by Satyajit Ray
‘The reason why I sent for you,’ said Bipin Babu, ‘is that I have a pain in the hip from a fall I had in Ranchi. If you could prescribe a pain killer . . .’
Translated by Satyajit Ray
First published in Bengali in 1963
The Vicious Vampire
I have always harboured an intense dislike for bats. Whenever a flitter- mouse flits into my room in the house in Calcutta, I feel obliged to drop everything and rush out of the room. Particularly during the summer, I am distinctly uneasy at the thought of one of those creatures knocking against the fan spinning at full speed and dropping to the ground, hurt and injured. So I run out of my room and yell at the cook, Vinod, to come and rescue me. Once, Vinod managed to kill a flitter-mouse with my badminton racquet. To be very honest, my dislike is often mixed with fear. The very sight of a bat puts me off. What peculiar creatures they are—neither birds nor animals, with their queer habit of hanging upside down from trees. I think that the world would have been a far better place to live in if bats did not exist.
My room in Calcutta had been invaded by flitter-mice so many times that I had begun to think they had a strange fondness for me. But I never thought I would find a bat hanging from the ceiling in my room in this house in Shiuri. This really was too much. I could not stay in the room unless it was removed.
My father’s friend, Tinkori Kaka, had told me about this house. He was a doctor and had once practised in Shiuri. After retirement, he had moved to Calcutta, but, needless to say, he still knew a lot of people in Shiuri. So I went straight to him for advice when I discovered that I would have to spend about a week there.
‘Shiuri? Why Shiuri? What do you want to do there?’ he asked. I told him I was working on a research project on old terracotta temples of Bengal. It was my ultimate aim to write a book on this subject. There were so many beautiful temples strewn about the country but no one had ever written a really good book on them.
‘Oh, of course! You’re an artist, aren’t you? So your interest lies in temples, does it? But why do you want to limit yourself just to Shiuri? There are temples everywhere—Shurul, Hetampur, Dubrajpur, Phoolbera, Beersinghpur. But, perhaps, those aren’t good enough to be written about?’
Anyway, Tinkori Kaka told me about this house.
‘You wouldn’t mind staying in an old house, would you? A patient of mine used to live there. He’s now shifted to Calcutta. But I believe there is a caretaker in Shiuri to look after the house. It’s a fairly large place. I don’t think you’ll have any problem. And you wouldn’t have to pay anything, either. I snatched this man back, so to speak, from the jaws of death as many as three times. He’d be only too pleased to have a guest of mine stay in his house for a week.’
Tinkori Kaka was right. There was no problem in getting to the house. But the minute I got off the cycle rickshaw that brought me from the station and entered my room, I saw the bat.
I called the old caretaker.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Madhusudan.’
‘I see. Well, then, Madhusudan—is Mr Bat a permanent resident of this room or has he come here today to give me a special welcome?’
Madhusudan looked at the ceiling, scratched his head and said, ‘I hadn’t noticed it, sir. This room usually stays locked. It was only opened today because you were coming.’
‘But I cannot share a room with a bat.’
‘Don’t worry about it, sir. It will leave as soon as the sun goes down.’
‘All right. But can’t anything be done to make sure it doesn’t return?’
‘No, sir. It won’t come back. Why should it? After all, it’s not as though it’s built a nest here. It must have slipped in last night somehow and couldn’t get out for it can’t see during the day!’
After a cup of tea, I went and occupied an old cane chair on the veranda. The house was at one end of the town. On the northern side was a large mango grove. Through the trees it was possible to catch glimpses of rice fields that stretched right up to the horizon. On the western side was a bamboo grove and, beyond it, the spire of a church stood tall. This must be the famous ancient church of Shiuri.
I decided to walk round to the church in the evening. I should start working from tomorrow. In and around twenty-five miles of Shiuri at least thirty terracotta temples could be found. I had a camera with me and a large stock of film. Each carving on the walls of these temples should be photographed. The temples might not last very much longer and once these were destroyed, Bengal would lose an important part of its heritage.
