by Satyajit Ray
But this unexpected behaviour of his puppet upset Naveen. He kept feeling that some unseen force had assumed control, pushing him into the background.
Upon reaching home after the show, he closed the door of his room and placed Bhuto under a table lamp.
Did Bhuto have that little mole on his forehead before? No, he most certainly did not. Naveen had noticed a similar mole on Akrur Babu’s forehead only the other day. It was really quite small, not easily noticeable unless one looked carefully. But now it had appeared on Bhuto’s face.
And that was not all. There was something else.
At least ten more strands of grey hair. And deep dark rings under the eyes. These were definitely not there before.
Naveen began pacing up and down impatiently. He was beginning to feel decidedly uneasy. He believed in magic—but his kind of magic was something in which man was in full command. For Naveen, anything to do with the supernatural was not just unacceptable—it was evil. He could see signs of evil in the changes in Bhuto.
At the same time, however, it was impossible to think of Bhuto as anything other than an inert, lifeless object, a mere puppet in his hands despite his droopy eyes and the slight smile on his lips. And yet, his whole appearance was undergoing a change.
It was Naveen’s belief that the same changes were taking place in Akrur Babu. He, too, must have started to go grey; his eyes, too, must have got dark circles under them.
Naveen had the habit of talking to Bhuto every now and then, simply to practise his technique. Their conversation went like this:
‘It’s rather hot today, isn’t it, Bhuto?’
‘Yes, it’s very stuwy.’
‘But you have an advantage, don’t you? You don’t sweat and perspire.’
‘How can a ugget sweat and erswire? Ha, ha, ha, ha . . .’ Today, Naveen asked him quite involuntarily, ‘What on earth is going on, Bhuto? Why is all this happening?’
Bhuto’s reply startled him.
‘Karwa, karwa!’ he said.
Karma!
The word slipped out through Naveen’s lips, just as it would have done on the stage. But he knew he had not said it consciously. Someone had made him utter that word and he felt he knew who that someone might be.
That night, he refused his dinner despite repeated requests from his cook.
Normally, he slept quite well. But tonight he took a pill to help him sleep. At around one in the morning, the pill began to work. Naveen put down the magazine he was reading, switched off the light and fell asleep.
Only a little while later, however, he opened his eyes. Who had been coughing in the room?
Was it he himself? But he did not have a cough. And yet, it seemed as though someone at close quarters was coughing very softly.
He switched on the lamp.
Bhutnath was still sitting in the same spot, motionless. But he now appeared to be slouching a little with his right arm flung across his chest.
Naveen looked at the clock. It was half past three. The chowkidar outside was doing his rounds, beating his stick on the ground. A dog barked in the distance. An owl flew past his house, hooting raucously. Someone next door obviously had a cough. And a gust of wind must have made Bhuto bend forward slightly. There was no earthly reason to feel scared today, in the twentieth century, living in a busy street of a large city like Calcutta.
Naveen switched off the light and fell asleep once more.
The next day, for the first time in his career, he experienced failure.
The Finlay Recreation Club had invited him to their annual function. A large audience was packed into an enormous hall. As always, his item was the last. Songs, recitations, a Kathak recital and then ventriloquism by Naveen Munshi.
Before setting off from home, he had done all that he always did to take care of his voice. He knew how important it was for a ventriloquist to have a clear throat.
His voice sounded perfectly normal before he went on stage. In fact, he noticed nothing wrong when he asked Bhuto the first question. Disaster struck when it was Bhuto’s turn to speak.
His voice sounded hoarse, like that of a man suffering from an acute attack of cough and cold. Naveen knew the audience could not hear a word Bhuto was saying. Strangely enough, it was only Bhuto’s voice that seemed to be affected. His own still sounded normal.
‘Louder, please!’ yelled a few people from the back. Those sitting in the front rows were too polite to yell, but it was obvious that they could not hear anything either.
Naveen tried for another five minutes and then had to withdraw, defeated. Never had he felt so embarrassed.
