The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is this Earth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah, I thought as much. My instruments are not working properly. I was supposed to go to Pluto. I wasn’t sure where I had landed, so I spoke to you first in the language they use on Pluto. When you didn’t reply, I could tell I had landed on Earth. A complete waste of time and effort. It happened once before. Instead of going to Mars, I veered off and went to Jupiter. Delayed me by a whole day, it did. Heh heh heh!’

  Bonku Babu did not know what to say. He was feeling quite uncomfortable, for the creature had started to press his arms and legs with its long, slim fingers. When it finished, it introduced itself. ‘I am Ang, from the planet Craneus. A far superior being than man.’

  What! This creature, barely four feet tall, with such thin limbs and weird face, was superior to man? Bonku Babu nearly burst out laughing. Ang read his mind immediately. ‘There’s no need to be so sceptical. I can prove it. How many languages do you know?’

  Bonku Babu scratched his head. ‘Bengali, English and . . . er . . . Hindi . . . a little Hindi . . . I mean . . .’

  ‘You mean two and a half?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know 14,000. There isn’t a single language in your solar system that I do not know. I also know thirty-one languages spoken on planets outside your system. I have been to twenty-five of them. How old are you?’

  ‘I am fifty.’

  ‘I am 833. Do you eat animals?’

  Bonku Babu had had meat curry only recently, on the day of Kali Puja. How could he deny it?

  ‘We stopped eating meat several centuries ago,’ Ang informed him. ‘Before that, we used to eat the flesh of most creatures. I might have eaten you.’

  Bonku Babu swallowed hard.

  ‘Take a look at this!’ Ang offered him a small object. It looked like a pebble. Bonku Babu touched it for an instant, and felt the same electric current pass through his body. He withdrew his hand at once.

  Ang smiled. ‘A little while ago, you could not move an inch. Do you know why? It was only because I had this little thing in my hand. It would stop anyone from getting closer. Nothing can be more effective than this in making an enemy perfectly powerless, without actually hurting him physically.’

  Now Bonku Babu felt genuinely taken aback. His mind was feeling far less stunned.

  Ang said, ‘Is there any place that you have wished to visit, or a scene that you have longed to see, but never could?’

  Bonku Babu thought: why, the whole world remained to be seen! He taught geography, but what had he seen except a few villages and towns in Bengal? There was so much in Bengal itself that he had never had the chance to see. The snow-capped Himalayas, the sea in Digha, the forests in the Sunderbans, or even that famous banyan tree in Shibpur.

  However, he mentioned none of these thoughts to Ang. ‘There is so much I would like to see,’ he finally admitted, ‘but most of all . . . I think I would like to visit the North Pole. I come from a warm country, you see, so . . .’

  Ang took out a small tube, one end of which was covered by a piece of glass. ‘Take a look through this!’ Ang invited. Bonku Babu peered through the glass, and felt all his hair rise. Could this be true? Could he really believe his eyes? Before him stretched an endless expanse of snow, dotted with large mounds, also covered with ice and snow. Above him, against a deep blue sky, all the colours of a rainbow were forming different patterns, changing every second. The Aurora Borealis! What was that? An igloo. There was a group of polar bears. Wait, there was another animal. A strange, peculiar creature . . . Yes! It was a walrus. There were two of them, in fact. And they were fighting. Their tusks were bared—large as radishes—and they were attacking each other. Streams of bright red blood were running on the soft white snow . . .

  It was December, and Bonku Babu was looking at an area hidden under layers of snow. Still, he broke into a sweat.

  ‘What about Brazil? Don’t you wish to go there?’ asked Ang.

  Bonku Babu remembered instantly—piranhas, those deadly carnivorous fish! Amazing. How did this Ang know what he would like to see?

  Bonku Babu peered through the tube again. He could see a dense forest. Only a little scattered sunlight had crept in through the almost impenetrable foliage. There was a huge tree, and hanging from a branch . . . what was that? Oh God, he could never even have imagined the size of that snake. Anaconda! The name flashed through his mind. Yes, he had read somewhere about it. It was said to be much, much larger than a python.

