by Satyajit Ray
Perhaps there was no need for it, either. Perhaps he would be recognized, anyway. Pulak Chakravarty was giving him rather odd looks. Delhi was still sixteen hours away. There was every chance of being caught. In Barin Babu’s mind flashed a sudden image—his moustaches had grown back, the flesh on his face had worn away, his glasses had vanished. Pulak Chakravarty was staring hard at the face he had seen nine years ago. The look of amazement in his slightly hazel eyes was slowly turning into a look filled with anger. His lips were parting in a slow, cruel smile. ‘Ah ha!’ he seemed to be saying, ‘You are the same man, are you not? Good. I have waited all these years to lay my hands on you. Now I shall have my little revenge . . .’
By 10 p.m., Barin Babu had run up a fairly high temperature, accompanied by intense shivering. He called the guard and asked for an extra blanket. Then he covered himself from head to foot with both blankets and lay flat on his back. Pulak Chakravarty closed the door of their compartment and bolted it. Before switching off the lights, he turned towards Barin Babu and said, ‘You appear unwell. I have some very effective pills with me—here, take these two. You’re not used to travelling in an air-conditioned coach, are you?’
Barin Babu swallowed the tablets. Well, given his present condition, Pulak Chakravarty might spare him a ruthless punishment. But Barin Babu had made up his mind about one thing. He must transfer that clock to the suitcase of its rightful owner. He must try to get this done tonight, if possible. But he could not move until his temperature went down. His body was still shivering occasionally.
Pulak Chakravarty had switched on the reading lamp over his head. He had a paperback open in his hand. But was he reading it, or was he only staring at a page and thinking of something else? Why did he not turn the page? How long could it take to read a couple of pages?
Suddenly Barin Babu noticed Pulak’s eyes were no longer fixed on the book. He had turned his head slightly and was looking at him. Barin Babu closed his eyes. After a long time, he opened one of them cautiously and glanced at Pulak Chakravarty. Yes, he was still staring hard at him. Barin Babu promptly shut his eye again. His heart was jumping like a frog, matching the rhythm of the wheels—lub dup, lub dup, lub dup.
A faint click told Barin Babu that the reading light had been switched off. Slightly reassured, he opened both his eyes this time. The light in the corridor outside was coming in through a crack in the door. Barin Babu saw Pulak Chakravarty put his book down on the table beside Barin Babu’s bag. Then he pulled his blanket up to his chin, turned on his side, facing Barin Babu, and yawned noisily.
Barin Babu’s heartbeats gradually returned to normal. Tomorrow—yes, tomorrow morning he must return the clock. He had noticed Pulak Chakravarty’s suitcase was unlocked. He had gone and changed into a sleeping suit a little while ago.
Barin Babu had stopped shivering. Perhaps those tablets had started to work. What were they? He had swallowed them simply so that he would recover in time to be able to sing at that function in Delhi. Applause from an audience was something he had no wish to miss. But had he done a wise thing? What if those pills . . .?
No, he must not think about such things. The incident of the glass vibrating against the wall was bad enough. Obviously, all these strange ideas were simply a result of a sick and guilt-ridden mind. Tomorrow, he must find a remedy for this. Without a clear conscience, he could not have a clear voice and his performance would be a total failure. Bengal Association . . .
The tinkle of tea cups woke Barin Bhowmick in the morning. A waiter had come in with his breakfast: bread, butter, an omelette and tea. Should he be eating all this? Did he still have a slight fever? No, he did not. In fact, he felt just fine. What wonderful tablets those were! He began to feel quite grateful towards Pulak Chakravarty.
But where was he? In the bathroom, perhaps. Or was he in the corridor? Barin Babu went out to take a look as soon as the waiter had gone. There was no one in the corridor outside. How long ago had Pulak Chakravarty left? Should he take a chance?
Barin Babu took a chance, but did not quite succeed in his effort. He had taken the clock out of his own bag and had just bent down to pull out Pulak Chakravarty’s suitcase from under his berth, when his fellow passenger walked in with a towel and a shaving kit in his hands. Barin Babu’s right hand closed around the clock. He straightened himself.
