by Satyajit Ray
‘Action!’
Clop, clop, clop, clop, clop—Wham!
Patol Babu saw stars before his eyes. The hero’s head had banged against his forehead, and an excruciating pain robbed him of his senses for a second.
But the next moment, by a supreme effort of will, Patol Babu pulled himself together, and mixing fifty parts of anguish with twenty-five of surprise and twenty-five of irritation, cried ‘Oh!’ Then after a brief pause, he resumed his walk.
‘Cut!’
‘Was that all right?’ asked Patol Babu anxiously, stepping towards Baren Mullick.
‘Jolly good! Why, you’re quite an actor! Shoshanko, just take a look at the sky through the dark glass, will you.’
Jyoti now came up to Patol Babu and said, ‘I hope Dadu wasn’t hurt too badly?’
‘My God!’ said Chanchal Kumar, massaging his head. ‘You timed it so well that I nearly passed out!’
Naresh Dutt elbowed his way through the crowd, came up to Patol Babu and said, ‘Please go back to where you were standing. I’ll come to you in a short while and do the needful.’
Patol Babu took his place once again by the paan shop. The cloud had just covered the sun and there was a slight chill in the air. Nevertheless, Patol Babu took off his woollen jacket and heaved a sigh of relief. A feeling of complete satisfaction swept over him.
He had done his job well. All those years of struggle hadn’t blunted his sensibility. Gogon Pakrashi would have been pleased with his performance. But all the labour and imagination he had put into this one shot—did these people appreciate that? He doubted it. They probably got people off the streets, made them go through a set of motions, paid them for their labours and forgot all about it. Paid them, yes, but how much? Ten, fifteen, twenty rupees? It was true that he needed money very badly, but what was twenty rupees when measured against the intense satisfaction of a small job done with perfection and dedication?
Ten minutes later Naresh Dutt went looking for Patol Babu near the paan shop and found no one there. ‘That’s odd—the man hadn’t been paid yet. What a strange fellow!’
‘The sun has come out,’ Baren Mullick was heard shouting. ‘Silence!
Silence!—Naresh, hurry up and get these people out of the way!’
Translated by Satyajit Ray
First published in Bengali in 1963
Bipin Chowdhury’s Lapse of Memory
Every Monday, on his way back from work, Bipin Chowdhury would drop in at Kalicharan’s in New Market to buy books. Crime stories, ghost stories and thrillers. He had to buy at least five at a time to last him through the week. He lived alone, was not a good mixer, had few friends, and didn’t like spending time in idle chat. Those who called in the evening got through their business quickly and left. Those who didn’t show signs of leaving would be told around eight o’clock by Bipin Babu that he was under doctor’s orders to have dinner at eight-thirty. After dinner he would rest for half an hour and then turn in with a book. This was a routine which had persisted unbroken for years.
Today, at Kalicharan’s, Bipin Babu had the feeling that someone was observing him from close quarters. He turned round and found himself looking at a round-faced, meek-looking man who now broke into a smile.
‘I don’t suppose you recognize me.’
Bipin Babu felt ill at ease. It didn’t seem that he had ever encountered this man before. The face seemed quite unfamiliar.
‘But you’re a busy man. You must meet all kinds of people all the time.’
‘Have we met before?’ asked Bipin Babu.
The man looked greatly surprised. ‘We met every day for a whole week. I arranged for a car to take you to the Hudroo falls. In 1958. In Ranchi. My name is Parimal Ghose.’
‘Ranchi?’
Now Bipin Babu realized that it was not he but this man who was making a mistake. Bipin Babu had never been to Ranchi. He had been at the point of going several times, but had never made it. He smiled and said, ‘Do you know who I am?’
The man raised his eyebrows, bit his tongue and said, ‘Do I know you? Who doesn’t know Bipin Chowdhury?’
Bipin Babu now turned towards the bookshelves and said, ‘Still you’re making a mistake. One often does. I’ve never been to Ranchi.’
The man now laughed aloud.