It was now 5.30 p.m. The sun disappeared behind the church. I got up, stretched and had just taken a step towards the stairs when something flew past my left ear making a swishing noise, and vanished into the mango grove.
I went into the bedroom and looked at the ceiling. The bat had gone. Thank goodness for that. At least I could work peacefully in the evening. Perhaps I should start writing about the temples I had already seen elsewhere in Burdwan, Bankura and the 24 Parganas.
As soon as darkness fell, I took out my torch and began walking towards the church. The red earth of Birbhum, the uneven terrain, the rows of palms—I loved them all. This was my first visit to Shiuri—I was not really here to look at nature and its beauty, yet the church and its surroundings struck me as beautiful. I passed the church and began walking further west. Then I saw what looked like a park. There was an open space surrounded by a railing. It had an iron gate.
As I came closer, I realized it was not a park but a graveyard. There were about thirty graves in it. A few had carved marble pillars. Others had marble slabs. All were undoubtedly quite ancient. The pillars were cracked. Little plants peeped out of some of these cracks.
The gate was open. I went in and began trying to read some of the hazy, indistinct epitaphs. All were graves of Britons, possibly those who had died in the very early stages of the Raj, as a result of some epidemic or the other.
One particular marble slab seemed to have a slightly more legible inscription. I was about to switch the torch on to read it, when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around quickly. A short, middle-aged man was standing about ten feet away, smiling at me. He was wearing a black jacket and grey trousers. There was an old, patched up umbrella in his hand.
‘You don’t like bats, do you?’
I started. How did this stranger know that? The man laughed. ‘You must be wondering how I found out. Very easy. When you were telling that caretaker to drive the bat away this morning, I happened to be in the vicinity.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Now the man raised his hands in a namaskar.
‘I am Jagdish Percival Mukherjee. My family has lived in Shiuri for a long time. Four generations, you know. I like visiting the church and this graveyard in the evening. I am a Christian, you see.’
It was getting darker. I headed back to the house. The man began walking with me. He seemed a bit strange, although he appeared to be harmless enough. But his voice was funny—thin and, at the same time, harsh. In any case, I could never be comfortable with people who made such an obvious attempt to get friendly.
I tried to switch on the torch, but it did not work. Then I remembered I had meant to buy a couple of batteries at the station, and had quite forgotten to do so. How annoying! I could not see a thing. What if there were snakes?
The man said, ‘Don’t worry about your torch. I am used to moving in the dark. I can see quite well. Careful—there’s a pot-hole here!’ He pulled me to one side. Then he said, ‘Do you know what a vampire is?’
‘Yes,’ I said briefly.
Who did not know about vampires? Blood-sucking bats were called vampires. They sucked the blood of animals like horses and cows. I did not know whether such bats could be found in India, but I had certainly read about them in books from abroad. And those did not just talk about bats. They even spoke of bodies of dead men that came out of graves in the middle of the night to drink the blood of people who were asleep. Such creatures
were also called vampires. The story of Count Dracula was something I had read in school.
It annoyed me to think that the man had raised the subject of vampires in spite of being aware of my aversion to bats.
We both fell silent.
Then we came to the mango grove and the house could be seen quite clearly. Here he stopped abruptly and said, ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you. You’re going to stay here for some time, aren’t you?’
‘About a week.’
‘Good. Then we shall certainly meet again. Usually, in the evening,’ he said, pointing towards the graveyard, ‘I can be found there. My forefathers were buried in the same place. I shall show you their graves tomorrow.’
I said silently to myself, ‘The less I see of you the better.’ Bats I could not bear to look at, anyway. A discussion on those stupid creatures was even worse. There were plenty of other things to think about.
As I climbed up the steps of the veranda, I turned back for a moment and saw the man disappear among the mango trees. By that time, the jackals had started their chorus beyond the rice fields.
