The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  The doctor came, saw the ant, and saying some rude words in English, swept it off the table with his hand.

  I could tell from Lal Chand’s scream that he was badly hurt, but what could I do? By that time the doctor had grabbed my wrist to feel my pulse. I tried to get up, but the nurse held me down.

  After the examination, the doctor as usual made a glum face and scratched the edge of his moustache. He was about to turn towards the door when he suddenly screwed up his face, gave a leap and yelled ‘Ouch!’

  Then all hell broke loose. The stethoscope flew out of his hand, his spectacles jumped off his nose and crashed onto the floor. One of the buttons of his jacket came off as he struggled to take it off, his tie wound tighter around his neck and made him gasp and sputter before at last he managed to pull it free, the hole in his vest showed as he yanked off his shirt, jumping around and yelling all the time. I was speechless.

  The nurse said, ‘What is the matter, sir?’

  The doctor continued to jump about and yelled, ‘Ant! Red ant! It crawled up my arm—ouch!’

  Well, well, well! I knew this would happen, and it serves you right! Lal Bahadur had taken revenge on his friend’s behalf.

  If they saw me now they would know how deliriously happy Sadananda could be.

  Translated by Satyajit Ray

  First published in Bengali in 1962

  Anath Babu’s Terror

  I met Anath Babu on a train to Raghunathpur, where I was going on a holiday. I worked for one of the dailies in Calcutta. The pressure of work over the last few months had been killing. I definitely needed a break. Besides, writing being my hobby, I had ideas for a couple of short stories that needed further thought. And I needed peace and quiet to think. So I applied for ten days’ leave and left with a packet of writing paper in my suitcase.

  There was a reason for choosing Raghunathpur. An old college mate of mine, Biren Biswas, had his ancestral home there. We were chatting in the Coffee House one evening, talking of possible places where one might spend one’s holiday. When he heard that I had applied for leave, Biren promptly offered me free accommodation in Raghunathpur. ‘I would have gone with you,’ he said, ‘but you know how tied up I am at the moment. You won’t have any problem, though. Bharadwaj will look after you. He’s worked for our family for fifty years.’

  Our coach was packed. Anathbandhu Mitra happened to be sitting right next to me. He was around fifty, not very tall, hair parted in the middle, a sharp look in his eyes and an amused smile playing on his lips. But his clothes! He appeared to have dressed for a role in a play set fifty years ago. Nobody these days wore a jacket like that, or such collars, glasses or boots.

  We began to chat. It turned out that he, too, was going to Raghunathpur. ‘Are you also going on a holiday?’ I asked him. But he did not answer and seemed to grow a little pensive. Or it may be that he had failed to hear my question in the racket that the train was making.

  The sight of Biren’s house pleased me very much. It was a nice house, with a strip of land in front that had both vegetables and flowers growing in it. There were no other houses nearby, so the possibility of being disturbed by the neighbours was non-existent.

  Despite protests from Bharadwaj, I chose the room in the attic for myself. It was an airy little room, very comfortable and totally private. I moved my things upstairs and began to unpack. It was then that I realized I had left my razor blades behind. ‘Never mind,’ said Bharadwaj, ‘Kundu Babu’s shop is only a five-minute walk from here. You’ll get your bilades there.’

  I left for the shop soon after tea, at around 4 p.m. It appeared that the place was used more or less like a club. About seven middle-aged men were seated inside on wooden benches, chatting away merrily. One of them was saying rather agitatedly, ‘Well, it’s not something I have only heard about. I saw the whole thing with my own eyes. All right, so it happened thirty years ago. But that kind of thing cannot get wiped out from one’s memory, can it? I shall never forget what happened, especially since Haladhar Datta was a close friend of mine. In fact, even now I can’t help feeling partly responsible for his death.’