‘What are you saying, Mr Chowdhury? You had a fall in Hudroo and cut your right knee. I brought you iodine. I had fixed up a car for you to go to Netarhat the next day, but you couldn’t because of the pain in the knee. Can’t you recall anything? Someone else you know was also in Ranchi at that time. Mr Dinesh Mukerjee. You stayed in a bungalow. You said you didn’t like hotel food and would prefer to have your meals cooked by a bawarchi. Mr Mukerjee stayed with his sister. You had a big argument about the moon landing, remember? I’ll tell you more: you always carried a bag with your books in it on your sightseeing trips. Am I right or not?’
Bipin Babu spoke quietly, his eyes still on the books. ‘Which month in fifty-eight are you talking about?’ The man said, ‘Just before the pujas. October.’
‘No, sir,’ said Bipin Babu. ‘I spent puja in fifty-eight with a friend in Kanpur. You’re making a mistake. Good day.’
But the man didn’t go, nor did he stop talking.
‘Very strange. One evening I had tea with you on the veranda of your bungalow. You spoke about your family. You said you had no children, and that you had lost your wife ten years ago. Your only brother had died insane, which is why you didn’t want to visit the mental hospital in Ranchi . . .’
When Bipin Babu had paid for the books and was leaving the shop, the man was still looking at him in utter disbelief.
Bipin Babu’s car was safely parked in Bertram Street by the Lighthouse cinema. He told the driver as he got into the car, ‘Just drive by the Ganga, will you, Sitaram.’ Driving up the Strand Road, Bipin Babu regretted having paid so much attention to the intruder. He had never been to Ranchi—no question about it. It was inconceivable that he should forget such an incident which took place only six or seven years ago. He had an excellent memory. Unless—Bipin Babu’s head reeled.
Unless he was losing his mind.
But how could that be? He was working daily in his office. It was a big firm, and he had a responsible job. He wasn’t aware of anything ever going seriously wrong. Only today he had spoken for half an hour at an important meeting. And yet . . .
And yet that man knew a great deal about him. How? He even seemed to know some intimate details. The bag of books, wife’s death, brother’s insanity . . . The only mistake was about his having gone to Ranchi. Not a mistake; a deliberate lie. In 1958, during the pujas, he was in Kanpur at his friend Haridas Bagchi’s place. All Bipin Babu had to do was write to—no, there was no way of writing to Haridas. Bipin Babu suddenly remembered that Haridas had not left his address.
But where was the need for proof? If it so happened that the police were trying to pin a crime on him which had taken place in Ranchi in 1958, he might have needed to prove he hadn’t been there. He himself was fully aware that he hadn’t been to Ranchi—and that was that.
The river breeze was bracing, and yet a slight discomfort lingered in Bipin Babu’s mind.
Around Hastings, Bipin Babu had the sudden notion of rolling up his trousers and taking a look at his right knee.
There was the mark of an old inch-long cut. It was impossible to tell when the injury had occurred. Had he never had a fall as a boy and cut his knee? He tried to recall such an incident, but couldn’t.
Then Bipin Babu suddenly thought of Dinesh Mukerjee. That man had said that Dinesh was in Ranchi at the same time. The best thing surely would be to ask him. He lived quite near—in Beninandan Street. What about going right now? But then, if he had really never been to Ranchi, what would Dinesh think if Bipin Babu asked for a confirmation? He would probably conclude Bipin Babu was going nuts. No—it would be ridiculous to ask him. And he knew how ruthless Dinesh’s sarcasm could be.
Sipping a cold
drink in his air-conditioned living room, Bipin Babu felt at ease again. Such a nuisance the man was! He probably had nothing else to do, so he went about getting into other people’s hair.
After dinner, snuggling into bed with one of the new thrillers, Bipin Babu forgot all about the man in New Market.
Next day, in the office, Bipin Babu noticed that with every passing hour, the previous day’s encounter was occupying more and more of his mind. That look of round-eyed surprise on that round face, the disbelieving snigger . . . If the man knew so much about the details of Bipin Babu’s life, how could he be so wrong about the Ranchi trip?
Just before lunch—at five minutes to one—Bipin Babu couldn’t check himself any more. He opened the phone book. He had to ring up Dinesh Mukerjee. It was better to settle the question over the phone; at least the embarrassment on his face wouldn’t show.
Two-three-five-six-one-six.