It was the month of October; yet, it felt hot and oppressive inside the room. I tossed and turned in my bed after dinner. I even toyed with the idea of opening the door of my room which I had closed for fear of the bat flying in again. In the end, I decided against it, not so much because of the bat, but because of something else. If the caretaker was a light sleeper, perhaps there was no danger of being burgled. But what if a stray dog came in through the open door and chewed up my slippers? This could happen easily in a small mofussil town. In fact, I had already had that kind of experience more than once. So, instead of opening the door, I opened the window that faced the west. A lovely breeze came wafting in.
I soon fell asleep and began to have a strange dream.
In my dream I saw the same man peering through the window of my room and smiling at me. His eyes were bright green and his teeth sharp and narrow. Then I saw the man take a step back, raise his arms and leap through the window. It seemed almost as though it was the sound of his arrival that woke me.
I opened my eyes and saw that dawn had broken. What an awful dream!
I rose and yelled for a cup of tea. I must finish breakfast and leave early, or I would never get all my work done.
Madhusudan seemed a little preoccupied as he placed my tea on the table in the veranda. I asked, ‘What’s the matter, Madhusudan? Are you unwell? Or didn’t you sleep last night?’
Madhu said, ‘No, babu. I am quite all right. It’s my calf.’ ‘What happened to your calf?’
‘It died last night. Got bitten by a snake probably.’ ‘What!’
‘Yes, sir. It was only a week old. Something bit its throat—God knows if it was a cobra.’
I began to feel uneasy. Bitten on the throat? Where did I . . .? Of course. A vampire bat! Wasn’t it only yesterday that I was thinking of the same thing? Vampire bats did suck blood from the throats of animals. But, of course, the calf might indeed have been bitten by a snake. That was perfectly possible, especially if the calf happened to be sleeping. Why was I trying to link the death of a calf with vampire bats?
I uttered a few words of comfort to Madhusudan and returned to my room. My eyes moved towards the ceiling involuntarily.
The bat was back.
It was my mistake. I should not have left the window open. I decided to keep all the doors and windows closed tonight, no matter how stuffy it became.
I spent a rather enjoyable day among the old terracotta temples. The workmanship of those who had done the carving on the walls was truly remarkable.
I took a bus from Hetampur and returned to Shiuri at about half past four in the evening.
I had to pass the graveyard in order to get home. The busy day had nearly made me forget the man I had met the day before. The sight of the man, standing under a tree just outside the graveyard, therefore, came as a surprise. Perhaps the best thing would be to pretend not to have seen him and walk on. But that was not to be. Just as I bent my head and increased the speed of my walking, he leapt towards me.
‘Did you sleep well last night?’
I said ‘Yes’ without stopping. But it was clear that, like yesterday, he would walk with me. He began walking fast to keep pace with me. ‘I have a funny habit, you see,’ he said. ‘I cannot sleep at night. So I sleep tight during the day and from evening to early morning, I roam around here and there. Oh, I cannot explain to you the joy of walking around at night. You have no idea how many different things are simply crying out to be seen, to be heard in this very graveyard! Have you ever thought of these beings that have spent years and years, lying under the ground, stuffed in a wooden box? Have you wondered about their unfulfilled desires? No one wants to stay a prisoner. Each one of them wants to come out! But not many know the secret of getting out. So, in their sadness, some weep, some wail and others sigh. In the middle of the night, when the jackals go to sleep and the crickets become quiet, those who have sensitive ears—like mine—can hear the soft moaning of these people, nailed into a box. But, as I told you, one would have to have very sharp ears. My eyes and ears work very well at night. Just like a bat’s.’
I must ask Madhusudan about this man, I thought. There were a few questions I wanted answered, but I knew there would be no point in asking the man. How long had he really spent in Shiuri? What did he do for a living? Where did he live?
He continued to walk beside me and talk incessantly.
