The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  At this crucial moment, Arup Babu discovered that his brain had started to function better than before. He stooped a little and whispered into Babun’s ear, ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘I think he did.’

  The other two children said simultaneously, ‘Yes, yes, he did know magic. We all think he did!’

  ‘Exactly,’ Arup Babu straightened up. ‘Whatever you think is correct. I wrote what I had to write. Now you must figure out what it means. And what you think it means is right. Nothing else matters.’

  All the three children seemed very pleased at this answer. Before they left, Suhrid Sen invited him to dinner. There were eight Bengali families staying at Puri Hotel. The group included quite a few children who were regular fans of Amalesh Moulik. Arup Babu did not object for he had realized that he would simply have to play the role of Amalesh Moulik, at least temporarily. There was no point now in worrying about the possible consequences. But there was one thing Arup Babu felt he had to insist upon.

  ‘Look,’ he said to Mr Sen, ‘I am really not fond of a lot of fuss. I am not used to mixing with people at all. So please may I request you not to spread the news that I am staying here?’

  Suhrid Sen promised him that after dinner the following evening, none of them would disturb the peace and quiet Arup Babu was hoping to enjoy. Mr Sen also offered to warn the others to leave him alone as far as possible.

  Arup Babu had an early dinner and retired to bed with one of Moulik’s books called Habu’s Tricks. The other three were Tutul’s Adventure, Checkmate and Sparklers. The last two were collections of short stories.

  It was true that Arup Babu was no authority on literature. However, he had read, in his school days, a number of children’s stories written by both Indian and foreign writers. Thirty-nine years later, he realized to his surprise that he still remembered most of what he had read so many years ago. Not only that, he could even find similarities in ideas and plots between Amalesh Moulik’s stories and those that he had read as a schoolboy.

  All four books, published in large print, amounted to about 125 pages. When Arup Babu put the last one down and switched his light off, the hotel had fallen totally silent. The sea was rumbling in the distance. What time was it? Arup Babu’s watch was lying by his pillow. He picked it up. It had once belonged to his father and had a radium dial. It gleamed in the darkness like the foam of the sea. The time was a quarter to one in the morning.

  Amalesh Moulik was a well-known author, a popular writer of children’s fiction. One had to admit that his language was very lucid and his style unusual. It was difficult to put his books down. But even so, there was not much originality of thought. One heard so many different tales from one’s friends; people had such varied experiences. Strange and interesting things could happen even to oneself. Surely all one needed to do was to draw on those experiences and mix them with a bit of imagination? Where was the need to borrow ideas from other authors?

  Arup Babu lost a little of his respect for Moulik. At the same time, he felt more relaxed. He was now going to find it easier to pretend to be the famous author.

  The admiration of the fans of Amalesh Moulik was considerably enhanced after the dinner at Puri Hotel. Arup Babu had, in the meantime, managed to find a copy of The Little Boy’s Dream from another shop. It was, therefore, not difficult to answer the thousand questions thirteen small children showered upon him.

  By the time the party ended, the children had started calling him ‘Honeylick Babu’, since he told them that the word mou in Bengali meant ‘honey’ and everyone knew what ‘lick’ meant in English.

  When he heard this, Dr Dasgupta, a guest at the party, remarked, ‘You created all the honey and all these children are licking it.’ At this, Surangama Devi, his wife, said, ‘It’s not just the children. Don’t forget the adults!’

  Two things happened after dinner. The first was that the children asked him to tell them a story. Arup Babu said in reply that he could not make up a story on the spot, but would relate an incident that had occurred in his childhood.

  Arup Babu’s family used to live in Banchharam Akrur Datta Lane in those days. When he was about five, an expensive clock in his house was found missing. His father called a local pandit, who claimed to have special magical powers. ‘I shall find the thief in no time!’ he said.