Bipin Babu dialled the number.
‘Hello.’
‘Is that Dinesh? This is Bipin here.’
‘Well, well—what’s the news?’
‘I just wanted to find out if you recalled an incident which took place in fifty-eight.’
‘Fifty-eight? What incident?’
‘Were you in Calcutta right through that year? That’s the first thing I’ve got to know.’
‘Wait just a minute . . . fifty-eight . . . just let me check in my diary.’
For a minute there was silence. Bipin Babu could feel that his heartbeat had gone up. He was sweating a little.
‘Hello.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got it. I had been out twice.’
‘Where?’
‘Once in February—nearby—to Krishnanagar to a nephew’s wedding. And then . . . but you’d know about this one. The trip to Ranchi. You were there too. That’s all. But what’s all this sleuthing about?’
‘No, I just wanted to—anyway, thanks.’
Bipin Babu slammed the receiver down and gripped his head with his hands. He felt his head swimming. A chill seemed to spread over his body. There were sandwiches in his tiffin box, but he didn’t feel like eating them. He had lost his appetite. Completely.
After lunchtime, Bipin Babu realized that he couldn’t possibly carry on sitting at his desk and working. This was the first time something like this had happened in his twenty-five years with the firm. He had a reputation for being a tireless, conscientious worker. The men who worked under him all held him in awe. In the worst moments of crisis, even when faced with the most acute problems, Bipin Babu had always kept his cool and weathered the storm. But today his head was in a whirl.
Back home at two-thirty, Bipin Babu shut himself up in his bedroom, lay down in bed and tried to gather his wits together. He knew that it was possible to lose one’s memory through an injury to the head, but he didn’t know of a single instance of someone remembering everything except one particular incident—and a fairly recent and significant one at that. He had always wanted to go to Ranchi; to have gone there, done things, and not to remember was something utterly impossible.
At seven, Bipin Babu’s servant came and announced that Seth Girdhariprasad had come. A rich businessman—and a VIP—this Girdhariprasad. And he had come by appointment. But Bipin Babu was feeling so low that he had to tell his servant that it was not possible for him to leave his bed. To hell with VIPs.
At seven-thirty, the servant came again. Bipin Babu had just dozed off and was in the middle of an unpleasant dream when the servant’s knock woke him up. Who was it this time? ‘Chuni Babu, sir. Says it’s very urgent.’
Bipin Babu knew what the urgency was. Chunilal was a childhood friend of his. He had fallen on bad times recently, and had been pestering Bipin Babu for a job. Bipin Babu had kept fobbing him off, but Chuni kept coming back. What a persistent bore.
Bipin Babu sent word that not only was it not possible for him to see Chuni now, but not in several weeks as well.
But as soon as the servant stepped out of the room, it struck Bipin Babu that Chuni might remember something about the ’58 trip. There was no harm in asking him.
He sped downstairs. Chuni had got up to leave. Seeing Bipin Babu, he turned around with a flicker of hope in his eyes.
Bipin Babu didn’t beat about the bush.
‘Listen, Chuni—I want to ask you something. You have a good memory, and you’ve been seeing me off and on for a long time. Just throw your mind back and tell me—did I go to Ranchi in fifty-eight?’
Chuni said, ‘Fifty-eight? It must have been fifty-eight. Or was it fifty- nine?’
‘You’re sure that I did go to Ranchi?’
Chuni’s look of amazement was not unmixed with worry. ‘D’you mean you have doubts about having gone at all?’ ‘Did I go? Do you remember clearly?’
Chuni was standing up; he now sat down on the sofa, fixed Bipin Babu with a long, hard stare and said, ‘Bipin, have you taken to drugs or something? As far as I know, you had a clean record where such things were concerned. I know that old friendships don’t mean much to you, but at least you had a good memory. You can’t really mean that you’ve forgotten about the Ranchi trip?’
Bipin Babu had to turn away from Chuni’s incredulous stare.
‘D’you remember what my last job was?’ asked Chunilal. ‘Of course. You worked in a travel agency.’
‘You remember that and you don’t remember that it was I who fixed up your booking for Ranchi? I went to the station to see you off; one of the fans in your compartment was not working—I got an electrician to fix it. Have you forgotten everything? Whatever is the matter with you? You don’t look too well, you know.’