  But where was the fish? Oh, here was a canal. Crocodiles lined its banks, sleeping in the sun. One of them moved. It was going to go into the water. Splash! Bonku Babu could almost hear the noise. But . . . what was that? The crocodile had jumped out of the water very quickly. Was . . . could it be the same one that went in only a few seconds ago? With his eyes nearly popping out, Bonku Babu noted that there was virtually no flesh left on the belly of the crocodile, bones were showing through clearly. Attached to the remaining flesh were five fish with amazingly sharp teeth and a monstrous appetite. Piranhas!

  Bonku Babu could not bear to watch any more. His limbs were trembling, his head reeled painfully.

  ‘Now do you believe that we are superior?’ Ang wanted to know.

  Bonku Babu ran his tongue over his parched lips. ‘Yes. Oh yes. Certainly. Of course!’ he croaked.

  ‘Very well. Look, I have been watching you. And I have examined your arms and legs. You belong to a much inferior species. There is no doubt about that. However, as human beings go, you are not too bad. I mean, you are a good man. But you have a major fault. You are much too meek and mild. That is why you have made so little progress in life. You must always speak up against injustice, and protest if anyone hurts or insults you without any provocation. To take it quietly is wrong, not just for man, but for any creature anywhere. Anyway, it was nice to have met you, although I wasn’t really supposed to be here at this time. There’s no point in wasting more time on your Earth. I had better go.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Ang. I am very glad to have made your . . .’

  Bonku Babu could not complete his sentence. In less than a second, almost before he could grasp what was happening, Ang had leapt into his spaceship and risen over Poncha Ghosh’s bamboo grove. Then he vanished completely. Bonku Babu realized that the crickets had started chirping again. It was really quite late.

  Bonku Babu resumed walking towards his house, his mind still in a wondrous haze. Slowly, the full implications of the recent events began to sink in. A man—no, it was not a man, it was Ang—came here from some unknown planet, who knew if anyone had ever heard its name, and spoken to him. How extraordinary! How completely incredible! There were billions and billions of people in the world. But who got the chance to have this wonderful experience? Bonkubihari Datta, teacher of geography and Bengali in the Kankurgachhi Primary School. No one else. From today, at least in this particular matter, he was unique, in the whole wide world.

  Bonku Babu realized that he was no longer walking. With a spring in every step, he was actually dancing.

  The next day was a Sunday. Everyone had turned up for their usual meeting at Sripati Babu’s house. There was a report in the local paper about a strange light, but it was only a small report. This light had been seen by a handful of people in only two places in Bengal. It was therefore being put in the same category as sightings of flying saucers.

  Tonight, Poncha Ghosh was also present at the meeting. He was talking about his bamboo grove. All the bamboo around the pond in the middle of the wood had shed all their leaves. It was not unusual for leaves to drop in winter, but for so many plants to become totally bare overnight was certainly a remarkable occurrence. Everyone was talking about it, when suddenly Bhairav Chakravarty said, ‘Why is Bonku so late today?’

  Everyone stopped talking. So far, no one had noticed Bonku Babu’s absence.

  ‘I don’t think Bunkum will show his face here today. Didn’t he get an earful yes
terday when he tried to open his mouth?’ said Nidhu Babu.

  ‘No, no,’ Sripati Babu sounded concerned, ‘we must have Bonku. Ramkanai, go and see if you can get hold of him.’

  ‘OK, I’ll go as soon as I’ve had my tea,’ replied Ramkanai and was about to take a sip, when Bonku Babu entered the room. No, to say ‘entered’ would be wrong. It was as if a small hurricane swept in, in the guise of a short, dark man, throwing everyone into stunned silence.

  Then it swung into action. Bonku Babu burst into a guffaw, and laughed uproariously for a whole minute, the like of which no one had heard before, not even Bonku Babu himself.