He declined the organizers’ offer to pay him his fee. He could not accept any money under the circumstances. But surely this horrible situation could not last for ever? In spite of his embarrassment, Naveen still believed that soon, things would return to normal.
It was a very hot and sultry night, and over and above there was this new and unpleasant experience. When Naveen returned home at about eleven-thirty, he was feeling positively sick. For the first time, he began to feel a little annoyed with Bhuto, although he knew Bhuto could not really be blamed for anything. His failure was his own fault.
He placed Bhuto on the table and opened one of the windows. There was not much hope of getting a cool breeze, but whatever came in was a welcome relief for there was a power cut again. Today being Saturday, Naveen knew the power supply would not be restored before midnight.
He lit a candle and set it down on the table. Its light fell on Bhuto and Naveen went cold with fear.
There were beads of perspiration on Bhuto’s forehead. But was that all? No. His face had lost its freshness. The cheeks looked sunken. His eyes were red.
Even in a situation like this, Naveen could not help but take a few steps forward towards his puppet. It was as though he had to find out what further shocks and horrors were in store.
But something made him stop almost immediately. There was a movement on Bhuto’s chest, under the high-necked jacket. His chest rose and fell.
Bhuto was breathing!
Could his breathing be heard?
Yes, it could. In the totally silent night, two people breathed in Naveen’s room instead of one.
It was perhaps both his fear and amazement that made Naveen exclaim softly, ‘Bhuto!’
And, immediately, another voice spoke, the sound of which made Naveen reel back to his bed.
‘This is not Bhuto. I am Akrur Chowdhury!’
Naveen knew he had not spoken the words. The voice was the puppet’s own. Heaven knows through what magical powers Akrur Chowdhury could make it speak.
Naveen had wanted to turn Akrur Babu into a puppet in his hands. But never did he expect anything like this. It was impossible for him to stay in the same room with a puppet that had come to life. He must leave.
But what was that?
Was the sound of Bhuto’s breathing growing faint? Yes, so it was.
Bhuto had stopped breathing. The beads of perspiration on his forehead had gone. His eyes were no longer red and the dark rings had vanished.
Naveen rose from his bed and picked him up. Something queer had happened in this short time. It was no longer possible to move Bhuto’s head or open his lips. The mechanical parts had got jammed. Perhaps a little more force would help.
Naveen tried to twist the head forcibly. It came apart and fell onto the table with a clatter.
In the morning, Naveen ran into his landlord, Suresh Mutsuddi, on the staircase.
‘Why, Mr Munshi, you never showed me your magic with the puppet,’ he complained, ‘ventricollosium or whatever it is called!’
‘I’ve given that up,’ said Naveen. ‘I’ll try something new now. But why do you ask?’
‘One of your fellow performers died yesterday. Saw it in the papers this morning. Akrur Chowdhury.’
‘Really?’—Naveen had not yet looked at the newspaper—‘What happened to him?’
‘Heart attack,’ said Suresh Babu
. ‘Nearly 70 per cent of people seem to die of a heart attack nowadays.’
Naveen knew that if anyone bothered to enquire about the time of his death, they would discover that the man had died exactly ten minutes after midnight.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1981
Stranger
Montu had heard his parents discuss, over the last few days, the possibility of a visit by his Dadu. His Chhoto Dadu, that is. Younger grandfather. He was Mother’s Chhoto Mama, younger uncle.
Montu happened to be home when Dadu’s letter arrived. Mother read it once, then exclaimed softly, ‘Just imagine!’ Then she raised her voice and called out to Father.
Father was out on the veranda, watching his shoes being repaired.
He said, ‘What is it?’ without even raising his eyes. Mother came out with the letter and said, ‘Mama wants to come here.’
‘Mama?’
‘My Chhoto Mama. Don’t you remember?’
Father turned his head this time, raising his eyebrows. ‘Really? You mean he’s still alive?’