  He then brought out a large pair of scissors and, holding them like a pair of tongs, picked up a small cane basket. After chanting a few mantras and throwing handfuls of rice over the basket, he declared the thief was none other than the new servant, Natabar. Arup Babu’s uncle caught Natabar by his hair and was about to hit him very hard when the clock slipped out from under a bedsheet.

  Everyone clapped when his story ended. Arup Babu rose to take his leave, but was stopped by a chorus of childish voices saying, ‘No, no, please wait. Don’t go!’

  About half a dozen children rushed out of the room and returned with seven books by Amalesh Moulik that they had just bought. ‘Please sign these books for us!’ they said.

  Arup Babu said, ‘Well, I don’t put my signature on books—ever. Tell you what, I’ll take these away and draw a picture in each. Come to my hotel at 4.30 in the evening the day after tomorrow and take your books back.’

  The children clapped again.

  ‘Yes, yes, a picture is better than a signature!’

  Arup Babu had once won a prize for drawing in school. He had not drawn since then, but surely it would not be impossible to draw some little things in these books if he tried?

  The next day was Saturday. Arup Babu left in the morning with the books and his ball point pen. Near the colony of the Nulias, he discovered that there were plenty of things he could sketch. It took him just about an hour to finish his task. In the first book he drew a crab; in the second, three sea shells lying side by side on the sand; and then a couple of crows, a fishing boat, a Nulia’s hut, a Nulia child and, finally, a Nulia wearing a hat with a pointed peak, making a fishing net.

  Seven little children turned up at his hotel exactly at 4.30 p.m. on Sunday and went away jumping with joy and excitement at the drawings.

  That night, when he had retired to his room after dinner, Arup Babu discovered that the feeling of pleasure had given way in his mind to one of anxiety. It was true that not once had he actually said to anyone, ‘I am Amalesh Moulik’. But he knew whatever he had done over the last three days could not be seen as anything other than large-scale fraud. The day after tomorrow, on Tuesday, the real Amalesh Moulik was going to arrive. The affection and admiration Arup Babu had received from all those children and their parents was actually meant for this other man. It did not matter whether Mr Moulik wrote well or not. He was obviously a hero to all these people. What on earth would happen when he turned up in person and the manager of Sea View went about telling everyone of his arrival? The thought made Arup Babu feel decidedly uncomfortable.

  Should he then try to leave a day earlier? Or else, what was he going to do all day on Tuesday? Where would he hide? Would people not thrash him black and blue when they learnt the truth? What about Mr Moulik himself? He, too, might raise his hand. After all, who could say for sure that all writers were peace-loving and non-violent? And the police? What if the police came to know? Could one be jailed for the kind of thing he had done? Possibly. There was no doubt that what he had done was wrong indeed.

  Arup Babu got up and swallowed a sleeping pill for fear of having to spend a sleepless night.

  In the end, however, he decided to leave by the night train on Tuesday. The temptation to take a look at the real Amalesh Moulik was too great. He had managed to get a copy of the newspaper that had carried his photograph. Amalesh Moulik did indeed have thin moustaches, curly hair and glasses set in thick frames. But it was necessary to look at the real person to see how far the resemblance went. The picture in the paper was not clear enough.

  Arup Babu decided to go to the station not only to look at the man but also to exchange a few words, if p
ossible. It should seem natural enough if he said something like, ‘You’re Amalesh Moulik, aren’t you? Saw your photograph the other day. I enjoy reading your stories . . .’ or words to that effect.

  He would then leave his luggage at the station and leave for Konark, which he had not yet seen. He could spend the day at the Sun temple in Konark and return in time to catch his train back to Calcutta. There was no better way of hiding.

  The Puri Express reached the station twenty minutes late on Tuesday. Arup Babu stood behind a pillar, keeping an eye on the passengers getting down from the first class coaches. A foreigner, clad in shorts, was the first to alight. He was followed by a large Marwari. From the other door an old woman emerged, helped by a young man in white trousers. Behind him came an old man, and after that—yes, there could be no mistake, this was Mr Amalesh Moulik. There were certainly a few basic resemblances in their appearances, but if Arup Babu went and stood beside him, there was positively no danger of being mistaken for his twin. Mr Moulik was shorter by about a couple of inches and his complexion was darker. He even appeared to be older for his side-burns had distinct touches of grey, which was something Arup Babu had not yet acquired.

