by Satyajit Ray
‘Fiction or non-fiction, it does not matter. You see, that is something I have never been able to do. And yet, so many adventures, such a lot of experience and research . . . all this should be written and recorded for posterity.’
Experience? Research? What was the man talking about? ‘How many kinds of travellers have you seen?’
His questions were really quite meaningless. How many people were lucky enough to have seen even one traveller?
Badan Babu said, ‘I didn’t even know travellers could be of more than one kind!’
‘Why, there are at least three kinds. Anyone could tell you that! Those who travel on water, those who travel on land and those who travel in the sky. Vasco-da-Gama, Captain Scott and Columbus fall into the first category; and in the second are Hiuen Tsang, Mungo Park, Livingstone and even our own globe-trotter, Umesh Bhattacharya.
‘And in the sky—say, Professor Picquard, who climbed 50,000 feet in a balloon and that youngster, Gagarin. But all of these are ordinary travellers. The kind of traveller I am talking about doesn’t move on water or land or even in the sky.’
‘Where does he move then?’ ‘Time.’
‘What?’
‘He moves in time. A journey into the past. A sojourn in the future. Roaming around freely in both. I don’t worry too much about the present.’
Badan Babu began to see the light. ‘You’re talking about H.G. Wells, aren’t you? The time machine? Wasn’t that a contraption like a cycle with two handles? One would take you to the past and the other to the future? Wasn’t a film made on this story?’
The man laughed contemptuously.
‘That? That was only a story. I am talking of real life. My own experiences. My own machine. It’s a far cry from a fictitious story written by an Englishman.’
Somewhere a steamer blew its horn.
Badan Babu started and pulled his chadar closer. In just a few minutes from now, darkness would engulf everything. Only the little lights on those boats would stay visible.
In the quickly gathering dusk Badan Babu looked at the newcomer once more. The last rays of the sun shone in his eyes.
The man raised his face to the sky and, after a few moments of silence, said, ‘It’s all quite funny, really. Three hundred years ago, right here by this bench, a crocodile happened to be stretched in the sun. There was a crane perched on its head. A Dutch ship with huge sails stood where that small boat is now tied. A sailor came out on the deck and shot at the crocodile with a rifle. One shot was enough to kill it. The crane managed to fly away, but dropped a feather in my lap. Here it is.’
He produced a dazzling white feather from his shoulder bag and gave it to Badan Babu.
‘What . . . are these reddish specks?’
Badan Babu’s voice sounded hoarse.
‘Drops of blood from the injured crocodile fell on the bird.’
Badan Babu returned the feather.
The light in the man’s eyes had dimmed. Visibility was getting poorer by the second. There had been loose bunches of grass and leaves floating in the river. Now they were practically invisible. The water, the earth and the sky had all become hazy and indistinct.
‘Can you tell what this is?’
Badan Babu took the little object in his hand—a small triangular piece, pointed at one end.
‘Two thousand years ago . . . right in the middle of the river—near that floating buoy—a ship with a beautifully patterned sail was making its way to the sea. It was probably a commercial vessel, going to Bali or some such place, to look for business. Standing here with the west wind blowing, I could hear all its thirty-two oars splashing in the water.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, who else? I was hiding behind a banyan tree in this same spot.’
‘Why were you hiding?’
‘I had to. I didn’t know the place was so full of unknown dangers. History books don’t often tell you these things.’
‘You mean wild animals? Tigers?’
‘Worse than tigers. Men. There was a barbarian, about that high,’ he pointed to his waist. ‘Blunt-nosed, dark as darkness. Earrings hung from his ears, a ring from his nose, his body was covered with tattoo marks. He held a bow and an arrow in his hand. The arrow had a poisonous tip.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, every word I utter is the truth.’
‘You saw it all yourself?’
‘Listen to the rest of the story. It was the month of April. A storm had been brewing for some time. Then it started. Oh, what a storm it was, the likes of which I have never seen again! That beautiful ship disappeared amidst the roaring waves before my eyes.’
