by Satyajit Ray
Naresh Dutt prepared to leave. ‘But you haven’t told me about the part,’ said Patol Babu anxiously.
‘Oh yes, sorry. The part is that of a—pedestrian. An absent-minded, short-tempered pedestrian. By the way, do you have a jacket which buttons up to the neck?’
‘I think I do. You mean the old-fashioned kind?’
‘Yes. That’s what you’ll wear. What colour is it?’
‘Sort of nut-brown. But woollen.’
‘That’s all right. The story is supposed to take place in winter, so that would be just right. Tomorrow at 8.30 a.m. sharp. Faraday House.’
Patol Babu suddenly thought of a crucial question. ‘I hope the part calls for some dialogue?’
‘Certainly. It’s a speaking part. You have acted before, haven’t you?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, yes . . .’
‘Fine. I wouldn’t have come to you for just a walk-on part. For that we pick people from the street. Of course there’s dialogue and you’ll be given your lines as soon as you show up tomorrow.’
After Naresh Dutt left, Patol Babu broke the news to his wife.
‘As far as I can see, the part isn’t a big one. I’ll be paid, of course, but that’s not the main thing. The thing is—remember how I started on the stage? Remember my first part? I played a dead soldier! All I had to do was lie still on the stage with my arms and legs spread. And remember where I went from there? Remember Mr Watts shaking me by the hand? And the silver medal which the chairman of our municipality gave me? Remember? This is only the first step on the ladder, my dear! Yes—the first step that would—God willing—mark the rise to fame and fortune of your beloved husband!’
Suddenly, the fifty-two-year-old Patol Babu did a little skip. ‘What are you doing?’ his wife asked, aghast.
‘Don’t worry. Do you remember how Sisir Bhaduri used to leap about on the stage at the age of seventy? I feel as if I’ve been born again!’
‘Counting your chickens again before they’re hatched, are you? No wonder you could never make a go of it.’
‘But it’s the real thing this time! Go and make me a cup of tea, will you? And remind me to take some ginger juice tonight. It’s very good for the throat.’
The clock in the Metropolitan building showed seven minutes past eight when Patol Babu reached Esplanade. It took him another ten minutes to walk to Faraday House.
There was a big crowd outside the building. Three or four cars stood on the road. There was also a bus loaded with equipment on its roof. On the edge of the pavement there was an instrument on three legs around which a bunch of people were walking about looking busy. Near the entrance stood—also on three legs—a pole which had a long arm extending from its top with what looked like a small oblong beehive suspended at the end. Surrounding these instruments was a crowd of people among which Patol Babu noticed some non-Bengalis. What they were supposed to do he couldn’t tell.
But where was Naresh Dutt? He was the only one who knew him.
With a slight tremor in his heart, Patol Babu advanced towards the entrance. It was the middle of summer, and the warm jacket buttoned up to his neck felt heavy. Patol Babu could feel beads of perspiration forming around the high collar.
‘This way, Atul Babu!’
Atul Babu? Patol Babu spotted Naresh Dutt standing at the entrance and gesturing towards him. He had got his name wrong. No wonder, since they had only had a brief meeting. Patol Babu walked up, put his palms together in a namaskar and said, ‘I suppose you haven’t yet noted down my name. Sitalakanto Ray—although people know me better by my nickname Patol. I used it on the stage too.’
‘Good, good. I must say you’re quite punctual.’
Patol Babu rose to his full height.
‘I was with Hudson and Kimberley for nine years and wasn’t late for a single day.’
‘Is that so? Well, I suggest you go and wait in the shade there. We have a few things to attend to before we get going.’
‘Naresh!’
Somebody standing by the three-legged instrument called out.
‘Sir?’
‘Is he one of our men?’
‘Yes, sir. He is—er—in that shot where they bump into each other.’ ‘Okay. Now, clear the entrance, will you? We’re about to start.’ Patol Babu withdrew and stood in the shade of a paan shop.
He had never watched a film shooting before. How hard these people worked! A youngster of twenty or so was carrying that three-legged instrument on his shoulder. Must weigh at least sixty pounds.