‘How are you? All right?’
‘Yes, thank you. Er . . . can you recognize this?’
Barin Babu opened his palm. The clock lay on it. A strange determination had risen in his mind. He had got over the old compulsive urge to steal a long time ago. But this business of playing hide-and-seek, was this not a form of deception? All that tension, those uncertainties, the anxiety over should-I-do-it-or- shouldn’t-I, this funny, empty feeling in his stomach, the parched throat, the jumping heart—all these were signs of a malady, were they not? This, too, had to be overcome. There could never be any peace of mind otherwise.
Pulak Chakravarty had only just started to rub his ears with his towel. The sight of the clock turned him into a statue. His hand holding the towel remained stuck to his ear.
Barin Babu said, ‘Yes, I am that same man. I’ve put on a bit of weight, shaved my moustaches and have started wearing glasses. I was then going to Patna and you to Delhi. In 1964. Remember that man who got run over by our train? And you went out to investigate? Well, I took the clock in your absence.’
Pulak Chakravarty’s eyes were now looking straight into Barin Babu’s. Barin Babu saw him frowning deeply; the whites of his eyes had become rather prominent, his lips had parted as though he wanted to say something but could not find speech.
Barin Babu continued, ‘Actually, it was an illness I used to suffer from. I mean, I am not really a thief. There is a medical term for it which escapes me at the moment. Anyway, I am cured now and am quite normal. I used your clock all these years and was taking it with me to Delhi. Since I happened to meet you—it’s really a miracle, isn’t it?—I thought I’d return it to you. I hope you will not hold any . . . er . . . against me.’
Pulak Chakravarty could do no more than say ‘thanks’ very faintly. He was still staring at the clock, now transferred to his own hand, totally dumbfounded.
Barin Babu collected his toothbrush, toothpaste, and shaving kit. Then he took the towel off its rack and went into the bathroom. He broke into a song as soon as he had closed the door, and was pleased to note that the old, natural melody in his voice was fully restored.
It took him about three minutes to get N.C. Bhowmick in the finance ministry in Delhi. Then, a deep, familiar voice boomed into his ear.
‘Hello.’
‘Nitish-da? This is Barin Babu.’
‘Oh, so you’ve arrived, have you? I’m coming this evening to hear you sing. Even you have turned into a celebrity, haven’t you? My, my, who would have thought it possible? But anyway, what made you call me?’
‘Well—do you happen to know someone called Pulak Chakravarty? He is supposed to have been your batch-mate in college. He was a boxer.’
‘Who? Old Pincho?’
‘Pincho?’
‘Yes, he used to pinch practically everything he saw. Fountain pens, books from the library, tennis racquets from our common room—it was he who stole my first Ronson. It was funny, because it wasn’t as though he lacked anything in life. His father was a rich man. It was actually a kind of ailment.’
‘Ailment?’
‘Yes, haven’t you ever heard of it? It’s called kleptomania. K-l-e-p . . .’
Barin Babu put the receiver down and stared at his open suitcase. He had only just checked into his hotel and started to unpack. No, there was no mistake. A few items were certainly missing from it. A whole carton of Three Castles cigarettes, a pair of Japanese binoculars and a wallet containing five hundred-rupee notes.
Kleptomania. Barin Babu had forgotten the word. Now it would stay etched in his mind—forever.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First publ
ished in Bengali in 1973
The Admirer
Arup Babu—Arup Ratan Sarkar—was visiting Puri again after eleven years. He noticed a number of changes—a few new houses, new roads and some new hotels, both large and small. But as he stepped on to the beach, he realized that this was something that would always remain unchanged.
