The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  To Ratan Babu, the hotel seemed quite adequate. His room wasn’t large, but that didn’t matter. There were windows to the east and the south with pleasant views of the countryside. The servant Pancha seemed an amiable sort. Ratan Babu was in the habit of bathing twice a day in tepid water throughout the year, and Pancha had assured him that there would be no trouble about that. The cooking was passable, which was all right with Ratan Babu since he was not fussy about food. There was only one thing he insisted on: he needed to have rice with fish curry and chapatis with dal and vegetables. He had informed Pancha about this as soon as he had arrived, and Pancha had passed on the information to the manager.

  Ratan Babu was also in the habit of going for a walk in the afternoon when he arrived in a new place. The first day at Shini was no exception. He finished the cup of tea brought by Pancha and set out by four.

  After a few minutes’ walk he found himself in the open country. The terrain was uneven and criss-crossed with paths. Ratan Babu chose one at random and after half an hour’s walk, discovered a charming spot. It was a pond with water lilies growing in it with a large variety of birds flying around. Of these there were some like cranes, snipes, kingfishers and magpies which Ratan Babu recognized; the others were unfamiliar.

  Ratan Babu could well have spent all his afternoons sitting beside this pond, but on the second day he took a different path in the hope of discovering something new. Having walked a mile or so, he had to stop for a herd of goats to cross his path. As the road cleared, he went on for another five minutes until a wooden bridge came into view. As he approached it, he realized that a railway line passed below it. He went and stood on the bridge. To the east he could see the railway station; to the west the parallel lines stretched as far as the eye could see. What if a train were suddenly to appear and go thundering underneath? The very thought thrilled him.

  Perhaps because he had his eyes on the tracks, he failed to notice another man who had come and stood beside him. Ratan Babu looked around and gave a start.

  The stranger was clad in a dhoti and shirt, a snuff-coloured shawl on his shoulder. He wore bifocals and his feet were clad in brown canvas shoes. Ratan Babu had an odd feeling. Where had he seen this person before? Wasn’t there something familiar about him? Medium height, medium complexion, a pensive look in his eyes . . . How old could he be? Surely not over fifty.

  The stranger smiled and folded his hands in greeting. Ratan Babu was about to return the greeting when he realized in a flash why he had that odd feeling. No wonder the stranger’s face seemed familiar. He had seen that face many, many times—in his own mirror. The resemblance was uncanny. The squarish jaw with the cleft chin, the way the hair was parted, the carefully trimmed moustache, the shape of the ear lobes—they were all strikingly like his own. Only, the stranger seemed a shade fairer than him, his eyebrows a little bushier and the hair at the back a trifle longer.

  The stranger spoke, and Ratan Babu got another shock. Sushanto, a boy from his neighbourhood, had once recorded his voice in a tape recorder and played it back to him. There was no difference between that voice and the one that spoke now.

  ‘My name is Manilal Majumdar. I believe you’re staying at the New Mahamaya?’

  Ratanlal—Manilal . . . the names were similar too. Ratan Babu managed to shake off his bewilderment and introduced himself.

  The stranger said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d know, but I have seen you once before.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Weren’t you in Dhulian last year?’

  Ratan Babu’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Don’t tell me you were there too!’

  ‘Yes, sir. I go off on trips every Puja. I’m on my own. No friends to speak of. It’s fun to be in a new place all by myself. A colleague of mine recommended Shini to me. Nice place, isn’t it?’

  Ratan Babu swallowed, and then nodded in assent. He felt a strange mixture of disbelief and uneasiness in his mind.

  ‘Have you seen the pond on the other side where a lot of birds gather in the evening?’ asked Manilal Babu.

  Ratan Babu said yes, he had.

  ‘Some of the birds I could recognize,’ said Manilal Babu, ‘others I have never seen before in Bengal. What do you think?’

  Ratan Babu had recovered somewhat in the meantime. He said, ‘I had the same feeling; I didn’t recognize some birds either.’