‘Here’s a letter from him. Frankly, I didn’t even know he could write!’
Father picked up his glasses from the arm of his chair and said, ‘Let’s have a look.’
After having read the single sheet of paper, he too, said, ‘Just imagine!’
Mother had sat down on a stool.
Montu could guess there was something wrong somewhere.
Father was the first to voice his doubts. ‘Where do you think he got our address from? And who told him his niece had married a Suresh Bose and they lived here in Mahmudpur?’
Mother frowned a little, ‘He might have learnt all that from Shetal Mama.’
‘Who’s Shetal Mama?’
‘Oh God—can’t you remember anything? He was a neighbour of all my uncles in Neelkanthapur. A very close friend of the family. You’ve seen him. He once bet someone that he could eat fifty-six sweets at our wedding. What a laugh we all had!’
‘Oh yes, yes. Now I remember.’
‘He was very close to Chhoto Mama. I believe, in the beginning, Chhoto Mama used to write only to him.’
‘Hasn’t Shetal Babu visited us here?’
‘Of course, he has. Why—he came to Ranu’s wedding, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, of course. But didn’t your Chhoto Mama leave home and turn into a sanyasi?’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought. I can’t figure out why he wants to visit us now.’
Father thought for a minute and said, ‘There is no one else he could possibly visit, is there? All your other uncles and aunts are no more, and among the two cousins you have, one is in Canada and the other in Singapore. So who is left here except you?’
‘That’s true,’ said Mother, ‘but how shall I recognize a man I have practically never seen? When he left home, I was only two years old and he must have been about seventeen.’
‘Didn’t you have a photograph in your old album?’ ‘What good is that? Mama was fifteen when that photo was taken. He must be at least sixty now.’
‘Yes, I can see it’s going to be a problem.’
‘Well, we do have Binu’s empty room which we could spare. But who knows what kind of food he likes to eat . . .’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that. Surely he can have the same as we do?’
‘No, not necessarily. If he has indeed become a sadhu he may want to eat only vegetarian food. That would mean making five different dishes every day!’
‘The language he’s used in the letter is quite normal. I mean, one wouldn’t expect a sadhu to talk like this. Look, he’s written the date in English and used other English words. Here it is—“unnecessarily”!’
‘But he hasn’t given us his address.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘And he says he’s coming next Monday.’
It was obvious to Montu that both his parents were deeply concerned.
It was certainly an odd situation. How could anyone accept a total stranger as an uncle?
Montu had heard of this Dadu barely once or twice before. He knew Dadu had left home even before leaving school.
In the beginning, he wrote to a few people occasionally; but after that there was no news of him. It was Montu’s mother’s belief that he had died. Montu had wondered a few times about this man and wished he would come back. But he knew that kind of thing happened only in stories. In stories, there were usually people who could recognize such a man. In this case, there was no one. Anyone could arrive and say he was his Dadu. There was no way of being sure.
Dadu was not going to stay for more than ten days. Having spent his childhood in a small town in Bangladesh, he now wanted to see a small town once again. There was no point in going to his own house in Neelkanthapur for no one lived there any more. So he wanted to visit Mahmudpur. At least, there was a niece living there. Montu’s father was a lawyer. Montu had an elder sister and a brother. The sister was married and his brother was in Kanpur, studying at IIT.
His mother finished making all the arrangements by Sunday. A room on the first floor was made ready. A new sheet was spread on the bed, the pillows got new covers—even new soaps and towels were provided. Dadu was expected to make his way to their house from the station. After that . . . well, one would simply have to wait and see. Father had said only this morning, ‘Whether or not he’s your real uncle, I just hope the man is civilized and well mannered. Otherwise the next ten days will be difficult indeed.’
‘I don’t like this at all,’ grumbled Mother. ‘No one knows the man from Adam, and yet we must put up with him. He didn’t even send us his address, or we could have written, and made some excuse to put him off!’