  When he could finally stop, he cleared his throat and began speaking:

  ‘Friends! I have great pleasure in telling you that this is the last time you will see me at your meeting. The only reason I am here today is simply that I would like to tell you a few things before I go. Number one—this is for all of you—you speak a great deal of rubbish. Only fools talk of things they don’t know anything about. Number two—this is for Chandi Babu—at your age, hiding other people’s shoes and umbrellas is not just childish, but totally wrong. Kindly bring my umbrella and brown canvas shoes to my house tomorrow. Nidhu Babu, if you call me Bunkum, I will call you Nitwit, and you must learn to live with that. And Sripati Babu, you are an important man, of course you must have hangers-on. But let me tell you, from today you can count me out. If you like, I can send my cat, it’s quite good at licking feet. And . . . oh, you are here as well, Poncha Babu! Let me inform you and everyone else, that last night, an Ang arrived from the planet Craneus and landed on the pond in your bamboo grove. We had a long chat. The man . . . sorry, the Ang . . . was most amiable.’

  Bonku Babu finished his speech and slapped Bhairav Chakravarty’s back so hard that he choked. Then he made his exit, walking swiftly, his head held high.

  In the same instant, the cup fell from Ramkanai’s hand, shattering to pieces, and splattering hot tea on most of the others.

  Translated by Gopa Majumdar

  First published in Bengali in 1962

  The Pterodactyl’s Egg

  Badan Babu had stopped going to Curzon Park after work. He used to enjoy his daily visits to the park. Every evening he would go straight from his office and spend about an hour, just resting quietly on a bench, beside the statue of Suren Banerjee. Then, when the crowds in the trams grew marginally thinner, he would catch one back to his house in Shibthakur Lane.

  Now new tram lines had been laid inside the park. The noise of the traffic had ruined the atmosphere totally. There was no point in trying to catch a few quiet moments here. Yet, it was impossible to go back home straight after office, packed into a bus like sardines in a tin.

  Besides, Badan Babu simply had to find some time every day to try and enjoy the little natural beauty that was left in the city. He might be no more than an ordinary clerk, but God had given him a lively imagination. He had thought of so many different stories sitting on that bench in Curzon Park. But there had never been the time to write them down. Had he, indeed, managed to find the time, no doubt he would have made quite a name for himself.

  However, not all his efforts had been wasted.

  His seven-year-old son, Biltu, was an invalid. Since he was incapable of moving around, most of his time was spent listening to stories. Both his parents told him stories of all kinds—fairy tales, folk tales, funny tales and spooky tales, tales they had heard and tales they had read. In the last three years, he had been told at least a thousand stories. Badan Babu had lately been making up stories himself for his son. He usually did this sitting in Curzon Park.

  Over the last few weeks, however, Biltu had made it plain that he no longer enjoyed all his stories. One look at Biltu’s face was enough to see that he had been disappointed.

  This did not surprise Badan Babu very much. It was not possible to think up a good plot during the day; this time was spent doing his work in the office. And now that the peace of Curzon Park had been shattered, his only chance of sitting there in the evening and doing a bit of thinking was lost forever.

  He tried going to Lal Deeghi a few times. Even that did not work. The huge, monstrous communications building next to the Deeghi blocked a large portion of the sky. Badan Babu felt suffocated there.

  After that even the park near Lal Deeghi was invaded by tram lines and Badan Babu was forced to look for a different spot.

  Today, he had come to the riverside.

  After walking along the iron railings for about a quarter of a mile on the southern side of Outram Ghat, he found an empty bench.

  There was Fort William, not far away. In fact, he could see the cannon. The cannonball stood fixed at the end of an iron rod, almost like a giant lollipop.

  Badan Babu recalled his schooldays. The cannon went off every day at 1 p.m., the boys came rushing out for their lunch break and the headmaster, Harinath Babu, took out his pocket-watch religiously and checked the time.

  The place was quiet, though not exactly deserted. A number of boats were tied nearby and one could see the boatmen talking among themselves. A grey, Japanese ship was anchored in the distance. Further down, towards Kidderpore, the skyline was crowded with masts of ships and pulleys.