  Just then they heard a booming sound. It was a train. Ratan Babu saw a point of light growing bigger as the train approached from the east. Both the men moved closer to the railing of the bridge. The train hurtled up and passed below them, making the bridge shake. Both of them crossed to the other side and kept looking until the train disappeared from view. Ratan Babu felt the same thrill as he did as a small boy. ‘How strange!’ said Manilal Babu, ‘even at this age watching trains never fails to excite me.’

  On the way back Ratan Babu learnt that Manilal Babu had arrived in Shini three days ago. He was staying at the Kalika hotel. His home was in Calcutta where he had a job in a trading company. One doesn’t ask another person about his salary, but an indomitable urge made Ratan Babu throw discretion to the wind and put the question. The answer made him gasp in astonishment. How was such a thing possible? Both Ratan Babu and Manilal Babu drew exactly the same salary—437 rupees a month—and both had received exactly the same Puja bonus.

  Ratan Babu found it difficult to believe that the other man had somehow found out all about him beforehand and was playing some mysterious game. No one had ever bothered about him before; he kept very much to himself. Outside his office he spoke only to his servant and never made calls on anyone. Even if it was possible for an outsider to find out about his salary, such details as when he went to bed, his tastes in food, what newspapers he read, what plays and films he had seen lately—these were known only to himself. And yet everything tallied exactly with what this man was saying.

  He couldn’t say this to Manilal Babu. All he did was listen to what the man had to say and marvel at the extraordinary similarity. He revealed nothing about his own habits.

  They came to Ratan Babu’s hotel first, and stopped in front of it. ‘What’s the food here like?’ asked Manilal Babu.

  ‘They make a good fish curry,’ replied Ratan Babu. ‘The rest is just adequate.’

  ‘I’m afraid the cooking in my hotel is rather indifferent,’ said Manilal Babu. ‘I’ve heard they make very good luchis and chholar dal at the Jagannath Restaurant. What about having a meal there tonight?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Ratan Babu, ‘shall we meet around eight then?’

  ‘Right. I’ll wait for you, then we’ll walk down together.’ After Manilal Babu left, Ratan Babu roamed about in the street for a while. Darkness had fallen. It was a clear night. So clear that the Milky Way could be seen stretching from one end of the star-filled sky to the other. What a strange thing to happen! All these years Ratan Babu had regretted that he couldn’t find anyone to share his tastes and become friends with him. Now at last in Shini he had run into someone who might well be an exact replica of himself. There was a slight difference in their looks perhaps, but in every other respect such similarity was rare even amongst twins.

  Did it mean that he had found a friend at last?

  Ratan Babu couldn’t find a ready answer to the question. Perhaps he would find it when he got to know the man a little better. One thing was clear—he no longer had the feeling of being isolated from his fellow men. All these years there had been another person exactly like him, and he had come to know him quite by chance.

  In Jagannath Restaurant, sitting face to face across the table, Ratan Babu observed that, like him, Manilal Babu ate with a fastidious relish; like him, he didn’t drink any water during the meal; and like him, he squeezed lemon into the dal. Ratan Babu always had sweet curd to round off his meals, and so did Manilal Babu.

  While eating, Ratan Babu had the uncomfortable feeling that diners at other tables were watching them. Did they notice how alike they were? Was the likenes
s so obvious to onlookers?

  After dinner, the two of them walked for a while in the moonlight. There was something which Ratan Babu wanted to ask, and he did so now. ‘Have you turned fifty yet?’

  Manilal Babu smiled. ‘I’ll be doing so soon,’ he said, ‘I’ll be fifty on the twenty-ninth of December.’

  Ratan Babu’s head swam. They were both born on the same day: the twenty-ninth of December, 1916.Half an hour later, as they were taking leave, Manilal Babu said, ‘It has been a great pleasure knowing you. I don’t seem to get on very well with people, but you’re an exception. I can now look forward to an enjoyable vacation.’

  Usually, Ratan Babu was in bed by ten. He would glance through a magazine, and gradually feel a drowsiness stealing over him. He would then put down the magazine, turn off the bedlamp and within a few minutes would start snoring softly. But tonight he found that sleep wouldn’t come. Nor did he feel like reading. He picked up the magazine and put it down again.

  Manilal Majumdar . . .