  I bought a packet of 7 O’Clock blades. Then I began to loiter, looking at things I didn’t really need. The gentleman continued, ‘Just imagine, my own friend laid a bet with me for just ten rupees and went to spend a night in that west room. I waited for a long time the next morning for him to turn up but when he didn’t, I went with Jiten Bakshi, Haricharan Saha and a few others to look for him in the Haldar mansion. And we found him in the same room—lying dead on the floor, stone cold, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. The naked fear I saw in those eyes could only mean one thing, I tell you: ghosts. There was no injury on his person, no sign of snake-bite or anything like that. So what else could have killed him but a ghost? You tell me?’

  Another five minutes in the shop gave me a rough idea of what they were talking about. There was, apparently, a two-hundred-year-old mansion in the southern corner of Raghunathpur, which had once been owned by the Haldars, the local zamindars. It had lain abandoned for years. A particular room in this mansion that faced the west was supposed to be haunted. Although in the last thirty years no one had dared to spend a night in it after the death of Haladhar Datta, the residents of Raghunathpur still felt a certain thrill thinking of the unhappy spirit that haunted the room. The reason behind this belief was both the mysterious death of Haladhar Datta, and the many instances of murders and suicides in the history of the Haldar family.

  Intrigued by this conversation, I came out of the shop to find Anathbandhu Mitra, the gentleman I had met on the train, standing outside, a smile on his lips.

  ‘Did you hear what they were saying?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘Do you believe in it?’

  ‘In what? Ghosts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you see, I have heard of haunted houses often enough. But never have I met anyone who has actually stayed in one and seen anything. So I don’t quite . . .’

  Anath Babu’s smile deepened.

  ‘Would you like to see it?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That house.’

  ‘See? How do you mean?’

  ‘Only from the outside. It’s not very far from here. One mile, at the most. If you go straight down this road, past the twin temples and then turn right, it’s only a quarter of a mile from there.’

  The man seemed quite interesting. Besides, there was no need to return home quite so soon. So I went with him.

  The Haldar mansion was not easily visible. Most of it was covered by a thick growth of wild plants and creepers. Only the top of the gate that towered above everything else was visible a good ten minutes before one reached the house. The gate was really huge. The nahabatkhana over it was a shambles. A long drive led to the front veranda. A couple of statues and the remains of a fountain told us that there used to be a garden in the space between the house and the gate. The house was strangely structured. There was absolutely nothing in it that could have met even the lowest of aesthetic standards. The whole thing seemed only a shapeless heap. The last rays of the setting sun fell across the mossy walls.

  Anath Babu stared at it for a minute. Then he said, ‘As far as I know, ghosts and spirits don’t come out in daylight. Why don’t we,’ he added, winking, ‘go and take a look at that room?’

  ‘That west room? The one . . .?’

  ‘Yes. The one in which Haladhar Datta died.’

  The man’s interest in the matter seemed a bit exaggerated. Anath Babu read my mind.

  ‘I can see you’re surprised. Well, I don’t mind telling you the truth. The only reason behind my arrival in Raghunathpur is this house.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. In Calcutta I had heard that the house was haunted. I came all the way to see if I could catch a glimpse of the ghost. You asked me on the train why I was coming here. I didn’t reply, which must have appeared rude. But I
had decided to wait until I got to know you a little better before telling you.’

  ‘But why did you have to come all the way from Calcutta to chase a ghost?’

  ‘I’ll explain that in a minute. I haven’t yet told you about my profession, have I? The fact is that I am an authority on ghosts and all things supernatural. I have spent the last twenty-five years doing research in this area. I have read everything that’s ever been published on life after death, spirits that haunt the earth, vampires, werewolves, black magic, voodoo—the lot. I had to learn seven different languages to do this. There is a Professor Norton in London who has a similar interest. I have been in correspondence with him over the last three years. My articles have been published in well-known magazines in Britain. I don’t wish to sound boastful, but I think it would be fair to say that no one in this country has as much knowledge about these things as I do.’

  He spoke very sincerely. The thought that he might be telling lies or exaggerating did not cross my mind at all. On the contrary, I found it quite easy to believe what he told me and even felt some respect for the man.