The sea was not visible from Hotel Sagarika where he was staying. But, at night, when all its occupants had gone to bed, it was quite easy to hear the lashing of the waves. Last night the sound of the sea had actually made Arup Babu leave his hotel and come down to the beach. He had arrived in Puri earlier that day, but had gone out to do some shopping. There had been no time during the day to visit the beach. Now he could see the frothy, white waves clearly even in the darkness of a moonless night. He recalled having read somewhere that the water in the sea contained phosphorus, which was why the waves were visible even at night. How lovely the mysterious, luminous waves looked! Nobody in Calcutta would say he was imaginative. Never mind. Arup Babu knew that, deep inside, he had sensitivities that made him different from the average man. He took special care to ensure that the tensions and strife of daily living did not kill those feelings. Occasionally he went to the riverside in Calcutta, or to Eden Gardens. The sight of a rippling river, greenery and flowers could still give him joy. The song of a bird filled his mind with wonder—was it a koel or a cuckoo?
Several minutes of gazing at the waves took away some of the weariness sixteen years of being in a job had bowed him down with.
This evening, Arup Babu had returned to the beach. After walking along the waves for a few minutes, he stopped. There was a saffron-clad figure walking in the distance at great speed. His followers were running after him, unable to keep pace with the holy man. Arup Babu watched this spectacle, an amused smile on his lips. Suddenly, he heard a childish voice behind him.
‘Was it you who wrote The Little Boy’s Dream?’ asked the voice. Arup Babu turned around and found a boy of about seven, wearing a white shirt and blue shorts. His arms had a thick layer of sand up to the elbows. He was looking up at him, wide-eyed in wonder.
Before Arup Babu could say anything, the boy continued, ‘I have read The Little Boy’s Dream. Daddy gave it to me on my birthday. I . . . I . . .’
‘Go on, say it. Don’t be shy!’
This time it was the voice of a woman. It seemed to encourage the boy, who said quickly, ‘I liked your book very much!’
Arup Babu glanced at the lady. A pleasant looking woman of about thirty, she was looking straight at him, smiling, and walking slowly in his direction.
Arup Babu addressed the boy, ‘No, son. I haven’t written any book. I think you’ve made a mistake.’
The lady was undoubtedly the boy’s mother. There was a marked resemblance in their appearances, especially in the cleft on their chins.
Arup Babu’s words did not take away the smile from her lips. In fact, it deepened as she came closer and said, ‘We have heard of your reluctance to meet people. My brother-in-law had once written to you, asking you to preside over one of their functions. You had replied saying you were not in the least interested in that kind of thing. But you’re not going to escape this time. We love your stories. Even we adults enjoy reading what you write for children.’
Arup Babu had no idea who had written The Little Boy’s Dream, but it was evident that both the boy and his mother admired the writer equally. Who knew he would land in such a tricky situation? Obviously, these people would have to be told they had made a mistake, but he must not sound rude or say anything that might hurt their feelings.
Arup Babu’s problem was that he was too soft. Once his dhobi, Gangacharan, had burnt a hole in one of his brand new kurtas. Anyone else would have given the dhobi a tight slap. But just one look at poor Ganga’s apologetic face was enough to melt Arup Babu’s heart. All he could bring himself to say was, ‘Look, you really must be more careful in future.’
It was his kind heart that now made him say mildly, ‘Well, how can you be so sure that it was I who wrote The Little Boy’s Dream?’
The lady raised her eyebrows in surprise and said, ‘Didn’t your photo come out in the newspaper only recently? We heard on the radio one evening that you had won the academy award for your contribution to children’s fiction, and the very next day we saw your photograph. So now a lot of other people know the name of Amalesh Moulik. It’s not just us.’
Amalesh Moulik! He had heard the name, but Arup Babu had not seen the photo. Did he look exactly like the man? But, of course, photographs printed in newspapers were usually hazy and unclear.
‘The news of your arrival in Puri has spread already,’ the lady continued.’ We went to Hotel Sea View the other day. One of my husband’s friends was staying there until yesterday. The manager of the hotel told him that you’d be coming on Thursday. Today’s Thursday, isn’t it? Are you staying at the Sea View?’
‘Uh . . . well, no. I had . . . er . . . heard that the food there was not very good.’
‘Yes, that’s quite true. In fact, we were wondering why you had chosen that particular hotel. There are so many better ones. Where did you finally decide to go?’
‘I am . . . staying at the Sagarika.’