‘I don’t often make the effort to go and meet people,’ he said, ‘but I simply had to come and meet you. I do hope you won’t deprive me of the pleasure of your company for the remainder of your stay.’
This time I could not control myself. I stopped, turned towards the man and said rather rudely, ‘Look, mister, I have come only for a week. I have a vast amount of work to do. I don’t see how I can possibly spend any time with you.’
The man, at first, seemed a little crestfallen at my words. Then he smiled and said in a tone that sounded mild yet oddly firm, ‘You may not give me your company, but surely I can give you mine? Besides, I was not talking about the time when you’d be busy doing your work—during the day, that is.’
There was no need to waste any more time with him. I said namaskar abruptly and strode towards my house.
‘Jagdish Mukherjee? I don’t think . . . Oh, wait a minute! Is he short? Wears a jacket and trousers? Is a little dark?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Oh, babu, that man is crazy. Quite mad. In fact, he’s only recently been discharged from the asylum. They say he’s now cured. How did you come across him? I haven’t seen him for ages. His father was a priest called Nilmani Mukherjee. A nice man, but I believe he, too, went quite cuckoo before his death.’
I did not pursue the matter. All I said was, ‘That bat had come in again. But it was entirely my fault. I had kept the window open. I hadn’t realized some of its grills were broken.’
Madhu said, ‘Tomorrow morning I shall have those gaps filled. Perhaps during the night you should keep the window closed.’
After dinner, I finished writing notes on the temples I had seen that day. Then I loaded my camera with a new roll. Glancing out of the window, I saw that the clouds of last night had cleared, leaving everything awash in the moonlight.
I went and sat outside on the veranda for a while and returned to my room at around 11 p.m. Then I drank a glass of water and finally went to bed. Jagdish Mukherjee’s words were still ringing in my ears. No doubt, in this scientific age, his words were no more than the ravings of a mad man. I must find out which asylum he had gone to and which doctor had treated him.
The clouds having dispersed, the oppressive feeling of the night before had gone. Keeping the window closed was not difficult. In fact, that night I had to use the extra sheet I had brought. I fell asleep soon after closing my eyes. But I woke a little while later, though I could not tell the time nor what it was that had disturbed my sleep. Then I saw a squar
e patch of moonlight on the wall and my heart lurched.
God knew when the window had opened. Light was coming in through the open window. In that patch of light, I saw the shadow of something flying in a circle, again and again.
Holding my breath carefully, I turned my head and looked up. This time I could see the bat.
It kept flying in a circle right over my bed, and slowly began to come down.
I mustered all my courage. It would be disastrous if I lost my will power at a moment like this. Without taking my eyes off the bat, I stretched my right hand towards the bedside table and picked up my large, hardbound notebook. Just as the bat made a final swoop, ready to attack my throat, I struck its head with the notebook, using all my strength.
It went shooting out of the window, knocking once against the broken grills, and landed on the ground outside. The next instant, I thought I heard someone running across the ground.
I rushed to the window and peered out. Nothing could be seen. There was no sign of the bat.
I could not go back to sleep after that.
The first rays of the sun in the morning wiped out the horrors of the night. There was no reason to assume that the bat was a vampire. Yes, it had certainly come very close to me, but how could it be proved that it had done so with the intention of sucking my blood? If that weird character in the graveyard had not raised the subject of vampires, I would not even have dreamt of it. A bat in Shiuri would have struck me as no different from a bat in Calcutta.
I decided to forget the whole thing. There was some work to be done in Hetampur. I finished my cup of tea and left at around half-past-six.
As I approached the graveyard, I came upon a startling sight. A few local people were carrying Jagdish Mukherjee. He appeared to be unconscious and his forehead had a large, black bruise.
‘What happened to him?’ I asked.
One of the men laughed.
‘Fell down from a tree, probably,’ he said.
‘What! Why should he fall from a tree? What could he have been doing on a tree top?’