by Satyajit Ray
‘Why don’t you come in, O disciple of Krishna? Let me show you something.’
Montu went in and stood by the bed.
‘Do you know what this is?’ asked the man.
‘A copper coin.’
‘Where from?’
Montu could not read what was written on the coin. ‘This is called a lepta. It’s a coin used in Greece. And what’s this?’
Montu failed to recognize the second coin as well. ‘This is one kuru, from Turkey. And this is from Romania. It’s called a bani. This coin here is from Iraq—a fil.’
Then he produced coins from at least ten different countries, which Montu had neither seen nor heard of before.
‘All these are for you.’
Montu was amazed. What was the man saying? Aneesh’s uncle also collected coins and he had explained to Montu that those who did so were called numismatists. But even he did not have so many different coins. Montu was sure of that.
‘I knew I would find a grandson where I was going. So I decided to bring these coins for him.’
In great excitement, Montu ran down the stairs to show the coins to his mother. But he stopped short as he heard his father’s voice. He was saying something about the man.
‘. . . Ten days! That’s really too much. We must make it very clear to him that we cannot be fooled so easily. There is no need to give him any special treatment. I think he will leave soon enough if we don’t go out of our way to be hospitable. And, of course, we must not take any risks. I spoke to Sudheer today and he gave me the same advice. Keep all your almirahs and cupboards locked. Montu can’t be expected to guard the man all the time. He has his friends and he’ll go out to play with them. I will go to work. That leaves just you and Sadashiv in the house. I know Sadashiv sleeps most of the time. And you, too, like to have a little rest in the afternoon, don’t you?’
‘There is something I’d like to tell you,’ said Montu’s mother.
‘What?’
‘This man does look a bit like my mother.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes, he has the same nose and the same look in his eyes.’ ‘OK, OK, so I’m not saying he’s not your Mama. But then, we don’t know what this Mama is like. He hasn’t had much education, he’s led the life of a vagabond without any discipline . . . I tell you, I don’t like this business at all.’
Montu went into the room as his father stopped speaking. He did not like what Father had been saying. Even in these few hours he had started to get quite fond of the newcomer. Well, perhaps Father would change his mind when he saw the coins.
‘Did he really give you all these?’
Montu nodded.
‘Did he say he had actually visited all these places?’ ‘No, he didn’t say that.’
‘That’s something, then. Coins like these can be bought in Calcutta. There are dealers who sell them.’
The man came downstairs at around half-past four and met Father.
‘Your son and I have already made friends,’ he said. ‘Yes, so he’s told me.’
Father shot a few quick glances at him, very much like Montu’s mother.
‘I can make friends with children quite easily. Perhaps they understand people like me better than adults.’
‘Have you roamed around all your life?’
‘Yes. I was never one for keeping still in one place.’
‘We happen to be different. We can’t afford to move about aimlessly. You see, we have a responsibility towards our family, children to look after, a job to keep. You never married, did you?’
‘No.’
After a few minutes of silence, the man said, ‘Suhasini might not remember this, but one of her great-grandfathers—my grandfather, that is—did a similar thing. He left home at thirteen. I returned at times for a few days. He did not come back at all.’
Montu saw his father turn towards Mother.
‘Did you know this?’
‘Maybe I did once, but I can’t remember anything now,’ said Mother.
Something rather interesting happened after tea. Most of Montu’s friends knew about the arrival of this strange relative, who might not be a real relative at all. Being very curious, all of them dropped in to have a look at Montu’s Dadu. Dadu seemed very pleased to meet this group of boys, all about ten years old.
He reached for his walking stick and took them all out for a walk. They stopped under the kadam tree that stood in a field at some distance. Here they sat down on the ground for a chat.
‘Do you know who the Tuaregs are?’
Everyone shook their heads.
‘In the Sahara desert,’ said Dadu, ‘lives a nomadic tribe called the Tuaregs. They are a bold lot who don’t stop at anything—even robbing and stealing. Let me tell you the story of a clever man who managed to escape from the clutches of these people.’
The boys listened to his story, utterly spellbound. Montu told his mother later, ‘He told the story so well—we felt as though we could actually see it all happen.’
His father overheard him and said, ‘This man appears to have read a lot. I have a vague feeling that I have read a similar story in an English magazine.’
Montu had told his parents that he knew Dadu had brought a lot of books in his suitcase, but he did not know if they were all story-books.
Three days passed. Nothing was stolen, the guest gave them no trouble, ate whatever he was given happily, made no demands and did not complain about anything. Some of Father’s colleagues and friends began visiting, which was something they rarely did. It was Montu’s guess that they only came to check out this old man who might-be-real-and- might- not. His parents seemed to have accepted Dadu’s presence. In fact, Montu heard his father say one day, ‘Well, one must admit the man is quite simple in his ways. At least he is not trying to be over-friendly. But I fail to see how someone can survive like this. Obviously he left home only to avoid responsibilities. People like him are just parasites. He must have sponged on others all his life.’