  This was a pleasant place.

  Badan Babu sat down on the bench.

  Through the smoke from the steamers he could see a bright spot in the sky. Could it be Venus?

  It seemed to Badan Babu that he had not seen such a wide expanse of sky for a long time. Oh, how huge it was, how colossal! This was just what he needed for his imagination to soar.

  Badan Babu took off his canvas shoes and sat cross-legged on the bench.

  He was going to make up for lost time and find new plots for a number of stories today. He could see Biltu’s face—happy and excited!

  ‘Namaskar.’

  Oh no! Was he going to be disturbed here too?

  Badan Babu turned and found a stranger standing near the bench: a man, exceedingly thin, about fifty years old, wearing brown trousers and a jacket, a jute bag slung from one shoulder. His features were not clear in the twilight, but the look in his eyes seemed to be remarkably sharp.

  A contraption hung from his chest. Two rubber tubes attached to it were plugged into the man’s ears.

  ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you,’ said the newcomer with a slight smile. ‘Please don’t mind. I’ve never seen you before, so . . .’

  Badan Babu felt considerably put out. Why did the man have to come and force himself on him? Now all his plans were upset. What was he going to tell poor Biltu?

  ‘You’ve never seen me for the simple reason that I have never come here before,’ he said. ‘In a big city like this, isn’t it natural that the number of people one has never seen should be more than the number of people one has?’

  The newcomer ignored the sarcasm and said, ‘I have been coming here every day for the last four years.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I sit here in this very spot every day. This is where I do my experiments, you know.’

  Experiments? What kind of experiments could one do in this open space by the riverside? Was the man slightly mad?

  But what if he was something else? He could be a hooligan, couldn’t he? Or a pickpocket?

  Good God—today had been pay day! Badan Babu’s salary—two new, crisp hundred-rupee notes—was tied up in a handkerchief and thrust into his pocket. His wallet had fifty-five rupees and thirty-two paise.

  Badan Babu rose. It was better to be safe than sorry. ‘Are you leaving? So soon? Are you annoyed with me?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Well, then? You got here just now only, didn’t you? Why do you want to leave so soon?’

  Perhaps Badan Babu was being over-cautious. There was no need to feel so scared. After all, there were all those people in the boats, not far away.

  Still Badan Babu hesitated. ‘No, I must go. It’s getting late.’ ‘Late? It’s only half-past five.’

&
nbsp; ‘I have to go quite far.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Right up to Bagbazar.’

  ‘Pooh—that’s not very far! It’s not as though you have to go to a suburb like Serampore or Chuchrah or even Dakshineshwar!’

  ‘Even so, it will mean spending at least forty minutes in a tram. And then it takes about ten minutes to get to my house from the tram stop.’

  ‘Yes, there is that, of course.’

  The newcomer suddenly became a little grave. Then he began muttering to himself, ‘Forty plus ten. That makes fifty. I am not very used to calculating minutes and hours. My system is different . . . do sit down. Just for a bit. Please.’

  Badan Babu sat down again. There was something in the man’s eyes and his voice that compelled him to stay back. Was this what was known as hypnotism?

  ‘I don’t ask everyone to sit by me for a chat. But you strike me as a man different from others. You like to think. You’re not bound only by monetary considerations like 99.9 per cent of people. Am I right?’

  Badan Babu said hesitantly, ‘Well, I don’t know . . . I mean . . .’

  ‘And you’re modest! Good. I can’t stand people who brag. If it was all just a question of bragging, no one would have the right to do so more than me.’

  The newcomer stopped speaking. Then he took out the rubber tubes from his ears and said, ‘I get worried sometimes. If I pressed the switch in the dark accidentally, all hell would break loose.’

  At this point, Badan Babu could not help asking the question that was trembling on his lips.

  ‘Is that a stethoscope? Or is it something else?’

  The man ignored the question completely. How rude, thought Badan Babu. But, before he could say anything further, the other man threw a counter question at him, in an irrelevant manner.

  ‘Do you write?’

  ‘Write? You mean—fiction?’