratching his head a couple of times, he said, ‘I don’t remember this, Babu!’ Then I asked him to sit on a chair, placed the helmet on his head and pressed a button. Prahlad’s entire body shook for a while and then suddenly became still. In addition, his face bore a completely vacant look. I repeated my question.
‘Prahlad, on the 7th of last month, what fish did you purchase?’
Upon hearing the question this time, there was no change in his expression and his lips parted only to utter the word, ‘Tyangra.’
When I removed the helmet from his head, Prahlad stared blankly at me for a moment. He then suddenly jumped up from the chair and, with a beaming smile said, ‘I now remember, Babu—it was Tyangra!’
Prahlad is only an example. This contraption can refresh anyone’s memory at any given point of time. Apparently every human being’s head has a collection of 1,000,000,000,000—i.e. one hundred trillion—memories, some clear and some hazy. These include scenes, incidents, names, faces, tastes, smells, songs, stories and countless other details. On an average, a person loses his or her memory of the first two years of life quite easily. My own memory is far superior compared to others. I still remember a few things from when I was eleven months old. But then, too, a few of my childhood memories have also faded a little. For instance, when I was a year and three months old, I remember the local magistrate Blackwell, cane in hand, taking a walk with his dog by the banks of the Usri. The dog was white in colour but I couldn’t remember its exact breed. But when I put the helmet on and recollected the scene, I immediately identified the dog as a bull terrier.
I’ve named this invention Remembrain, that is, a machine that helps your brain to remember old memories. Yesterday I sent an article about this in the English journal, Nature. Let’s see what follows.
23 February
My article has appeared in Nature and ever since I’ve been receiving countless letters in response. People from Europe, America, Russia and Japan have all showed their eag
erness to study this machine. On the 7th of May, there will be a science summit in Brussels where I have been requested to demonstrate this apparatus. In the world of scientists, none seem willing to believe that such a machine could be conceived, though they all are well aware of my calibre. The fact remains that the enigma of memory is still well beyond the realm of science and neurology. My own understanding is that when a fact enters your head it takes the form of a memory. I think each memory is equivalent to a chemical substance and each memory is marked by a different molecular structure. As years go by, memory fades away as no element can remain constant forever. My machine creates an electric current in the head to recharge the structure of the memory, which in turn helps to refresh one’s memory.
I know many will question me on how I managed to work on such a machine despite not unravelling the basic mystery of memory. Even one-fourth of the knowledge that we now have about electric power wasn’t available a century ago. Yet, despite such lack of knowledge on this subject, amazing inventions were carried out in the world of electrical gadgets. Similarly, I too discovered my own equipment, Remembrain. In short, this would be my reply.
I was very amused by a letter I received in response to my article in Nature. An American millionaire industrialist, Hiram Horenstein, has mentioned that while writing his memoirs he could not clearly remember the incidents which had taken place before the age of twenty-seven. He plans to use this machine in order to revive his memory and to do so he is ready to recompense me adequately. In my reply, I mentioned very gently that my machine had not been invented to fulfil the desires of whimsical millionaires.
4 March
My morning began with reading the news of a horrible accident in Switzerland. Within half an hour I received a long telegram about this very accident. What a clear case of telepathy! The news which the paper reported was basically this: two noted scientists, Auto Lubin from Switzerland and Dr Heironimus Schering from Austria, were travelling in a car from the city of Landeck in Austria to Walenstadt in Switzerland. In the recent past, these two luminaries had been working on some scientific research, the subject of which was hitherto kept a secret. Both Lubin and Schering had been sitting at the back of the car. While driving down a hillside, the car fell into a deep gorge. A cowherd from a nearby village spotted the ruined car dangling precariously from a height of one thousand feet. Lubin’s crushed body was located lying close to the car. Dr Schering had a miraculous escape. His body was caught in a bunch of bushes thirty feet below the road.
The moment this news reached Walenstadt, Norbert Busch, the Swiss biochemist, arrived on the scene. Lubin and Schering were both on their way to visit Busch in order to take a break. Busch put the unconscious body of Dr Schering into his spacious Mercedes Benz and brought him home. The newspaper had reported this much. The rest of the news I received via the telegram which Busch sent me. I must mention that I have known Busch for over ten years. We first met each other during a conference held in Florence. Busch has written—
‘Though Schering’s body bears no mark of injury, the wound in his head has erased his memory completely. And the additional news is, the driver is absconding and so are the research papers. The doctors, psychiatrists, hypnotists and others have all failed to revive Schering’s memory.’
Busch has asked me to join him in Walenstadt immediately. Busch will bear the expense for this trip himself. He states at the end of the telegram, ‘Dr Schering is an outstanding individual. The science fraternity will eternally remain grateful to you if you bring him back to his normal self. Please let me know about your decision soon.’
I’ll never find a more opportune moment to test the true potential of my machine. I need to organize my trip to Walenstadt right away. My machine is cent per cent portable. It weighs only eight kilos. There’s no question of paying the airlines for extra baggage.
