The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  Suddenly, Kanti Babu shivered. ‘Are you feeling cold? Shall I close the window? The winter in Calcutta this year . . .’ I began.

  ‘No, no. You saw me shiver? It happens sometimes. I am getting old, you see. So my nerves are no longer . . .’

  I wanted to ask a lot of questions. Kartik had returned. I asked him to bring us tea.

  ‘I won’t take up a lot of your time,’ said Kanti Babu. ‘I came across one of your novels recently. So I got in touch with your publisher, took your address, and well, here I am. There is a special reason why I had to see you.’

  ‘Yes? Tell me all about it. But before you do, there’s so much I want to know. When did you return? Where were you all these years? Where are you now?’

  ‘I returned two years ago. Before that I was in America. Now I live in Barasat.’

  ‘Barasat?’

  ‘I bought a house there.’ ‘Does it have a garden?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘And a greenhouse?’

  In the house that I had visited before, Kanti Babu had a lovely greenhouse, in which he tended, with great care, several of his rare plants. I had seen such a large number of strange and weird plants there! Of orchids alone he had more than sixty varieties. One could easily pass a whole day just looking at and enjoying their different colours and other characteristics.

  Kanti Babu paused for a second before saying, ‘Yes, there is a greenhouse.’

  ‘So you’re still as mad about plants as you were ten years ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kanti Babu was staring at the opposite wall. Automatically, I followed his gaze. The wall was covered by the skin of a Royal Bengal tiger, including the head.

  ‘Does it seem familiar to you?’ I asked.

  ‘Is it that same tiger?’

  ‘Yes. See that hole close to its left ear? That’s where the bullet passed through.’

  ‘You were a remarkable shot. Can you still shoot with such perfect accuracy?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t used my gun for a long time. I gave up shikar more than five years ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had had enough. I mean, I had killed enough animals. After all, I’m not getting any younger. It was time to stop destroying wild life.’

  ‘Really? So have you stopped eating meat? Are you now a vegetarian?’

  ‘No. No, I am not.’

  ‘Why not? Killing a wild animal is just plain killing. Say you destroy a tiger, or a crocodile, or a bison, and then you hang its head, or just its horns on your wall. What happens? Your room acquires a special air, some of your visitors are horrified, others are impressed, and you can relive the moments of your youthful adventures. That’s all. But think of the chicken, goats and fish you are not just killing, but also eating every day. It’s more than mere destruction, isn’t it? Why, it’s the digestion of a living creature!’

  There was really nothing I could say in reply. So I remained silent.

  Kartik brought us tea.

  Kanti Babu remained lost in thought for a few moments, then suddenly shivered again and picked up his cup. ‘It isn’t unusual for one particular animal to eat another. Nature made things that way. See that gecko lying in wait over there?’ he asked.

  Over a calendar on the wall sprawled a gecko, staring unblinkingly at an insect, just a couple of inches away from its mouth. Then it moved slowly, ever so slowly, before springing forward in one leap and swallowing its prey.

  ‘There!’ exclaimed Kanti Babu. ‘That takes care of his dinner. Eating is all most creatures are concerned with. Just think about it. A tiger would eat a man, a man would eat a goat, and a goat would eat anything! Doesn’t it all seem terribly wild, primitive and violent? Yet, that is how nature wills it. Stop this cycle, and the whole natural order would be thrown out of gear.’

  ‘Perhaps being a vegetarian is more . . . er . . . civilized?’ ‘Who told you that? You think leaves and vegetables and plants are lifeless? Do they not live?’

  ‘Yes, of course they do. Thanks to Jagadish Bose and you, I can never forget about the life of plants. But it’s different, isn’t it? I mean, animals and plants are not the same, surely?’

  ‘Oh? You think there are a lot of differences between the two?’

  ‘Aren’t there? A tree cannot move, walk, make a noise, express thoughts or feelings—in fact, there’s no way to find out if a tree has a mind at all. Isn’t that true?’