‘And then?’
‘One solitary figure managed to make it to the shore, riding on a broken wooden plank, dodging the hungry sharks and alligators. But as soon as he got off that plank . . . oh, my God!’
‘What?’
‘You should have seen what that barbarian did to him . . . but then, I didn’t stay till the end. An arrow had come and hit the trunk of the banyan tree. I picked it up and pressed the switch to return to the present.’
Badan Babu did not know whether to laugh or cry. How could that little machine have such magical powers? How was it possible?
The newcomer seemed to read his mind.
‘This machine here,’ he said, ‘has these two rubber tubes. All you need to do is put these into your ears. This switch on the right will take you to the future and the one on the left will take you to the past. The little wheel with a needle has dates and years written on it. You can fix the exact date you wish to travel to. Of course, I must admit there are times when it misses the mark by about twenty years. But that doesn’t make too much difference. It’s a cheap model, you see. So it’s not all that accurate.’
‘Cheap?’ This time Badan Babu was truly surprised. ‘Yes, cheap only in a financial sense. Five thousand years of scientific knowledge and expertise went into its making. People think science has progressed only in the west. And that nothing has happened in this country. I tell you, a tremendous lot has indeed happened here, but how many know about it? We were never a nation to show off our knowledge, were we? The true artist has always stayed in the background, hasn’t he? Look at our history. Does anyone know the names of the painters who drew on the walls of Ajanta? Who carved the temple of Ellora out of ancient hills? Who created the Bhairavi raga? Who wrote the Vedas? The Mahabharata is said to have been written by Vyasa and the Ramayana by Valmiki. But does anyone know of those hundreds of people who worked on the original texts? Or, for that matter, of those that actually contributed to their creation? The scientists in the west have often made a name for themselves by working on complex mathematical formulae. Do you know the starting point of mathematics?’
‘Starting point? What starting point?’ Badan Babu did not know.
‘Zero,’ said the man.
‘Zero?’
‘Yes, zero.’
Badan Babu was taken aback. The man went on. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, zero. These are the only digits used, aren’t they? Zero, by itself, means nothing. But the minute you put it next to one, it gives you ten: one more than nine. Magic! Makes the mind boggle, it does. Yet, we have accepted it as a matter of course. All mathematical formulae are based on these nine digits and zero. Addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, fractions, decimals, algebra, arithmetic—even atoms, rockets, relativity—nothing can work without these ten numbers. And do you know where this zero came from? From India. It went to West Asia first, then to Europe and from there to the whole world. See what I mean? Do you know how the system worked before?’
Badan Babu shook his head. How very limited his own knowledge was!
‘They used the Roman system,’ said the newcomer. ‘There were no digits. All they had were letters. One was I, two was II, three was III, but four became a combination of two letters, IV. Five was again just one letter, V. There was no logic in that system. How would you write 1962? I
t would simply mean writing four different digits, right? Do you know how many letters you’d need in Roman?’
‘How many?’
‘Seven, MCMLXII. Does that make any sense at all? If you had to write 888, you would normally need only three digits. To write that in the Roman style, you’d need a dozen. DCCCLXXXVIII. Can you imagine how long it would have taken scientists to write their huge formulae? They would have all gone prematurely grey, or—worse—totally bald! And the whole business of going to the moon would have been delayed by at least a thousand years. Just think—some unknown, anonymous man from our own country changed the whole concept of mathematics!’
He stopped for breath.
The church clock in the distance struck six.
Why did it suddenly seem brighter?
Badan Babu looked at the eastern sky and saw that the moon had risen behind the roof of the Grand Hotel.
‘Things haven’t changed,’ the man continued. ‘There are still plenty of people in our country who are quite unknown and will probably always stay that way. But their knowledge of science is no less than that of the scientists of the west. They do not often work in laboratories or need papers and books or any other paraphernalia. All they do is think and work out solutions to problems—all in their mind.’
‘Are you one of those people?’ asked Badan Babu softly.