8 March
After landing in Zurich, I enjoyed the sylvan surroundings of the mountains as I was driven to the tiny town of Walenstadt, sixty kilometres away from Zurich, in Busch’s car. I reached around 8.45 a.m. Soon I’ll be called for breakfast. Meanwhile, sitting in my room I made a quick entry in my diary. Surrounded by trees and flowers, biochemist Norbert Busch’s house is built upon an area of 14 acres against a picturesque landscape. The house has wooden floors, a wooden staircase and wood-panelled walls. My room is west facing, on the second floor. When I open the window, I can see the Walen Lake surrounded by hills. Packed in a plastic bag, my machine is resting on a table next to the bed. I don’t think there’ll be any flaw in my hosts’ hospitality. Just now Busch’s three-year-old son, Willie, offered me a packet of chocolates. The child is very friendly and lovable. He freely roams around the house, reciting nursery rhymes and humming songs and jingles. Within minutes after my alighting from the car and greeting everyone, Willie came towards me and holding out a black cigar case said, ‘Will you have a cigar?’ I’m a non-smoker but trying not to disappoint the child I thanked him and took out a cigar from the case. If one needs to smoke at all it has to be a cigar; a high quality Dutch cigar like this one.
Six people are at present living in this house. Busch and his wife, Clara, Master Willie, Busch’s friend—who is also Willie’s teacher—the charming and quiet Hans Ulrich, and Dr Schering and his nurse, whose name probably is Maria. In addition, two policemen are constantly on vigil outside the house.
Schering’s room faces the east. In between our rooms, there’s a landing and a staircase leading to the ground floor.
Soon after reaching the house I went to meet Schering. He is of an average height, aged around fifty with blond hair showing a bald patch at the back. The shape of the face is somewhere between square and round. When I entered his room, he was sitting on a chair next to a window, playing with a wooden doll. When he saw me enter, he turned his head in my direction but didn’t get up from the chair. I realized he has forgotten the very basic manner of greeting a man by standing up. When I saw his face, I was stuck by a certain doubt. I asked him, ‘Do you wear glasses?’
On reflex, Schering’s left hand had reached near his eyes and then he put his hand down. Busch replied, ‘His glasses have broken. A new pair has been ordered.’
After meeting Schering, we went to the drawing room. Following an exchange of pleasantries, Busch sheepishly confessed, ‘To be very frank, I wasn’t that enthusiastic about your new machine. In fact, I sent you that telegram partly at my wife’s request.’
‘Is your wife a scientist, too?’ I asked, looking in Clara’s direction.
Clara smiled. ‘No, not at all. I work as my husband’s secretary. I was very keen that you come. I have deep respect for India. I’ve read a lot of books on India and happen to know quite a bit about your country.’
If Busch has some reservations about my machine, he is sure to change his mind today. This evening, I’ll try to unlock Schering’s blocked memory.
At this point I couldn’t help but enquire about the missing driver. Busch said, ‘The cops are still investigating. He could be hiding in one place out of the two. He could either be westbound from the place of the accident, towards Remus, about four-and-a-half kilometres away, or eastbound—about three-and-a-half kilometres away, towards Schleins. The investigations are under way at both these locations. In addition, one team is also combing the forest areas adjacent the hills.’
‘How far is the site of accident from here?’
‘Eighty-five kilometres. The absconding driver has to take shelter somewhere as it snows at night in that region. My fear is that he could have passed on all the documents to an accomplice.’
8 March, 10.30 p.m.
There is a bright fire in the fireplace. A strong and cold wind is blowing outside. Despite the tightly-shut windows, one can clearly hear the howling of the wind.
Busch is amazed to realize my true potential as a scientist. Now, it’ll be difficult to gauge who’s a bigger fan of mine—he or his wife.
Today at six in the evening, we all a
ssembled in Schering’s room along with my device. He was still sitting in his chair like a zombie. He gave us a glazed look when we entered. After greeting him, Busch said in a jovial tone, ‘We’ll put a cap on your head today. Is that all right? It won’t hurt you at all. You can continue to sit in the same chair.’
‘A cap? What sort of a cap?’ Schering asked in his deep yet mellow voice, sounding a bit uncomfortable.
‘Just take a look.’
I took the gadget out of my bag. Busch handed it over to Schering. Just like when he was playing with the toy in the morning, he felt it and gave it back to me.
‘Will this give me pain? The injection did hurt me that day.’
After receiving our assurances it wouldn’t hurt, he relaxed and leaned back in the chair, letting his arms fall loosely by each side of the chair. Other than the mark of a sticking plaster on the wound near his neck, I didn’t notice any overt sign of injury.
I faced no difficulty in putting the helmet on Schering’s head. Then I pressed the red button and the battery of the helmet began to function. With a jerk, Schering’s body turned stiff and wooden, and he stared at the fireplace blankly.
The room was deathly silent. I can still visualize the whole scene. With the exception of Schering himself, I could hear everyone breathing. Clara was standing in front of the door. The nurse was standing at the back of the bed, looking at Schering in fascination. Busch and Ulrich were standing on either side of the chair, bending forward in sheer tension.
I whispered to Busch, ‘Would you like to ask him questions? Or should I? It’ll work equally well if you do.’
‘You might as well start.’
I pulled out a stool from the corner of the room and sitting down in front of Schering began my interrogation.