  After a few moments of silence, he said, ‘I have stayed in at least three hundred haunted houses all over the country.’

  ‘Goodness!’

  ‘Yes. In places like Jabalpur, Cherrapunji, Kanthi, Katoa, Jodhpur, Azimganj, Hazaribagh, Shiuri, Barasat . . . and so many others. I’ve stayed in fifty-six dak bungalows, and at least thirty indigo cottages. Besides these, there are about fifty haunted houses in Calcutta and its suburbs where I’ve spent my nights. But . . .’

  Anath Babu stopped. Then he shook his head and said, ‘The ghosts have eluded me. Perhaps they like to visit only those who don’t want to have anything to do with them. I have been disappointed time and again. Only once did I feel the presence of something strange in an old building in Tiruchirapalli near Madras. It used to be a club during British times. Do you know what happened? The room was dark and there was no breeze at all. Yet, each time I tried to light a candle, someone—or something—kept snuffing it out. I had to waste twelve matchsticks. However, with the thirteenth I did manage to light the candle but, as soon as it was lit, the spirit vanished. Once, in a house in Calcutta, too, I had a rather interesting experience. I was sitting in a dark room as usual, waiting for something to happen, when I suddenly felt a mosquito bite my scalp! Quite taken aback, I felt my head and discovered that every single strand of my hair had disappeared. I was totally bald! Was it really my own head? Or had I touched someone else’s? But no, the mosquito bite was real enough. I switched on my torch quickly and peered into the mirror. All my hair was intact. There was no sign of baldness.

  ‘These were the only two ghostly experiences I’ve had in all these years. I had given up all hope of finding anything anywhere. But, recently, I happened to read in an old magazine about this house in Raghunathpur. So I thought I’d come and try my luck for the last time.’

  We had reached the front door. Anath Babu looked at his watch and said, ‘The sun sets today at 5.31 p.m. It’s now 5.15. Let’s go and take a quick look before it gets dark.’

  Perhaps his interest in the supernatural was contagious. I readily accepted his proposal. Like him, I felt eager to see the inside of the house and that room in particular.

  We walked in through the front door. There was a huge courtyard and something that looked like a stage. It must have been used for pujas and other festivals. There was no sign now of the joy and laughter it must once have witnessed.

  There were verandas around the courtyard. To our right lay a broken palanquin, and beyond it was a staircase going up.

  It was so dark on the staircase that Anath Babu had to take a torch out of his pocket and switch it on. We had to demolish an invisible wall of cobwebs to make our way. When we finally reached the first floor, I thought to myself, ‘It wouldn’t be surprising at all if this house did turn out to be haunted.’

  We stood in the passage and made some rough calculations. The room on our left must be the famous west room, we decided. Anath Babu said, ‘Let’s not waste any time. Come with me.’

  There was only one thing in the passage—a grandfather clock. Its glass was broken, one of its hands was missing and the pendulum lay to one side.

  The door to the west room was closed. Anath Babu pushed it gently with his forefinger. A nameless fear gave me goose pimples. The door swung open.

  But the room revealed nothing unusual. It may have been a living- room once. There was a big table in the middle with a missing top. Only the four legs stood upright. An easy chair stood near the window, although sitting in it now would not be very easy as it had lost one of its arms and a portion of its seat.

  I glanced up and saw that bits and pieces of an old-fashioned, hand- pulled fan still hung from the ceiling. It didn’t have a rope, the wooden bar was broken and its main body torn.

  Apart from these objects, the room had a shelf that must once have held rifles, a pipeless hookah, and two ordinary chairs, also with broken arms.

  Anath Babu appeared to be deep in thought. After a while, he said, ‘Can you smell something?’

  ‘Smell what?’

  ‘Incense, oil and burning flesh . . . all mixed together . . .’ I inhaled deeply, but could smell nothing beyond the usual musty smell that comes from a room that has been kept shut for a long time.

  So I said, ‘Why, no, I don’t think I can . . .’

