by Satyajit Ray
‘When I returned home after dropping you back at the shop that day, those two men were still loitering in my area. I kept an eye on them, and managed to follow them to their hideout. Now, if I told the police, they would be caught. But that would not be the end of the story, would it? Really, I ought to hand you over to the police as well.’
‘No, no. Oh, please don’t say that, Harun-da!’
‘I know. I know how you feel about the police. That’s why I haven’t yet told them. In any case, there’s no point in telling anyone anything until we discover who you really are. Right now, handing you over to the police would be no different from handing over a stray dog.’
This hurt Fotik very much. ‘A stray dog?’ he cried. ‘Can a stray dog juggle? With two wooden balls?’
‘You . . . you mean you have been practising?’ Harun asked, looking straight at Fotik. For the first time, he smiled.
‘Yes, of course!’ Fotik replied, still sounding hurt. ‘I practise every night, for a whole hour, before going to bed.’ He took out the red and yellow balls from his pocket.
‘Good,’ said Harun. ‘All right, let me give it another couple of days. If no one bothers you any more, no one makes any enquiries, I’ll take you with me when I go.’
‘Go? Where to?’ Fotik felt perfectly taken aback. He had no idea Harun was thinking of going anywhere.
‘Well, I heard from Venkatesh yesterday. He’s my friend in the circus. He’s asked me to go to Madras and join him. So I was thinking . . . You see, I don’t like living like this any more, depending on what money is thrown at me, picking up coins from the ground. It’s been a long time since . . .’
‘ . . . And who is this young assistant you have got here?’ The question came so unexpectedly that Fotik’s heart nearly jumped into his mouth.
The two men were standing nearby. They had just emerged out of the dark. On Fotik’s right stood Shyamlal, his bow-legs covered by long trousers. Out of the corner of his eye, Fotik saw the blade of a knife flash, go past his ear and stop somewhere between him and Harun.
‘Raghu, pick up those coins. These will be enough to settle some of our debts.’ The other man began collecting the coins.
‘Why, you didn’t answer my ques—’ Shyamlal could not finish speaking. Fotik saw Harun’s bag—filled with four brass balls, three shining knives, and two large tops—rise from the ground like a rocket, and strike against Shyamlal’s chin. Shyamlal staggered back and fell.
‘Fotik!’ He heard Harun’s voice, and realized a second later that, like the bag, he had been swept off the ground. Harun was sprinting, bag and Fotik tucked under his arm. In the meantime, a dust storm had started sweeping across the maidan, covering everything around Shaheed Minar. Most people were rushing towards Chowringhee to escape the rain that was bound to start any minute.
‘Can you run?’ Harun gasped.
‘Sure.’
Fotik found his feet back on solid ground once more. He began running, trying to keep pace with Harun. They made their way to a spot where a lot of cars were parked.
‘Taxi!’ shouted Harun. Fotik heard the slamming of brakes. A black car stopped. Someone opened the door.
‘Central Avenue!’ Harun shouted as they got in.
There was a lot of traffic in front of them. They could see Shyamlal and Raghunath at some distance behind their taxi, running desperately to catch them. Daylight had almost totally disappeared. Lights had been switched on in the streets and in all the shops.
Their taxi found a gap in the traffic and started moving. ‘Press on the accelerator, please. I’ll pay you extra!’ said Harun.
The driver turned left into Chowringhee and increased his speed. They came to a crossing with traffic lights. It was the main crossing at Dharamtola. The light changed from red to green just as their taxi reached it. They crossed over, passed the office of the electric board on their left, and found themselves in Central Avenue. The road here was much wider. The traffic here was thinner, thank goodness, it being a Sunday. Fotik could feel the wind rush past his ears.
‘Faster, please brother, we’re being chased!’ said Harun. Fotik turned his head at these words and saw the headlights of another taxi, getting larger and closer every second.
‘Harun-da, they’ll catch up with us!’ he cried in dismay. ‘No, they won’t.’