  Ratan Babu had read somewhere that of the billions of people who inhabited the earth, no two looked exactly alike. And yet every one had the same number of features—eyes, ears, nose, lips and so on. But even if no two persons looked alike, was it possible for them to have the same tastes, feelings, attitudes—as it was with him and his new friend? Age, profession, voice, gait, even the power of their glasses—were identical. One would think such a thing impossible, and yet here was proof that it was not, and Ratan Babu had learnt it again and again in the last four hours.

  At about midnight, he got out of bed, poured some water from the carafe and splashed it on his head. Sleep was impossible in his feverish state. He passed a towel lightly over his head and went back to bed. At least the wet pillow would keep his head cool for a while.

  Silence had descended over the neighbourhood. An owl went screeching overhead. Moonlight streamed in through the window and onto the bed. Slowly, Ratan Babu’s mind regained its calm and his eyes closed of their own accord.

  It was almost eight when Ratan Babu woke up the next morning. Manilal Babu was supposed to come at nine. It was Tuesday—the day when the weekly market or haat was held at a spot a mile or so away. The night before, the two had almost simultaneously expressed a wish to visit the haat, more to look around than to buy anything.

  It was almost nine when Ratan Babu finished breakfast. He helped himself to a pinch of mouth-fresheners from the saucer on the table, came out of the hotel and saw Manilal Babu approaching.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep for a long time last night,’ were Manilal Babu’s first words. ‘I lay in bed thinking how alike you and I were. It was five to eight when I woke this morning. I am usually up by six.’

  Ratan Babu refrained from comment. The two set off towards the haat. They had to pass some youngsters standing in a cluster by the roadside. ‘Hey, look at Tweedledum and Tweedledee!’ one of them cried out. Ratan Babu tried his best to ignore the remark and went on ahead. It took them about twenty minutes to reach the haat.

  The market was a bustling affair. There were shops for fruits and vegetables, utensils, clothes, and even livestock. The two men wove their way through the milling crowd casting glances at the goods on display.

  Who was that? Wasn’t it Pancha? For some reason, Ratan Babu couldn’t bring himself to face the hotel servant. That remark about Tweedledum and Tweedledee had made him realize it would be prudent not to be seen alongside Manilal Babu.

  As they jostled through the crowd a thought suddenly occurred to Ratan Babu. He realized he was better off as he was—alone, without a friend. He didn’t need a friend. Or, at any rate, not someone like Manilal Babu. Whenever he spoke to Manilal Babu, it seemed as if he was carrying on a conversation with himself. He knew all the answers before he asked the questions. There was no room for argument, no possibility of misunderstanding. Were these signs of friendship? Two of his colleagues, Kartik Ray and Mukunda Chakravarty, were bosom friends. Did that mean they had no arguments? Of course they did. But they were still friends—close friends.

  The thought kept buzzing around his head and he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that it would have been better if Manilal Babu hadn’t come into his life. Even if two identical men existed, it was wrong that they should meet. The very thought that they might continue to meet even after returning to Calcutta made Ratan Babu shudder.

  One of the shops was selling cane walking sticks. Ratan Babu had always wanted to possess one, but seeing Manilal Babu haggling with the shopkeeper, he checked himself. Manilal Babu bought two sticks and gave one to Ratan Babu saying, ‘I hope you won’t mind accepting this as a token of our friendship.’

  On the way back to the hotel, Manilal Babu spoke a lot about himself—his childhood, his parents, his school and college days. Ratan Babu felt that his own life story was being recounted.

  The plan came to Ratan Babu in the afternoon as the two were on their way to the railway bridge. He didn’t have to talk much, so he could think. He had been thinking, since midday, of getting rid of this man, but he couldn’t decide on a method. Ratan Babu had just turned his eyes to the clouds gathering in the west when a plan suddenly occurred to him with blazing clarity. The vision he saw was of the two of them standing by the railing of the bridge. In the distance a train was approaching. As the engine got within twenty yards, Ratan Babu gathered his strength and gave a hefty push—He closed his eyes involuntarily. Then he opened them again and shot a glance at his companion. Manilal Babu seemed quite unconcerned. But if the two had so much in common, perhaps he too was thinking of a way to get rid of him?