  The man lugged his suitcase off the train and yelled to a coolie. The coolie and Arup Babu went forward together.

  ‘Mr Moulik, I presume?’

  The man looked surprised. Then he turned towards Arup Babu and nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said briefly.

  The coolie had picked up the suitcase and placed it on his head. Arup Babu had a bag and a flask slung from his shoulder. The three began walking towards the main exit.

  ‘I have read your books,’ said Arup Babu. ‘I saw the news of your winning the academy award and also saw your photograph.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘You’re booked at the Sea View, aren’t you?’

  This time Amalesh Moulik looked at Arup Babu rather suspiciously.

  It was not difficult to guess what he was thinking.

  ‘The manager of Sea View is an admirer of yours, you see,’ explained Arup Babu. ‘It is he who has spread the news.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘A lot of children here are looking forward to your visit.’ ‘Hm.’

  Why did the man say so little? He had now slackened his pace. What could he be thinking of?

  Amalesh Moulik came to a halt. Then he turned towards Arup Babu again and asked, ‘Have a lot of people learnt about my coming?’

  ‘Yes, so I gathered. Why, will that put you to some inconvenience?’

  ‘No, but I like to be al-al-al—’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man clearly had a stammer. Arup Babu recalled that when Edward VIII of England had decided to step down from the throne, his brother, George, had got quite worried at the thought of becoming king since he had a stammer and being a king inevitably meant having to give speeches.

  The coolie was waiting near the exit. Both men hurried their steps.

  ‘This is the p-p-p-rice of f-f-f-ame!’

  Arup Babu tried to imagine the reaction of all those children if they met their stammering hero. He did not like what he saw. ‘You could do one thing,’ he said to Amalesh as they came out of the station.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of your holiday being spoilt by your fans.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘Then don’t go to Sea View.’

  ‘Wh-wh-at?’

  ‘The food there is awful. I was in Sagarika. My room is now vacant. I suggest you go there.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And don’t use your real name. It really would be best if you could shave off your moustaches totally.’

  ‘Mous-s-s—?’

  ‘Immediately. You can go into the waiting room and do it. A matter of no more than ten minutes, I should say. If you do this, no one will recognize you and disturb the peaceful holiday you have no doubt planned for yourself. I can send a telegram from Calcutta tomorrow morning to Sea View and tell them you had to cancel your visit.’

  The worried lines on Mr Moulik’s forehead took about twenty seconds to disappear. Then a few new creases appeared near his eyes and mouth. Amalesh Moulik was smiling.

  ‘I d-d-d-on’t know how to th-th-th-ank . . .’

  ‘Never mind. But please will you sign these books for me? Let’s stand behind that neem tree. No one can spot us there.’

  Hidden by the tree, Amalesh Moulik took out his red Parker pen from his pocket and smiled benignly at his admirer. He had put in a lot of effort, right from the day the award was announced, in perfecting his signature. Five signatures on five books. He knew very well that even if his tongue stuttered, his pen could fly smoothly.

  Translated by Gopa Majumdar

  First published in Bengali in 1974

  Fotikchand

  1

  He was not sure when his eyes had opened. Before he could actually see anything, he could feel that he was cold—he was wet—he was lying on the grass, and there was something hard under his head. Then he felt pain all over his body. Even so, he raised his right arm gingerly and felt under his head. His hand touched a stone, it felt cold. It was a large stone, he could not possibly lift it and move it away. Perhaps moving his head was a better idea. So he moved his head a little, and then lay more comfortably on his back.