The wind was so strong that it nearly blocked his ears. The twin lights were growing smaller now. Then they grew hazy. There were raindrops on the glass at the back. Fotik turned around. The windscreen was wet, too. Through it, he could see more lights, all of them travelling in pairs, come close from the opposite direction, and whoosh past their taxi.
Now, there was a pair of lights coming straight towards him. No, it was not a taxi or a car. It was a bus. A huge bus, like a monster. A demon. Those were its eyes. They were getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger. Suddenly, it was not a bus any more. It had become a truck. The buildings that lined the road had disappeared, as had all the lights. All at once, there was nothing, except darkness, darkness . . . and trees, a lot of trees . . . a forest.
‘What is it, Fotik? What’s the matter? Are you feeling unwell?’ Harun’s voice was lost in a sea of all the other noises . . . noises he had heard before. The first thing that came back was the explosion caused by one speeding vehicle hitting another, immediately after which he had felt as if he was flying through the air. As he recalled that feeling, a host of other memories rushed forward, vying with one another for his attention. He was free to choose however many he wanted, for now he could recall almost every day of his life—all twelve years of it. ‘Your name is Nikhil,’ said some of his memories, ‘and you are called Bablu at home. Your father’s name is Saradindu Sanyal. You have three brothers, and one sister. All of them are older than you. Your sister Chhaya is married. She lives in Switzerland. You have an old grandmother, too. She spends most of her time in her prayer room, reading an old, thick Mahabharata, set in verse. She uses a sing-song tone when she reads it aloud, and rocks herself gently. Her reading glasses are set in a golden frame.’
There was Chhorda—Preetindra—telling him, ‘Look, that’s how you must use your wrist in order to make a straight drive.’ And his maths teacher in school—Mr Shukla—was saying, ‘Stop it, Manmohan!’ Manmohan was always full of mischief, he had a round face and a very sharp brain. Now he could see Vikram, who sat in front of him. Vikram was sharpening his pencil and placing it on his desk; but Bablu was blowing so hard on it from behind him that it kept rolling off the desk . . . On the night of his sister’s wedding, someone was playing shehnai on a record, but the record was broken. So the needle got stuck at one particular point, and it went on . . . and on . . . and on . . . until all the guests under the shamiana stopped eating and burst into laughter.
He could remember all the holidays he had spent away from home—Darjeeling, and Puri, and before that Mussoorie. And long, long before that, when he was much younger, he had stood on the beach in Waltair. He could feel the sand slipping and moving away from under his feet, which felt as if millions of cold and wet ants were tickling them . . . and then just as his mother said, ‘Careful, Bablu darling, you might fall!’ he promptly did, with a great thud. His mother? No, he could recall nothing about her. She was just a picture in a frame. Once his house was full of people, but now all his brothers had moved out, his sister was abroad. There used to be an uncle who was now in a mental asylum. Now there were only three people in the whole house.
He was back in the taxi. And he could see all the lights again. Harun . . . yes, there he was . . . rolled the window up on his side. ‘Are you scared? Hey Fotik, why don’t you speak? They’ve gone, there’s no danger now.’
Fotik could hear their neighbour’s Alsatian bark. He was called Duke. Bablu was not afraid of Duke. He was very brave. He slept alone in his room. Once, when he was visiting Darjeeling, he had walked alone on the road to Birch Hill. He had gone a long way, but he did not feel afraid, even when a mist came up and covered
everything. He could remember that day very well.
‘Are you feeling sick?’ Harun asked again. ‘Or are you upset?’ Fotik shook his head. ‘What is it, then?’ Harun looked concerned.
Fotik looked at Harun. It was still raining outside. The taxi was going quite fast. All the windows were shut, so there was no need to raise his voice to be heard.
‘My memory has come back, Harun-da. I can remember everything,’ he said softly.
They were now sitting in a small restaurant in Chitpur, eating rotis and meat curry. Fotik had never eaten at a place like this, and he would not have done so, either, if Harun had not brought him here. On their way to Chitpur, Harun had asked him a lot of questions. This time, Fotik had been able to answer them, and had told him all about himself. He had even described how those four men had kidnapped him on his way back from school.