  But the man’s looks didn’t betray any such thoughts. As a matter of fact, he was humming a Hindi film tune which Ratan Babu himself was in the habit of humming from time to time.

  The dark clouds had just covered the sun which would in any case set in a few minutes. Ratan Babu looked around and saw they were quite alone. Thank God for that. Had there been anyone else, his plan wouldn’t have worked.

  It was strange that even though his mind was bent on murder, Ratan Babu couldn’t think of himself as a culprit. Had Manilal Babu possessed any traits which endowed him with a personality different from his own, Ratan Babu could never have thought of killing him. But now he felt that there was no sense in both of them being alive at the same time. It was enough that he alone should continue to exist.

  The two arrived at the bridge.

  ‘Bit stuffy today,’ commented Manilal Babu. ‘It may rain tonight, and that could be the start of a cold spell.’

  Ratan Babu stole a glance at his wristwatch. Twelve minutes to six. The train was supposed to be very punctual. There wasn’t much time left. Ratan Babu contrived a yawn to ease his tension. ‘Even if it does rain,’ he said, ‘it is not likely to happen for another four or five hours.’

  ‘Care for a betel nut?’

  Manilal Babu had produced a small round tin box from his pocket. Ratan Babu too was carrying a metal box with betel nuts in it, but didn’t mention the fact to Manilal Babu. He helped himself to a nut and tossed it into his mouth.

  Just then they heard the sound of the train.

  Manilal Babu advanced towards the railing, glanced at his watch and said, ‘Seven minutes before time.’

  The thick cloud in the sky had made the evening a little darker than usual. The headlight seemed brighter in contrast. The train was still far away but the light was growing brighter every second.

  Krrrring . . . krrring.

  A cyclist was approaching from the road towards the bridge. Good God! Was he going to stop?

  No. Ratan Babu’s apprehension proved baseless. The cyclist rode swiftly past them and disappeared into the gathering darkness down the other side of the road.

  The train was hurtling up at great speed. It was impossible to gauge the distance in the blinding glare of the headlight. In a few seconds the bridge would start shaking.

  Now the sound of the train was deafening.

  Manilal Babu wa
s looking down with his hands on the railing. A flash of lightning in the sky and Ratan Babu gathered all his strength, flattened his palms against the back of Manilal Babu, and heaved. Manilal Babu’s body vaulted over the four-foot-high railing and plummeted down towards the thundering engine. That very moment the bridge began to shake.

  Ratan Babu wound his shawl tightly around his neck and started on his way back.

  Towards the end of his walk he had to break into a run in a vain effort to avoid being pelted by the first big drops of rain. Panting with the effort, he rushed into the hotel.

  As soon as he entered he felt there was something wrong. Where had he come? The lobby of the New Mahamaya was not like this at all—the tables, the chairs, the pictures on the wall . . . Looking around, his eyes suddenly caught a signboard on the wall. What a stupid mistake! He had come into the Kalika hotel instead. Wasn’t this where Manilal Babu was staying?

  ‘So you couldn’t avoid getting wet?’

  Somebody was talking to him. Ratan Babu turned round and saw a man with curly hair and a green shawl—probably a resident of the hotel—looking at him with a cup of tea in his hand. ‘Sorry,’ said the man, seeing Ratan Babu’s face, ‘for a moment I thought you were Manilal Babu.’

  It was this mistake which raised the first doubts in Ratan Babu’s mind. Had he been careful enough about the crime he had committed? Many must have seen the two of them going out together, but had they really noticed? Would they remember what they had seen? And if they did, would the suspicion then fall on him? He was sure no one had seen them after they had reached the outskirts of the town. And after reaching that bridge—oh yes, the cyclist. He must have seen them. But by that time it had turned quite dark and the cyclist passed by at a high speed. Was it likely that he would remember their faces? Certainly not.

  The more Ratan Babu pondered, the more reassured he felt. There was no doubt that Manilal Babu’s dead body would be discovered. But he just could not believe that it would lead to him being suspected of the crime, and that he would be tried, found guilty, and brought to the gallows.