‘No. But I was lucky enough to meet such a man. Not here, of course. I used to travel a lot on foot when I was younger. Went often to the mountains. That is where I met this man. A remarkable character. His name was Ganitananda. But he didn’t just think. He wrote things down. All his mathematical calculations were done on the stones strewn about within a radius of thirty miles from where he lived. Every stone and boulder was scribbled on with a piece of chalk. He had learnt the art of travelling in time from his guru. It was from Ganitananda that I learnt that there had once been a peak higher than the Everest by about 5,000 feet. Forty-seven thousand years ago, a devastating earthquake had made half of it go deeper into the ground. The same earthquake caused a crack in a mountain, from which appeared a waterfall. The river that is now flowing before us began its course from this waterfall.’
Strange! Oh, how strange it all was!
Badan Babu wiped his forehead with a corner of his chadar and said, ‘Did you get that machine from him?’
‘Yes. Well, no, he didn’t actually give it to me. But he did tell me of the components that went into making it. I collected them all and made the machine myself. These tubes here are not really made of rubber. It’s the bark of a tree that’s found only in the hills. I didn’t have to go to a shop or an artisan to get even a single part made. The whole thing is made of natural stuff. I made the markings on the dial myself. But, possibly because it’s hand-made, it goes out of order sometimes. The switch meant for the future hasn’t been working for some time.’
‘Have you travelled to the future?’
‘Yes, once I did. But not too far. Only up to the thirtieth century.’
‘What did you see?’
‘There wasn’t much to see. I was the only person walking along a huge road. A weird-looking vehicle appeared from somewhere and nearly ran me over. I did not try going into the future again.’
‘And how far into the past have you travelled?’ ‘That’s another catch. This machine cannot take me to the very beginning of creation.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes. I tried very hard, but the farthest I could go back to was when the reptiles had already arrived.’
Badan Babu’s throat felt a little dry.
‘What reptiles?’ he asked. ‘Snakes?’
‘Oh no, no. Snakes are pretty recent.’
‘Then?’
‘Well, you know . . . things like the brontosaurus, tyrannosaurus . . . dinosaurs.’
‘You mean you’ve been to other countries as well?’ ‘Ah, you’re making the same mistake. Why should I have had to go to other countries? Do you think our own did not have these things?’
‘Did it?’
‘Of course it did! Right here. By the side of this bench.’ A cold shiver ran down Badan Babu’s spine.
‘The Ganga did not exist then,’ said the man. ‘This place was full of uneven, stony mounds and a lot of wild plants and creepers. There was a dirty pond where you can now see that jetty. I saw a will-o’-the-wisp rise over it and burn brightly, swaying from side to side. In its light, suddenly, I could see a pair of brilliant red eyes. You’ve seen pictures of a Chinese dragon, haven’t you? This was a bit like that. I had seen its picture in a book. So I knew this was what was called a stegosaurus. It was crossing the pond, chewing on some leaves. I knew it would not attack me for it was a herbivorous animal. But, even so, I nearly froze with fear and was about to press the switch to return to the present, when I heard the flutter of wings right over my head. I looked up and saw a pterodactyl—a cross between a bird, an animal and a bat—swoop upon the stegosaurus. My eyes then fell on a large rock lying nearby and the reason for such aggression became clear. Inside a big crack in the rock lay a shiny, round, white egg. The pterodactyl’s egg. Even though I was scared stiff, I couldn’t resist the temptation. The two animals began fighting and I pocketed the egg . . . ha, ha, ha, ha!’
Badan Babu did not join in the laughter. Could this kind of thing really happen outside the realm of fiction?
‘I would have allowed you to test my machine, but . . .’ A nerve in Badan Babu’s forehead began to throb. He swallowed hard. ‘But what?’
‘The chances of getting a satisfactory result are very remote.’
‘Wh-why?’
‘But you can try your luck. At least you don’t stand to lose anything.’
Badan Babu bent forward. Dear God in heaven—please don’t let me be disappointed!