But what about his dialogue? There wasn’t much time left, and he still didn’t know what he was supposed to do or say.
Patol Babu suddenly felt a little nervous. Should he ask somebody? There was Naresh Dutt there; should he go and remind him? It didn’t matter if the part was small, but, if he had to make the most of it, he had to learn his lines beforehand. How small he would feel if he muffed in the presence of so many people! The last time he acted on stage was twenty years ago.
Patol Babu was about to step forward when he was pulled up short by a voice shouting ‘Silence!’
This was followed by Naresh Dutt loudly announcing with hands cupped over his mouth: ‘We’re about to start shooting. Everybody please stop talking. Don’t move from your positions and don’t crowd round the camera, please!’
Once again the voice was heard shouting ‘Silence! Taking!’ Now Patol Babu could see the owner of the voice. He was a stout man of medium height, and he stood by the camera. Around his neck hung something which looked like a small telescope. Was he the director? How strange!—He hadn’t even bothered to find out the name of the director!
Now a series of shouts followed in quick succession—‘Start sound!’ ‘Running!’ ‘Camera!’ ‘Rolling!’ ‘Action!’
Patol Babu noticed that as soon as the word ‘Action’ was uttered, a car came up from the crossing and pulled up in front of the office entrance. Then a young man in a grey suit and pink make-up shot out of the back of the car, took a few hurried steps towards the entrance and stopped abruptly. The next moment Patol Babu heard the shout ‘Cut!’ and immediately the hubbub from the crowd resumed.
A man standing next to Patol Babu now turned to him. ‘Did you recognize the young fellow?’ he asked.
‘What, no,’ said Patol Babu.
‘Chanchal Kumar,’ said the man. ‘He’s coming up fast. Playing the lead in four films at the moment.’
Patol Babu saw very few films, but he seemed to have heard the name Chanchal Kumar. It was probably the same boy Koti Babu was praising the other day. Nice make-up the fellow had on. If he had been wearing a Bengali dhoti and kurta instead of a suit, and given a peacock to ride on, he would make a perfect Kartik, the god considered to be the epitome of good looks. Monotosh of Kanchrapara—who was better known by his nickname Chinu—had the same kind of looks. He used to be very good at playing female parts, recalled Patol Babu.
Patol Babu now turned to his neighbour and asked in a whisper, ‘Who is the director?’
The man raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Why, don’t you know? He’s Baren Mullick. He’s had three smash hits in a row.’
Well, at least he had gathered some useful information. It wouldn’t have done for him to say he didn’t know if his wife had asked whose film he had acted in and with which actor.
Naresh Dutt now came up to him with tea in a small clay cup.
‘Here you are, sir—the hot tea will help your throat. Your turn will come shortly.’
Patol Babu now had to come out with it.
‘If you let me have my lines now . . .’
‘Your lines? Come with me.’
Naresh Dutt went towards the three-legged instrument with Patol Babu at his heels.
‘I say, Shoshanko.’
A young fellow in short-sleeved shirt turned towards Naresh Dutt. ‘This gentleman wants his lines. Why don’t you write them down on a piece of paper and give it to him? He’s the one who . . .’
‘I
know, I know.’
Shoshanko now turned to Patol Babu.
‘Come along, Dadu. I say, Jyoti, can I borrow your pen for a sec? Grandpa wants his lines written down.’
The youngster Jyoti produced a red ballpoint pen from his pocket and gave it to Shoshanko. Shoshanko tore off a page from the notebook he was carrying, scribbled something on it and handed it to Patol Babu.
Patol Babu glanced at the paper and found that a single word had been scrawled on it—‘Oh!’
Patol Babu felt a sudden throbbing in his head. He wished he could take off his jacket. The heat was unbearable.
Shoshanko said, ‘What’s the matter, Dadu? You don’t seem too pleased.’
Were these people pulling his leg? Was the whole thing a gigantic hoax? A meek, harmless man like him, and they had to drag him into the middle of the city to make a laughing stock out of him. How could anyone be so cruel?