Bipin Babu sighed and shook his head.
‘I’ve been working too hard,’ he said at last. ‘That must be the reason. Must see about consulting a specialist.’
Doubtless it was Bipin Babu’s condition which made Chunilal leave without mentioning anything about a job.
Paresh Chanda was a young physician with a pair of bright eyes and a sharp nose. He became thoughtful when he heard about Bipin Babu’s symptoms. ‘Look, Dr Chanda,’ said Bipin Babu desperately, ‘you must cure me of this horrible illness. I can’t tell you how it’s affecting my work. There are so many kinds of drugs these days; isn’t there something specific for such a complaint? I can have it sent from abroad if it’s not to be had here. But I must be rid of these symptoms.’
Dr Chanda shook his head.
‘You know what, Mr Chowdhury,’ he said, ‘I’ve never had to deal with a case such as yours. Frankly, this is quite outside my field of experience. But I have one suggestion. I don’t know if it’ll work, but it’s worth a try. It can do no harm.’
Bipin Babu leaned forward anxiously.
‘As far as I can make out,’ said Dr Chanda, ‘and I think you’re of the same opinion—you have been to Ranchi, but due to some unknown reason, the entire episode has slipped out of your mind. What I suggest is that you go to Ranchi once again. The sight of the place may remind you of your trip. This is not impossible. More than that I cannot do at the moment. I’m prescribing a nerve tonic and a tranquilizer. Sleep is essential, or the symptoms will get more pronounced.’
It may have been the sleeping pill, and the advice which the doctor gave, which made Bipin Babu feel somewhat better the next morning.
After breakfast, he rang up his office, gave some instructions, and then procured a first-class ticket to Ranchi for the same evening.
Getting off the train at Ranchi next morning, he realized at once that he had never been there before.
He came out of the station, hired a taxi and drove around the town for a while. It was clear that the streets, the buildings, the hotels, the bazaars, the Morabadi Hill were all unfamiliar—with none of these had he the slightest acquaintance. Would a trip to the Hudroo Falls help? He didn’t believe so, but, at the same time, he didn’t wish to leave with the feeling that he hadn’t tried hard enough. So he arranged for a car and left for Hudroo in
the afternoon.
At five o’clock the same afternoon in Hudroo, two Gujarati gentlemen from a group of picnickers discovered Bipin Babu lying unconscious beside a boulder. When the ministrations of the two gentlemen brought him around, the first thing Bipin Babu said was, ‘I’m finished. There’s no hope left.’
Next morning, Bipin Babu was back in Calcutta. He realized that there was truly no hope for him. Soon he would lose everything: his will to work, his confidence, his ability, his balance of mind. Was he going to end up in the asylum at Ranchi . . . ? Bipin Babu couldn’t think any more.
Back home, he rang up Dr Chanda and asked him to come over. Then, after a shower, he got into bed with an ice bag clamped to his head. Just then the servant brought him a letter which someone had left in the letter box. A greenish envelope with his name in red ink on it. Above the name it said ‘Urgent and Confidential’. In spite of his condition, Bipin Babu had a feeling that he ought to go through the letter. He tore open the envelope and took out the letter. This is what he read—
Dear Bipin,
I had no idea that affluence would bring about the kind of change in you that it has done. Was it so difficult for you to help out an old friend down on his luck? I have no money, so my resources are limited. What I have is imagination, a part of which is used in retribution of your unfeeling behaviour.
The man in New Market is a neighbour and acquaintance of mine and a capable actor who played the part I wrote for him. Dinesh Mukerjee has never been particularly well-disposed towards you: so he was quite willing to help. As for the mark on your knee, you will surely recall that you tripped on a rope in Chandpal Ghat back in 1939.
Well, you’ll be all right again now. A novel I’ve written is being considered by a publisher. If he likes it enough, it’ll see me through the next few months.
Yours,
Chunilal
When Dr Chanda came, Bipin Babu said, ‘I’m fine. It all came back as soon as I got off the train at Ranchi.’
‘A unique case,’ said Dr Chanda. ‘I shall certainly write about it in a medical journal.’