But Montu thought otherwise. They had not had a visitor in a long time. His school was closed for the summer holidays and he was home all day. Although there were plenty of friends to play with—Sidhu, Aneesh, Rathin, Chhotka—it was such fun to have someone stay in the house. Who wanted to spend the whole day just with parents? And this whole business of is-he-real-or-not was so intriguing. Just like a mystery. Suppose he did turn out to be an impostor and only Montu learnt the truth about him—how lovely that would be! He would unmask the man and be a hero.
Montu began loitering near the front door from ten-thirty on Monday morning. At a quarter past eleven he saw a cycle rickshaw making its way towards their house. Its passenger had a pot of sweets in his hands and a leather suitcase at his feet. One of his feet was resting on the suitcase.
This man was no sadhu. At least, he was not dressed like one. He was wearing trousers and a shirt. Mother had said he would be around sixty. But he looked younger than that. Most of his hair was still black and though he did wear glasses, they did not appear to be thick ones.
The man paid the rickshawallah, put his suitcase down and, turning to Montu, said, ‘Who are you?’
He was clean shaven, had a sharp nose and his eyes, though small, held a twinkle.
Montu picked up the suitcase and replied, ‘My name is Satyaki Bose.’
‘Which Satyaki are you? The disciple of Krishna? Or the son of Suresh Bose? Can you manage that heavy suitcase? It’s got quite a lot of books.’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘Let’s go in then.’
As they came into the veranda, Mother came forward and touched his feet. He handed the pot of sweets to her and said, ‘You must be Suhasini?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your husband is a lawyer, isn’t he? He must have gone out on work.’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have come like this . . . I did feel hesitant. But then I told myself you wouldn’t mind putting up with an old man. After all, it’s only a matter of ten days. Besides, Shetal was so full of praise for you. But I do realize your problem. There is no way I can prove that I am your real Mama. So I am not going to expect any special treatment. All you have to do is give an old man a roof over his head for ten days.’
Montu noticed his mother was giving the man occasional sidelong glances. Now she said, ‘Would you like to have a bath?’
‘Only if it’s not inconvenient.’
‘No, no, it’s not inconvenient at all. Montu, do go and show him the bathroom upstairs. And . . . er . . . I didn’t quite know what sort of food you like . . .’
‘I eat everything. I should be very happy to have whatever you choose to feed me. I mean it.’
‘Do you go to school?’ he asked Montu as they began going upstairs.
‘Yes. Satyabhama High School. Class VII.’
At this point, Montu could not resist asking a question. ‘Are you not a sadhu?’
‘Sadhu?’
‘Mother said you had become one.’
‘Oh, I see. That was a long time ago. I had gone to Haridwar straight from home. I didn’t like being at home, so I left. I did, in fact, spend some time with a sadhu in Rishikesh. Then I began to get a bit restless, so I moved on. After that, I never went to a sadhu.’
At lunch, he ate everything with great relish. He clearly did not object to non-vegetarian food for he ate both fish and eggs.
Montu could see his mother relax a little. But she did not once call him ‘Mama’, though Montu wanted very much to say, ‘Chhoto Dadu!’
As he finished his meal and picked up the plate of yoghurt, Mother said, probably only to make conversation, ‘You must have had to do without Bengali food for many years.’
The man laughed and said, ‘I had some in Calcutta in the last two days. But before that . . . you’ll find it difficult to believe if I tell you exactly how many years I’ve had to do without it.’
Mother said nothing more. Montu wanted to ask—‘Why was this? Where did you live?’ but stopped himself. If the man was a fraud, he should not be given the chance to cook up stories. One should wait until he came out with the information himself.
But the man did not say anything either. If he had indeed spent more than forty years just roaming around, he ought to have had lots to talk about. Why, then, was he so quiet?
Montu was upstairs when he heard the sound of his father’s car. Their guest had retired to bed with a book. Just before that, Montu had spent half an hour with him. He had called out when he saw Montu hovering outside his room.