  Kanti Babu opened his mouth to speak, then shut it without saying a word. Silently, he finished his tea and sat with his head bowed. Eventually, when he looked up and met my eyes, I suddenly felt afraid to see the look of tragic uncertainty in his. Truly, the change in the man was extraordinary.

  When he spoke, his voice was quiet. ‘Parimal,’ he said, ‘I live twenty- one miles away. And I am fifty-eight years old. But despite my age and the long distance I had to travel, I took the trouble to get your address and visit you here. Surely I don’t need to tell you now that there is a very important reason behind my visit? You can see that, can’t you? Or have you lost all your intelligence in trying to produce popular fiction? Are you looking at me right now and thinking: here’s a new type—I can use him in a story?’

  I had to look away, flushing with embarrassment. Kanti Babu was right. The thought of using him as a character had indeed occurred to me.

  ‘Remember this,’ he went on. ‘If you lose touch with the realities of life, whatever you write will simply be lies, empty and hollow. Besides, no matter how lively your imagination is, what emerges from it can never match the surprises real life can come up with. Anyway, I didn’t come here to give you a lecture. I came, to tell you the truth, to ask a favour.’

  Kanti Babu glanced at the tiger again. What favour was he talking about?

  ‘Do you still have your gun, or did you get rid of it?’

  I gave a slight start, and glanced quickly at him. Why did he mention my gun?

  ‘No, I have still got it. But it may well be rusted. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Can you come to my house tomorrow, with your gun?’ I scanned his face. No, there was not even the slightest sign to imply that he might be joking.

  ‘Of course,’ he added, ‘you’ll need bullets, too. The gun alone won’t be good enough.’

  I could not immediately think of anything to say in reply to Kanti Babu’s request. It even occurred to me once that perhaps he had gone mad, although one could not be sure. He was certainly given to crazy whims. Or else why should he have risked his life in a jungle to look for rare plants?

  ‘I can quite easily take my gun, there’s no problem,’ I said finally. ‘But I am dying to know the reason why it might be needed. Is there an animal bothering the residents in your area? Or perhaps there are burglars and thieves?’

  ‘I will explain everything once you get there. Who knows, we might not even have to use the gun. But even if we do, I can assure you that you will not be arrested!’

  Kanti Babu rose to his feet. Then he came closer and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘I came to you because when I last saw you, you had struck me as a man who would welcome a new experience, very much like myself. Besides, I don’t know many other people. The number of people I actually visited was always small, and now I see virtually no one. The handful of people I could think of contacting are all very different, you see. None of them has the special qualities that you have.’

  Just for a minute, I could feel, in the sudden tightening of my muscles, the same thrill that the mere mention of an adventure used to bring, all those years ago.

  ‘When would you like me to get there? How would I find your house?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you. Just go straight down Jessore Road until you get to the railway station in Barasat. Then you need to find a lake called Madhumurali Deeghi. It’s another four miles from the station. Anyone there will tell you where it is. Next to the lake is an old and abandoned indigo factory. My house is right behind it. Do you have a car?’

  ‘No, but a friend of mi
ne has.’

  ‘Who is this friend?’

  ‘His name is Abhijit. He and I were in college together.’ ‘What kind of a man is he? Do I know him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But he’s a good man. I mean, if you’re wondering whether he’s reliable, I can tell you that he is. Totally.’

  ‘Very well. You may bring him with you. But please make sure that you reach my house before evening. It’s important, needless to say.’

  Kanti Babu left. Since I did not have a telephone at home, I went to our local chemist just across the road to ring Abhijit. ‘Come to my house at once,’ I said to him, ‘I’ve got something urgent to discuss.’

  ‘Urgent? You mean you’ve got a new story you’d like to read out to me? I’ll go to sleep again, let me tell you!’

  ‘No, no. It’s not about a story. Something quite different.’ ‘What is it? Why are you speaking so softly?’

  ‘I’ve come to know about a pup. Mastiff. The man selling it is sitting in my house, right now.’

  I knew Abhijit would not stir out of his house unless I could lure him out by talking of dogs. He had eleven dogs. Each one of them belonged to a different species. Three of those dogs had won prizes. Even five years ago, things were different. But now, Abhijit thought and dreamt of nothing but dogs.