‘Can you show me how to get to Loudon Street, where you say your house is? I don’t know that area very well,’ said Harun.
Fotik laughed. ‘Yes, of course, Harun-da. It’s quite easy to find.’
‘Hmm.’
Harun thought for a while. Then he said, ‘There’s no reason to go there straightaway. It’s quite late, isn’t it? Besides, we must do something about your appearance. It would have been better if you hadn’t cut your hair, but now that cannot be helped. Tomorrow, you must wear a clean shirt. I will come to the shop as early as I can. Don’t say anything to Upen-da. I will talk to him later.’
Fotik could still not think very clearly. But he did realize that he would have to go back home. There was his father, his grandmother, and their old servant, Harinath. Harinath took very good care of him, although he did sometimes treat him as though he was a baby. There were certain things Fotik was quite capable of handling himself, but Harinath would not let him. This annoyed him at times, but Harinath was an old man, so he did not say anything to him.
Then there was his school to consider. All his friends were there . . . the headmaster . . . the chowkidar, Ramkhilavan . . . Mr Datta, their PT teacher. They had all gone on a school picnic one day, to the Botanical Gardens, riding a steamer from Chandpal Ghat.
Suddenly, his mind switched back to his home, and he remembered something that he felt he had to share with Harun. ‘You know, Harun- da,’ he said, ‘there is an empty room on the ground floor in our house. All it has is a broken cupboard and an old table. If those were removed, you could quite easily live in that room.’
Harun cast him a sidelong glance. Then he tore a piece from his roti and put it in his mouth. ‘And will your father let me decorate it as I please? Like my room in the slum?’
Fotik thought about his father and his stern demeanour. The recollection did not inspire a lot of confidence. However, he was not to be daunted. People could change, couldn’t they? ‘Yes, certainly. Why shouldn’t he?’ he said.
‘Very well. If your father does allow that, I’ll have to admit he has the spirit of an artist. Without that, no one will ever be able to understand the whims of Harun-al-Rashid.’
11
The next morning, the news of a tragic railway accident in Satragachhi covered most of the front page in every newspaper. As a result, most people read only that particular report, thereby failing to notice the advertisement that was printed on the last page. Those whose eyes did fall on it had to admit that the reward offered by Saradindu Sanyal to find his missing son was truly handsome, totally in keeping with his status in society. Five thousand rupees was a lot of money.
Upen Babu did not see the advertisement; nor, as it happened, did Harun, although usually he did glance through the paper every morning when he went to the local restaurant for his first cup of tea. This morning, he was not in the mood to pore over a newspaper. Besides, he was in a hurry. He rose at five-thirty, had a quick cup of tea, and arrived at Upen Babu’s shop at seven o’clock, to meet Fotik. Perhaps it was not quite right to call him Fotik any more. But Harun could not possibly think of him as Nikhil, or Bablu, or even Sanyal. For him, he had only one name: Fotikchandra Pal.
‘You want to take Fotik somewhere, so early in the morning? Where are you going to take him?’ Upen Babu asked, not unreasonably.
‘We have to go to Loudon Street. I’ll explain when I get back,’ Harun said hurriedly. Upen Babu knew Harun did strange things sometimes. But he was a good man, so he said nothing more. He looked at Keshto’s son, Shotu, who had just woken up and was stretching lazily. ‘Come on!’ Upen Babu said to him. ‘Stop thrashing your arms about. Go and wash your face—there’s work to be done.’
Saradindu Sanyal said to his clerk, Rajani Babu, ‘Look at the way they’ve printed Bablu’s photo. I can’t recognize my own son! It was such a good photo, too. The quality of printing in our newspapers has become much worse, I have to say. Each is as bad as the other.’
‘Have you seen this one, sir?’ Rajani Babu offered his boss an English daily. ‘The picture is far more clear in this one.’