Patol Babu said in a voice hardly audible, ‘I find it rather strange.’
‘Why, Dadu?’
‘Just “Oh”? Is that all I have to say?’
Shoshanko’s eyebrows shot up.
‘What are you saying, Dadu? You think that’s nothing? Why, this is a regular speaking part! A speaking part in a Baren Mullick film—do you realize what that means? Why, you’re the luckiest of actors. Do you know that till now more than a hundred persons have appeared in this film who have had nothing to say? They just walked past the camera. Some didn’t even walk; they just stood in one spot. There were others whose faces didn’t register at all. Even today—look at all those people standing by the lamp-post; they all appear in today’s scene but have nothing to say. Even our hero Chanchal Kumar has no lines to speak today. You are the only one who has—see?’
Now the young man called Jyoti came up, put his hand on Patol Babu’s shoulder and said, ‘Listen, Dadu. I’ll tell you what you have to do. Chanchal Kumar is a rising young executive. He is informed that an embezzlement has taken place in his office, and he comes to find out what has happened. He gets out of his car and charges across the pavement towards the entrance. Just then he collides with an absent-minded pedestrian. That’s you. You’re hurt in the head and say “Oh!”, but Chanchal Kumar pays no attention to you and goes into the office. The fact that he ignores you reflects his extreme preoccupation—see? Just think how crucial the shot is.’
‘I hope everything is clear now,’ said Shoshanko. ‘Now, if you just move over to where you were standing . . . the fewer people crowding around here the better. There’s one more shot left before your turn comes.’
Patol Babu slowly went back to the paan shop. Standing in the shade, he glanced down at the paper in his hand, cast a quick look around to see if anyone was watching, crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it into the roadside drain.
Oh . . . A sigh came out of the depths of his heart.
Just one word—no, not even a word; a sound—‘Oh!’ The heat was stifling. The jacket seemed to weigh a ton. Patol Babu couldn’t keep standing in one spot any more; his legs felt heavy.
He moved up to the office beyond the paan shop and sat down on the steps. It was nearly half-past nine. Every Sunday morning, devotional songs were sung in Karali Babu’s house. Patol Babu went there every week and enjoyed it. What if he were to go there now? What harm would there be? Why waste a Sunday morning in the company of these useless people, and be made to look foolish on top of that?
‘Silence!’
Stuff and nonsense! To hell with your ‘silence’! They had to put up this pompous show for something so trivial. Things were much better on the stage.
The stage . . . the stage . . . A faint memory was stirring in Patol Babu’s mind. Words of advice, given in a deep, mellow voice: ‘Remember one thing, Patol; however small a part you’re offered, never consider it beneath your dignity to accept it. As an artist your aim should be to make the most of your opportunity, and squeeze the last drop of meaning out of your lines. A play involves the work of many and it is the combined effort of many that makes a success of the play.’
It was Mr Pakrashi who gave the advice. Gogon Pakrashi, Patol Babu’s mentor. A wonderful actor, without a trace of vanity in him; a saintly person, and an actor in a million.
There was something else which Mr Pakrashi used to say. ‘Each word spoken in a play is like a fruit in a tree. Not everyone in the audience can reach it. But you, the actor, must know how to pluck it, get at its essence, and serve it up to the audience for their edification.’
The memory of his guru made Patol Babu bow his head in obeisance.
Was it really true that there was nothing in the part he had been given today? He had only one word to say—‘Oh!’, but was that word so devoid of meaning as to be dismissed summarily?
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh—Patol Babu uttered the word over and over again, giving it a different inflection each time. After doing this for a number of times he made an astonishing discovery. The same exclamation, when spoken in different ways, carried different shades of meaning. A man when hurt said ‘Oh’ in one way. Despair brought forth a difficult kind of ‘Oh’, while sorrow provoked yet another kind. In fact, there were so many kinds of Ohs—the short Oh, the long-drawn Oh, Oh shouted and Oh whispered, the high-pitched Oh, the low-pitched Oh, the Oh starting low and ending high, and the Oh starting high and ending low . . . Strange! Patol Babu suddenly felt that he could write a whole thesis on that one monosyllabic exclamation. Why had he felt so disheartened when this single word contained a gold mine of meaning? The true actor could make a mark with this one single syllable.