  Apart from his love of dogs, there was something else that made him very special. Abhijit had unflinching faith in my talent and judgement. When my first novel was turned down by publishers, it was Abhijit who provided the money to publish it privately. ‘Mind you,’ he told me, ‘I know nothing of books and literature. But if you have written this book, it cannot possibly be absolute garbage. These publishers are complete idiots!’ As it happened, things turned out quite well. The book was well received and sold a large number of copies. As a result, Abhijit’s faith in me grew stronger.

  He turned up soon enough, and gave me a painful punch when he discovered that I had lied about the pup. However, seeing his enthusiasm regarding the real reason for calling him out, I soon forgot the pain.

  ‘We haven’t had an outing for long time, have we?’ Abhijit said eagerly. ‘The last time was when we went snipe-shooting in Shonarpur. But who is this man? What’s it all about? Why don’t you come clean, my friend?’

  ‘How can I, when he told me nothing? Besides, a little mystery is a good thing. I like it. It should give us the chance to use our imagination.’

  ‘All right, but who is this man? What does he do?’

  ‘His name is Kanticharan Chatterjee. Does that mean anything to you? He was once a professor of botany. Used to teach in Scottish Church College. Then he gave up his job and began looking for rare plants in jungles and forests. Sometimes he wrote about them. He had a wonderful collection of plants, particularly of orchids.’

  ‘How did you get to meet him?’

  ‘I met him in a forest bungalow in Assam. I was there to hunt down a tiger. He was hunting everywhere for a nepenthes.’

  ‘Hunting for what?’

  ‘Nepenthes. It’s the botanical name for what is commonly called a pitcher-plant. You can get it in the forests of Assam. It eats insects. I did not see it myself, but Kanti Babu told me about it.’

  ‘Eats insects? A plant? It . . . chomps on insects?’

  ‘You did not ever study botany, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have seen pictures of this plant. There is no reason to sound so sceptical. It exists.’

  ‘OK. What happened next?’

  ‘Very little. I finished my shikar and came away. Kanti Babu stayed on. I have no idea whether he found that plant or not. What I was afraid of was that he might be killed by a wild animal, or bitten by a snake. When he set off to look for a plant, he thought of nothing else, not even of the dangers in a forest. After coming back to Calcutta, I met him only a couple of times. But I thought of him often, because for a time I developed quite a passion for orchids. Kanti Babu offered to bring me some good quality orchids from America.’

  ‘America? This man went to America?’

  ‘Yes. One of his articles was published in an English botanical journal. It made him quite well known in those circles. Then he was invited to a conference of botanists in America. That was in 1951, or was it ’52? That’s when I last saw him.’

  ‘Was he there all this while? What was he doing?’

  ‘No idea. Hopefully, he’ll tell us tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s not . . . ? I mean, is he perhaps a little eccentric?’ ‘Not any more than you. I can tell you that much. You fill your life with dogs. He fills his with plants.’

  We were now going down Jessore Road in the direction of Barasat, travelling in Abhijit’s Standard.

  There was a third passenger in the car. It was Abhijit’s dog, Badshah. It was my own fault, really. I should have known that, unless otherwise instructed, Abhijit was bound to bring one of his eleven dogs.

  Badshah was a Rampur hound, a ferocious animal. He had spread himself out on the back seat and was sitting very comfortably as its sole occupant, looking out of the window at the wide, open rice fields. Each time a stray dog from a local village came into view, Badshah gave a mild, contemptuous growl.

  When I saw Abhijit arrive with Badshah, I tried to put up a faint protest. At this, Abhijit said, ‘I don’t have a great deal of faith in your skill, you see. That’s why I brought him along. You haven’t handled your gun for years. Should there be trouble, Badshah would probably be of far more use than you. He has an extraordinary sense of smell and is quite, quite fearless.’