Montu happened to call him ‘Chhoto Dadu’ once. Dadu only looked at him and smiled a little at this, but did not say anything.
Mother had not called him ‘Mama’ even once. When Montu mentioned this, she said, ‘But he doesn’t seem to mind! And what if he turns out to be an impostor? Think how embarrassing that would be!’
On the fourth day, their guest said he would go out. ‘Isn’t there a bus to Neelkanthapur?’ he asked.
Father said, ‘Yes, a bus leaves every hour from the main market.’
‘Then I think I’ll go and have a look at the place where I was born. I won’t be back until evening.’
‘You’ll have lunch here, won’t you?’ asked Montu’s mother.
‘No. The sooner I leave the better. I’ll have lunch somewhere on the way. Don’t worry.’
He left before nine.
In the afternoon Montu could not resist the temptation any longer. Dadu’s room was empty. Montu was dying to find out what kind of books his suitcase was filled with. Father was not at home and Mother was resting downstairs. Montu went into Dadu’s room.
The suitcase was not locked. Clearly the man was not worried about theft.
Montu lifted the lid of the suitcase.
But there were no books inside. Not proper ones, anyway. They were notebooks, at least thirty different ones. About ten of these were bound in hard cover.
Montu opened one of them. There were things written in Bengali.
The writing was neat and clear.
Montu climbed on to the bed with the notebook.
And had to climb down the next instant.
Mother had come upstairs, silently.
‘What are you doing here, Montu? Are you messing about with his things?’
Montu put the notebook back into the suitcase like a good boy and came out.
‘Go back to your own room. You shouldn’t fiddle around with other people’s belongings. Go read your own books.’
Their guest returned
a little after six in the evening.
The same night, as they sat down to dinner, he made an announcement that took them all by surprise.
‘I think I’ll go back tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Your hospitality is beyond reproach, but I simply cannot stay in one place for very long.’
Montu knew his parents were not too sorry to hear this. But he began to feel quite sad.
‘Will you go to Calcutta from here?’ asked Father.
‘Yes, but not for long. I’ll go somewhere else soon enough. I have always tried not to be a burden on anyone. I’ve been totally independent ever since I left home.’
Mother intervened at this point, ‘Why do you have to call yourself a burden? We haven’t been inconvenienced at all.’
But Montu knew that was not quite true for he had heard Father remark one day on how expensive things were and that it cost a good deal to provide for even one extra person.
This time both Montu and his father went to the station in their car to see their guest off.
Montu could feel the faint uneasiness that still lurked in his father’s mind. He knew Father was still wondering, even when the train had actually gone—about whether the man who had stayed with them was indeed the relative he had claimed to be.
A week later, another old man arrived at their house—Montu’s mother’s Shetal Mama. Montu had seen him only once before, at his sister’s wedding.
‘Why, it’s you, Shetal Mama! What brings you here?’ ‘The call of duty. Two duties, in fact, not just one. Why else do you think a man of my age would come travelling in a passenger train? I’m going to have lunch here with you—and that’s a warning.’
‘Of course you must have lunch with us. What would you like to have? We get practically everything here—it’s not like Calcutta.’
‘Wait, wait. Let me finish doing what I came to do.’ He took out a book from his shoulder bag. ‘You haven’t heard of this book, have you?’
Mother took the book, looked at it and said, ‘Why, no!’ ‘I knew Pulin hadn’t told you.’
‘Pulin?’
‘Your Chhoto Mama! The same man who spent five days here. You didn’t even bother to find out his name, did you? Pulin wrote this book.’
‘Did he?’
‘But don’t you read the papers? His name appeared only the other day. Tell me, how many autobiographies of this kind are there in our literature?’
‘But, but . . . this is a different name . . .’
‘Yes, it’s a pseudonym. He’s travelled all over the world, yet has stayed so humble.’
‘The whole world?’
‘I do believe our country has never seen a globe-trotter like Pulin Ray. And he did it all with his own money. He worked as a ship-mate, a coolie, a labourer in the timber trade, sold newspapers, ran a small shop, drove lorries—no work was too small for him. His experiences are stranger than fiction. He’s been attacked by a tiger, bitten by a snake, escaped from a violent nomadic tribe in the Sahara, swum to the shore of Madagascar after a shipwreck. He left India in 1939 and made his way through Afghanistan. He says if you can come out of the confines of your house, then the whole world becomes your home. There is no difference then, between whites and blacks and great and small or the civilized and the barbaric.’
‘But . . . why didn’t he tell us all this?’
‘Would you have believed him, insular and parochial as you are? You couldn’t even decide whether he was genuine or fake. Not once did you call him “Mama” and you expect him to have talked to you about himself?’
‘Oh dear. How awful! Could we not ask him to come back?’
‘No. The bird has flown away. He said he hadn’t been to Bali, so that is where he’ll try to go now. He gave you this book, or rather, he left it for your son. He said, “That boy is still a child. My book may make an impression on his young mind.”