  Now he was able to see. Until now, it had not been possible to see anything because it was dark, and he was lying under the sky, and the sky was cloudy. Now the clouds were dispersing, revealing bright stars.

  He tried to grasp what had happened. It would not be very wise to get on his feet, he realized. It was more important to figure out why he was lying on the grass, why he was in pain, and why his head was throbbing.

  What was that noise? It just went on and on, steady and monotonous. He thought for a while, then realized what it was. It was the sound of crickets. Could it be described as a call? No, crickets did not call. They were not birds, but insects. He knew that. Who had told him? That he could not remember.

  He tilted his neck. That made his head throb even more painfully. Never mind. He would try not to move, but see as much as possible. He must find out how he came to be here.

  What was that? Had the stars in the sky suddenly come down to earth? No. He knew what those were. They were fireflies. They shone in the dark, on and off, and flew in circles. The light that came from them was cool. If you held a firefly in your hand, you wouldn’t feel any warmth. Where had he heard that? He had no idea.

  But if there were fireflies, there must be trees in the vicinity. Fireflies always fluttered near trees, or bushes. There they were, coming quite close at times, then flying away. He could see some more in the distance. There had to be a lot of trees. What was a large cluster of trees called? It had a name, surely? He knew it, but could not remember the word.

  He turned his head in a different direction. Again, he felt a sharp pain. There were several trees on the opposite side as well, fireflies glowing amidst them. The tops of those trees seemed to have merged with the dark sky. The stars were standing still but the fireflies were moving constantly, glittering points of light.

  The trees on the other side seemed quite far—a road ran between them. What was that on the road? He had not noticed it before, but now more things were gradually becoming visible.

  It was a car, standing in the middle of the road. No. It was not standing, but lying on its side. Whose car was it? Had he been in it? Was he going somewhere? Where was he going? He did not know. Simply could not remember.

  For some inexplicable reason the sight of the car made him feel afraid. There was nobody except him, nothing around here except that car and that, too, was lying on the ground with its back to him.

  He knew that moving would cause him pain but he got to his feet, nevertheless. He fell down instantly. A few moments later, he made himself get up again. This time, he could walk. He moved slowly towards the trees on the other side of the car.

  It w
as a forest. Yes, that was the word he was looking for. It was still dark, but now he could see well enough to be sure that he was in a forest. So it was possible to see in the light of the stars. Had there been a moon, it would have been easier to see things. And in daylight everything would be clearly visible.

  He passed a few trees, then stopped as he reached the next one. There weren’t just trees in front of him. There was something else, at some distance. He hid behind a tree, and peered cautiously.

  It was a herd of animals. They were walking together, making a rustling noise. They had horns on their heads . . . there went one . . . and another . . . and a third one. They were deer. He knew it. He could remember that word. One of them stopped suddenly, stretching its neck. The others stopped as well. They seemed to be listening intently. A second later, he heard it too. It was a car in the distance—the noise was getting closer.

  The deer ran away. They sprang in the air, and were gone in a second. All of them.

  The car came closer. Now he could see several other things. The sky was not as dark as before. Treetops were now visible against the skyline. The stars had started to fade. He turned back. Perhaps now he’d be able to see the approaching car. He began walking back towards the road, but discovered that his legs were hurting so much that he could not walk comfortably. He had to limp.

  The vehicle came and went. It was not a car, but a truck. It was green, and loaded with goods. It slowed down as it approached the overturned car, but did not stop.

  He limped back to the road, and could now see the overturned car. The front was badly damaged. Bits of it looked smashed in. Other parts were totally flattened. The bonnet was half open and tilted at an angle. One of the front doors was open. He could see the head of a man. The man was lying on his back, his head was poking out of the open door. The ground under his head was wet.

  There was another man in the back seat. Only his knee was visible through the window. His trousers were black. The car was light blue. There was broken glass—thousands of shards—strewn over a large area around the car. Each tiny piece of glass was reflecting the blue sky above. It was now quite bright.