  Kanti Babu’s house was not difficult to find. By the time we got there, it was half past two. A driveway led to the house, which was built in the style of a bungalow. Behind the house was an open space. A huge old shirish tree stood where this space ended. By its side was a structure with a tin roof. It looked like a small factory. In front of the house was a garden, at the end of which a long area was covered by another tin roof. A number of shining glass cases stood there in a row.

  Kanti Babu came out to greet us, then frowned slightly as he saw Badshah. ‘Is he a trained dog?’ he asked.

  ‘He’ll listen to everything I say,’ Abhijit told him. ‘But if there’s an untrained dog in the vicinity, and Badshah sees him, well, I couldn’t tell you what he might do then. Is there such a dog?’

  ‘No. But for the moment, please tie your dog to one of the bars on that window.’

  Abhijit gave me a sidelong glance, winked and did as he was told, like an obedient child. Badshah protested a couple of times, but did not seem to mind too much.

  We sat on cane chairs on the front veranda. ‘My servant Prayag injured his right hand. So I made tea for you and put it in a flask. Let me know when you’d like some.’

  It was a very quiet and peaceful place. I could hear nothing but a few chirping birds. How could there be serious danger lurking somewhere in a place like this? I felt a little foolish, sitting with the gun in my hands. So I propped it up against a wall.

  Abhijit could never sit still. He was very much a ‘city’ man; the beauties of nature offered by the countryside, the leaves on a peepal tree, trembling in a slight breeze, or the call of an unknown bird, did nothing to move him. He looked around, shifted restlessly, and suddenly blurted out, ‘Parimal told me that you once went to a forest in Assam looking for some weird plant, and nearly got gobbled up by a tiger. Is that true?’

  This was something else Abhijit was wont to do. He could not speak without exaggerating everything. I felt afraid Kanti Babu might be offended. But he just laughed and said, ‘Do you always think of a tiger whenever you think of danger? But that’s not surprising, many people would do that. No, I never came across a tiger. Leeches in the forest caused me some discomfort, but that was nothing serious, either.’

  ‘Did you find that plant?’

  The same question had occurred to me, too.

  ‘Which plant?’

  ‘Oh, that . . . pot? . . . No, pitcher-plant or something?’<
br />
  ‘Yes. Nepenthes. Yes, I did find it and, in fact, have still got it. I’ll show it to you. I am no longer interested in ordinary plants; now I restrict myself only to carnivorous ones. I’ve got rid of most of my orchids, too.’

  Kanti Babu rose and went indoors. Abhijit and I exchanged glances. Carnivorous plants? Plants that ate meat? A few pages and pictures I had studied fifteen years ago in a book on botany dimly wafted before my eyes.

  When Kanti Babu re-emerged, there was a bottle in his hand. It contained house-crickets and a few other insects, still alive. The stopper on the bottle, I noticed, had tiny holes, like those on a pepper-shaker.

  ‘Feeding time!’ said Kanti Babu with a smile. ‘Come with me.’

  We followed Kanti Babu out to the long strip of ground at the back of his garden which contained the glass cases.

  Each of the cases held a different plant. I had seen none of them before.

  ‘Except for nepenthes,’ Kanti Babu told us, ‘not a single one is from our country. One of them is from Nepal, another from Africa. The rest are virtually all from Central America.’

  ‘If that is so,’ Abhijit asked, ‘how do they survive here? I mean, does the soil here have . . .?’

  ‘No. These plants have nothing to do with the soil.’ ‘No?’

  ‘No. They do not derive sustenance from the soil. Just as human beings can survive anywhere in the world as long as they are fed properly, so can these plants. Adequate and appropriate food is all they need, no matter where they are kept.’

  Kanti Babu stopped before a glass case. In it was an extraordinary plant. Its leaves were about two inches long, their edges were white and were serrated, as if they had teeth.

  The front of the case had a kind of door, though it was big enough only for the mouth of the bottle to go through. It was bolted from outside. Kanti Babu unbolted it. Then he removed the stopper from the bottle and quickly slipped the bottle through the ‘door’. A house-cricket leapt out into the case. Kanti Babu removed the bottle and replaced the stopper. Then he pushed the bolt back into place.