The man tucked the tubes into Badan Babu’s ears, pressed a switch and grabbed his right wrist.
‘I need to watch your pulse.’
Badan Babu whispered nervously, ‘Past? Or the future?’ ‘The past. 6000 bc. Shut your eyes as tightly as you can.’ Badan Babu obeyed and sat in eager anticipation for nearly a whole minute with his eyes closed. Then he said, ‘Why, nothing seems to be . . . happening!’
The man switched the machine off and took it back. ‘The chances were one in a million.’
‘Why?’
‘It would have worked only if the number of hairs on your head was exactly the same as mine.’
Badan Babu felt like a deflated balloon. How sad. How very sad he had to lose such an opportunity!
The newcomer put his hand inside his bag again and brought out something else.
Everything was quite clearly visible now in the moonlight.
‘May I hold it in my hand?’ asked Badan Babu, unable to stop himself. The other man offered him the shiny, round object.
It was quite heavy, and its surface remarkably smooth. ‘All right. Time to go now. It’s getting late.’
Badan Babu returned the egg. Heaven knew what else this man had seen. ‘Hope you’re coming here again tomorrow,’ said Badan Babu.
‘Let’s see. There’s such an awful lot to be done. I am yet to test the validity of all that the history books talk about. First of all, I must examine how Calcutta came into being. What a hue and cry has been raised over Job Charnock . . . ! Allow me to take my leave today. Goodbye!’
Badan Babu reached the tram stop and boarded a tram. Then he slipped his hand into his pocket.
His heart stood still.
The wallet had gone.
There was nothing he could do except make an excuse and get down from the tram immediately.
As he began walking towards his house he felt like kicking himself. ‘Now I know what happened,’ he thought. ‘When I closed my eyes and he held my hand . . . what a fool I made of myself!’
It was past 8 p.m. by the time he reached home. Biltu’s face lit up at the sight of his father.
By then, Badan Babu had started to feel more relaxed. ‘I’
ll tell you a good story today,’ he said, unbuttoning his shirt.
‘Really? You mean it? It won’t be a flop like all those others . . .?’
‘No, no. I really mean it.’
‘What kind of story, Baba?’
‘The Pterodactyl’s Egg. And many more. It won’t finish in a day.’ If one considered carefully, the material he had collected today to make up stories for Biltu, to bring a few moments of joy into his life, was surely worth at least fifty-five rupees and thirty-two paise?
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1962
The Hungry Septopus
There it was again—the sound of someone rattling the knocker on my front door. I gave an involuntary exclamation of annoyance. This was the fourth interruption this evening. How was a man expected to work? There was no sign of Kartik, either. He had left for the market a long time ago.
I was forced to leave my desk and open the door myself. It took me a while to recognize the man who was standing outside. When I did, I felt profoundly startled. Why, it was Kanti Babu!
‘What a surprise! Do come in,’ I said.
‘So you have recognized me?’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t easy.’
I showed him into the living room and offered him a seat. I had not seen him in ten years. His appearance had undergone a remarkable change in that time. In 1950, I had seen the same man in a forest in Assam, jumping around with a magnifying glass in his hand. He was nearly fifty then, but all his hair was still black. He bubbled all the time with energy and endless enthusiasm. Such vitality would be hard to find even among the young.
‘Are you still interested in orchids?’ Kanti Babu asked. There was an orchid in a pot resting on my window-sill. It was, in fact, a gift from Kanti Babu himself. I wasn’t really interested in plants any more. It was Kanti Babu who had once aroused my curiosity about them. But after he went abroad, I had lost my interest gradually. There were other hobbies and interests, too, but I had given them up as well. Now my only passion was writing.
Things had changed over the years. Now it was possible to make money just by writing. To tell the truth, my last three books had brought me an income that was almost wholly sufficient to meet my household expenses. Not that I had a big house to run—there was only my widowed mother to take care of, and my servant, Kartik. I still had a job, but was hoping to give it up if my writing continued to bring me success. I would write full-time, and when I could take a break, I would travel. That was my plan.