‘I see. That’s a new hotel, isn’t it? Is it good?’
‘Just about OK, I’d say. After all, one hasn’t come here to stay for a long time.’
‘How long will you be staying here?’
‘About five days.’
‘Then you must come and visit us. We are at the Puri Hotel. You have no idea how many people are waiting to meet you, especially among the children. Look out—your feet are getting wet!’
Arup Babu had not noticed the large wave rushing towards his feet. But, it was not just his feet that were wet; his whole body, he discovered, had started to perspire, despite the strong wind. How did he manage to miss the chance to make a protest, to tell this lady she had indeed made a mistake? It was too late now. But he must remove himself from here and find a quiet corner to consider the possible consequences of his inaction.
‘May I . . . now take my leave . . .?’ ‘You must be writing something new.’
‘N-n-no. I am now . . . taking a break.’
‘Well, see you soon. I’ll tell my husband about you. Will you be coming this way tomorrow?’
Arup Babu beat a quick retreat.
The manager of Sea View, Vivek Roy, had just finished stuffing a large paan into his mouth when Arup Babu arrived at the reception.
‘Is Amalesh Moulik expected here?’
‘Um.’
‘When . . . do you think . . .?’
‘Tuezhday. Wai?’
Today was Thursday. Arup Babu was in town until the following Tuesday. If Mr Moulik had sent a telegram, it could only mean that he had had to postpone his arrival at the last minute. The manager confirmed that he was originally scheduled to arrive the same morning.
In reply to Vivek Roy’s ‘Wai?’ Arup Babu said that he had some business with Mr Moulik but would come back on Tuesday. From the Sea View he went straight to the market and found a book shop. Here he managed to find four books by Amalesh Moulik, although The Little Boy’s Dream was not available. Two were novels and the other two collections of short stories.
By the time he returned to his own hotel, it was about 6.30 p.m. There was a hall at the entrance of the hotel. The manager sat on the left and on the right was a bench and a couple of chairs. On these were sitting two gentlemen; the bench was occupied by two boys and a girl, none more than ten years old. Upon Arup Babu’s arrival, the two men smiled and rose to their feet with their hands folded in a namaskar. They nodded at the children, who came forward shyly and touched Arup Babu’s feet before he could stop them.
‘We are coming from the Puri Hotel,’ said one of the men. ‘I am Suhrid Sen and this is Mr Ganguly. Mrs Ghosh told us she had met you and this was where you were staying, so . . .’
Thank goodness the man at the book shop h
ad wrapped the books in brown paper. Otherwise God knows what these people might have thought if they found out that an author was buying his own books!
Arup Babu nodded at everything his visitors said, although he knew it was not too late to correct the mistake they were obviously making. All he needed to say was, ‘Look, something rather strange is happening. I have not seen Amalesh Moulik’s photograph, but I assume he looks a bit like me. Perhaps he, too, has thin moustaches and curly hair and wears glasses just like me. It is also true that he is supposed to be visiting Puri. But, please, for God’s sake, I am not that man. I do not write stories for children. In fact, I do not write at all. I work in an insurance company. I have come here simply to have a quiet holiday. Could you please leave me alone? The real Amalesh Moulik is going to arrive here next Tuesday. You can go and check at the Sea View, if you like.’
But would such a speech really help? These people were totally convinced he was Amalesh Moulik and since his initial protests had not worked, how could a telegram lying in the room of the manager of Sea View help? They would assume it was a trick to avoid people. They might even think he was staying at Sagarika under a false name and had sent the telegram to Sea View just to fool everyone.
Besides, there were all these children. One look at them made Arup Babu stop before uttering more protests. All three were staring at him in open admiration. One word of denial would wipe out all their enthusiasm.
‘Babun, you can now ask Amalesh Babu what you wanted to know,’ said Suhrid Sen, nodding at the older boy.
There was now absolutely no way of backing out. The boy called Babun was looking up at him, his head to one side, his fingers interlinked, ready to ask his question.
‘That old man who put the little boy to sleep . . . did he know magic?’