‘Silence!’
The director had raised his voice again. Patol Babu spotted young Jyoti clearing the crowd. There was something he had to ask him. He quickly went over to him.
‘How long will it be before my turn comes, bhai?’ ‘Why are you so impatient, Dadu? You have to learn to be patient in this line of business. It’ll be another half an hour before you’re called.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll certainly wait. I’ll be in that side street across the road.’
‘Okay—so long as you don’t sneak off.’
‘Start sound!’
Patol Babu crossed the road on tiptoe and went into the quiet little side street. It was good that he had a little time on his hands. While these people didn’t seem to believe in rehearsals, he himself would rehearse his own bit. There was no one about. These were office buildings, so very few people lived here. Those who did—the shopkeepers—had all gone to watch the shooting.
Patol Babu cleared his throat and began to practise speaking this one-syllable dialogue in various ways. Along with that he tried working out how he would react to the actual collision—how his features would be twisted in pain, how he would fling out his arms, how his body would double up in pain and surprise—all these postures he performed in front of a large glass window.
Patol Babu was called in exactly after half an hour. Now he had got over his apathy completely. All he felt was keen anticipation and suppressed excitement. It was the feeling he used to have twenty years ago just before he stepped on to the stage.
The director, Baren Mullick, called Patol Babu to him. ‘I hope you know what you’re supposed to do?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. I’ll first say “Start sound”. The recordists will reply by saying “Running”. That’s the signal for the camera to start. Then I will say “Action”. That will be your cue to start walking from that pillar, and for the hero to come out of the car and make a dash for the office. You work out your steps so that the collision takes place at this spot, here. The hero ignores you and strides into the office, while you register pain by saying “Oh!”, stop for a couple of seconds, then resume walking—okay?’
Patol Babu suggested a rehearsal, but Baren Mullick shook his head impatiently. ‘There’s a large patch of cloud approaching the sun,’ he said. ‘This scene must be shot in sunlight.’
‘One question please.’
/> ‘Yes?’
An idea had occurred to Patol Babu while rehearsing; he now came out with it.
‘Er—I was thinking—if I had a newspaper open in my hand, and if the collision took place while I had my eyes on the paper, then perhaps—’
Baren Mullick cut him short by addressing a bystander who was carrying a Bengali newspaper. ‘Do you mind handing your paper to this gentleman, just for this one shot? Thanks . . . Now you take your position beside the pillar. Chanchal, are you ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Silence!’
Baren Mullick raised his hand, then brought it down again, saying, ‘Just a minute. Kesto, I think if we gave the pedestrian a moustache, it would be more interesting.’
‘What kind, sir? Walrus, Ronald Colman or butterfly? I have them all ready.’
‘Butterfly, butterfly—and make it snappy!’
The elderly make-up man went up to Patol Babu, took out a small grey moustache from a box, and stuck it on with spirit-gum below Patol Babu’s nose.
Patol Babu said, ‘I hope it won’t come off at the time of the collision?’
The make-up man smiled. ‘Collision?’ he said. ‘Even if you wrestle with Dara Singh the moustache will stay in place.’
Patol Babu took a quick glance in the mirror the man was holding. True enough, the moustache suited him very well. Patol Babu silently commended the director’s judgement.
‘Silence! Silence!’
The business with the moustache had provoked a wave of comments from the spectators which Baren Mullick’s shout now silenced.
Patol Babu noticed that most of the bystanders’ eyes were turned towards him. ‘Start sound!’
Patol Babu cleared his throat. One, two, three, four, five—five steps would take him to the spot where the collision was to take place. And Chanchal Kumar would have to walk four steps. So if both were to start together, Patol Babu would have to walk a little faster than the hero, or else—
‘Running!’
Patol Babu held the newspaper open in his hand. He had worked out that when he said ‘Oh!’ he had to mix sixty parts of irritation with forty parts of surprise.