There was a pile of newspapers in front of Mr Sanyal. Rajani Babu had been instructed to buy every newspaper that carried Bablu’s photo. Normally, Rajani Babu arrived at eight-thirty. Today, he was here much earlier than that, in order to help his boss deal with extra visitors. It was Saradindu Sanyal’s belief that as soon as people read about the reward being offered, they would storm his house with young boys in tow, claiming to have found Bablu. So he had asked Rajani Babu and his junior, Tapan Sarkar, to join forces with Preetin and their bearer, Kishorilal. They needed all the help they could get to make sure that the whole thing did not get out of control. But Mr Sarkar had not yet turned up, and Preetin was still asleep. He had stayed up late to study for his exams. He was supposed to return to Kharagpur in the afternoon.
A taxi stopped outside their front door. Mr Sanyal put his cup of coffee down on his table and sighed. ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘That must be the first one.’ Little did he know that the first would turn out to be the last.
‘Baba!’ said a voice. It sounded like Bablu’s voice!
Mr Sanyal glanced quickly at the curtain at his door. A second later, Bablu pushed it aside and entered the room. ‘You! Where have you been? Who brought you back? What happened? Your hair! What did you do to your hair?’ Mr Sanyal asked one question after another without pausing for breath. Then he leaned back in his chair, every taut muscle in his body suddenly relaxing. He heaved a deep sigh of relief. The answers did not matter. What mattered was that his son was back safely.
His eyes went back to the curtain. Through a gap, he could see a man standing outside. ‘Please come in,’ he invited. He wanted to meet whoever had brought Bablu back. There was the matter of the reward to be settled.
The man stepped in. Mr Sanyal turned to Rajani Babu. ‘Please tell the chowkidar not to let anyone in if they try to talk about my missing son. Everyone should be told that he has come back.’
Rajani Babu left. Mr Sanyal looked properly at the man who had just come in. Could he be described as a gentleman? No. His shirt was both cheap and dirty, his chappals worn, and his white cotton trousers badly crushed. Besides, his hair and sideburns . . . here, Mr Sanyal had to stop for a minute. Perhaps the hair and the length of his sideburns might be discounted, for they were no different from what his own sons sported.
‘Come closer,’ he commanded. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘He’s Harun-da, Baba. He’s a performer. He’s just brilliant!’ Bablu blurted out.
Mr Sanyal glanced at his son, with whom he had just been reunited. ‘Let him speak for himself, Bablu,’ he said, sounding faintly annoyed. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs? Go and see Grandma. She’s suffered a lot in the last few days. And wake Preetin. He’s still sleeping.’
But Bablu had no wish to leave quite so soon. How could he leave Harun here? He went out of the room but stood in the corridor outside. His father could not see him but Bablu could hear everything that was said. He could even see Harun’s back.
Mr Sanyal looked at the man once more. ‘Tell me what happened.
How did you find my son?’
‘I found him in Kharagpur. He was trying to jump into a moving train. I helped him up. He spent the last few days here in Calcutta.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, in Bentinck Street. In a tea shop.’
‘A tea shop?’ Mr Sanyal made no attempt to hide his shock and amazement. ‘What was he doing in a tea shop?’
‘Working.’
‘Working? What kind of work?’ Mr Sanyal could hardly believe his ears.
Harun explained. Mr Sanyal had very little hair on his head. Had he had a little more, he would probably have torn each strand.
‘What is all this? What are you talking about?’ he shouted, rising to his feet. ‘You made him work as a waiter in a tea shop? Don’t you have any sense at all? Couldn’t you see he was from a decent family? Is that what boys from good families do?’
Bablu could no longer contain himself. He rushed back into the room. ‘I liked my work. Honestly, I was very good at it!’ he cried.
‘Stay out of this!’ Mr Sanyal roared. ‘Didn’t I just tell you to go upstairs?’
Bablu had to go out of the room again. He could not have imagined such a thing would happen on his return.
Harun was still standing quietly. When he spoke, his tone was gentle. ‘If I knew what kind of a family he came from, I would never have kept him with me. But he could tell me nothing about himself. He did not remember a single thing.’
‘And what happened today? All his memories came back the minute you saw the newspaper?’ It was clear from the way Mr Sanyal spoke that he did not believe Harun at all.