‘But I haven’t yet told you just how crazily he behaved. I asked him so many times to stay for a few more days because I knew this book was bound to win an academy award. They pay ten thousand rupees these days. But he refused to listen to me. Do you know what he said? He said to me, “If some money does come my way, please give it to my niece in Mahmudpur. She looked after me very well.” And then he actually put this down in writing. Here’s the money—take it.’
Mother took the envelope from Shetal Mama and wiping away her tears, she said in a choked voice, ‘Just imagine!’
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1981
The Maths Teacher, Mr Pink and Tipu
Tipu closed his geography book and glanced at the clock. He had studied non-stop for exactly forty-seven minutes. It was now thirteen minutes past three. There was no harm in going out for a little while, was there? That strange creature had appeared the other day at around this time. Didn’t he say that he would come back again if ever Tipu had reason to feel sad? There was a reason now. A very good reason. Should he go out for a minute?
Oh no. Mother had come out to the veranda. He just heard her shoo a crow away. Then the cane chair creaked. That meant she had sat down to sun herself. Tipu would have to wait for a while.
He could remember the creature so well. He had never seen anyone like him—so short, no beard or moustache—yet he was not a child. No child had such a deep voice. But then, the creature was not old either. At least, Tipu had been unable to figure out if he was. His skin was smooth, his complexion the colour of sandalwood tinged with pink. In fact, Tipu thought of him as Mr Pink. He did not know what he was actually called. He did ask, but the creature replied, ‘It’s no use telling you my name. It would twist your tongue to pronounce it.’
Tipu felt affronted by this. ‘Why should I start stuttering? I can say things like gobbledygook and flabbergasted. I can even manage floccinaucinihilipilification. So why should your name be a tongue- twister?’
‘You couldn’t possibly manage with just one tongue.’ ‘You mean you have more than one?’
‘You need only one to talk in your language.’
The man was standing under the tall, bare shimul tree just behind the house. Not many people came here. There was a large open space behind the tree, followed by rice fields. And behind these, in the distance, stood the hills. Tipu had seen a mongoose disappear behind a bush only a few days ago. Today, he had brought a few pieces of bread with the intention of scattering them on the ground. The mongoose might be tempted to reappear.
His eyes suddenly fell on the man standing under the tree.
‘Hello!’ said the man, smiling.
Was he a westerner? Tipu knew he could not converse for very long if the man spoke only in English. So he just stared at him. The man walked across to him and said, ‘Do you have reason to be sad?’
‘Sad?’
‘Yes.’
Tipu was taken aback. No one had ever asked him such a question. He said, ‘Why, no, I don’t think so.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’
‘But you’re supposed to be sad. That’s what the calculations showed.’
‘What kind of sadness? I thought I might see the mongoose. But I didn’t. Is that what you mean?’
‘No, no. The kind of sadness I meant would make the back of your ears go blue. Your palms would feel dry.’
‘You mean a very deep sadness.’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I am not feeling that sad.’
Now the man began to look rather sad himself. He shook his head and said, ‘That means I cannot be released yet.’
‘Released?’
‘Yes, released. I cannot be free.’
‘I know what release means,’ said Tipu. ‘Would you be set free if I felt unhappy?’
The man looked straight at Tipu. ‘Are you ten-and-a-half years old?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your name is Master Tarpan Chowdhury?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then there is no mistake.’
Tipu could not
figure out how the man knew such a lot about him. He asked, ‘Does it have to be me? If someone else felt sad, wouldn’t that do?’
‘No. And it’s not enough to feel sad. The cause of sadness must be removed.’
‘But so many people are unhappy. A beggar called Nikunja comes to our house so often. He says he has no one in the world. He must be very unhappy indeed.’
‘No, that won’t do,’ the man shook his head again. ‘Tarpan Chowdhury, ten years old—is there someone else who has the same name and is of the same age?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Then it must be you.’
Tipu could not resist the next question.
‘What release are you talking about? You appear to be walking about quite freely!’
‘This is not my land. I have been exiled here.’ ‘Why?’
‘You ask too many questions.’
‘I’m interested, that’s all. Look, I’ve met you for the first time. So naturally I’d like to know who you are, what you do, where you live, who else knows you—things like that. What’s wrong with being interested?’
‘You’ll get jinjiria if you try to learn so much.’
The man did not actually say ‘jinjiria’. What he did say sounded so completely unpronounceable that Tipu decided to settle for jinjiria. God knew what kind of an ailment it was.
But who did the man remind him of? Rumpelstiltskin? Or was he one of Snow White’s seven dwarfs?
Tipu was passionately fond of fairy tales. His grandfather brought him three or four books of fairy tales every year from Calcutta. Tipu read them all avidly, his flights of fancy taking him far beyond the seven seas, thirteen rivers and thirty-six hills. In his mind, he became a prince, a pearl-studded turban on his head, a sword slung from his waist, flashing diamonds. Some days he would set forth to look for priceless jewels and to fight a dragon.
‘Goodbye!’ said the man.
Was he leaving already?
‘You didn’t tell me where you live!’
The man paid no attention. All he said was, ‘We shall meet again when you feel sad.’
‘But how will you know?’