  Anath Babu did not say anything. Then, suddenly, he struck his left hand with his right and exclaimed, ‘God! I know this smell well! There is bound to be a spirit lurking about in this house, though whether or not he’ll make an appearance remains to be seen. Let’s go!’

  Anath Babu decided to spend the following night in the Haldar mansion. On our way back, he said, ‘I won’t go tonight because tomorrow is a moonless night, the most appropriate time for ghosts and spirits to come out. Besides, I need a few things which I haven’t got with me today. I’ll bring those tomorrow. Today I had come only to make a survey.’

  Before we parted company near Biren’s house, he lowered his voice and said, ‘Please don’t tell anyone else about my plan. From what I heard today, people here are so superstitious and easily frightened that they might actually try to stop me from going in if they came to know of my plan. And,’ he added, ‘please don’t mind that I didn’t ask you to join me. One has to be alone, you see, for something like this . . .’

  I sat down the next day to write, but could not concentrate. My mind kept going back to the west room in that mansion. God knew what kind of experience awaited Anath Babu. I could not help feeling a little restless and anxious.

  I accompanied Anath Babu in the evening, right up to the gate of the Haldar mansion. He was wearing a black high-necked jacket today. From his shoulder hung a flask and in his hand he carried the same torch he had used the day before. He took out a couple of small bottles from his pocket before going into the house. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘this one has a special oil, made with my own formula. It is an excellent mosquito repellent. And this one here has carbolic acid in it. If I spread it in and around the room, I’ll be safe from snakes.’

  He put the bottles back in his pocket, raised the torch and touched his head with it. Then he waved me a final salute and walked in, his heavy boots clicking on the gravel.

  I could not sleep well that night. As soon as dawn broke, I told Bharadwaj to fill a thermos flask with enough tea for two. When the flask arrived, I left once more for the Haldar mansion.

  No one was about. Should I call out to Anath Babu, or should I go straight up to the west room? As I stood debating, a voice said, ‘Here—this way!’

  Anath Babu was coming out of the little jungle of wild plants from the eastern side of the house, a neem twig in his hand. He certainly did not look like a man who might have had an unnatural or horrific experience the night before.

  He grinned broadly as he came closer.

  ‘I had to search for about half an hour before I could find a
neem tree. I prefer this to a toothbrush, you see.’

  I felt hesitant to ask him about the previous night.

  ‘I brought some tea,’ I said instead. ‘Would you like some here, or would you rather go home?’

  ‘Oh, come along. Let’s sit by that fountain.’

  Anath Babu took a long sip of his tea and said, ‘Aaah!’ with great relish. Then he turned to me and said with a twinkle in his eye, ‘You’re dying to know what happened, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I mean . . . yes, a little . . .’

  ‘All right. I will tell you everything. But let me just say this one thing right away—the whole expedition was highly successful!’

  He poured himself a second mug of tea and began his tale:

  ‘It was 5 p.m. when you left me here. I looked around for a bit before going into the house. One has to be careful, you know. There are times when animals and other living beings can cause more harm than ghosts. But I didn’t find anything dangerous. Then I went in and looked into the rooms in the ground floor that were open. None had any furniture left. All I could find was some old rubbish in one and a few bats hanging from the ceiling in another. They didn’t budge as I went in, so I came out again without disturbing them.

  ‘I went upstairs at around 6.30 p.m. and began making preparations for the night. I had taken a duster with me. The first thing I did was to dust that easy chair. Heaven knows how long it had lain there.

  ‘The room felt stuffy, so I opened the window. The door to the passage was also left open, just in case Mr Ghost wished to make his entry through it. Then I placed the flask and the torch on the floor and lay down on the easy chair. It was quite uncomfortable but, having spent many a night before under far more weird circumstances, I did not mind.

  ‘The sun had set at 5.30. It grew dark quite soon. And that smell grew stronger. I don’t usually get worked up, but I must admit last night I felt a strange excitement.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you the exact time, but I guess it must have been around 9 p.m. when a firefly flew in through the window and buzzed around the room for a minute before flying out.