The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  There was no answer for by then, the man had jumped over a mulberry tree and vanished from sight—having broken all possible world records in high jump.

  This had happened about six weeks ago. Tipu did not see the man again. But he needed him now for he was desperately unhappy.

  The reason for his sorrow was the new maths teacher in his school, Narahari Babu.

  Tipu had not liked him from the very beginning. When he had come to class for the first time he had spent the first two minutes just staring at the boys. How hard he had stared! As though he wanted to kill everyone with that look before he began teaching. Tipu had never seen anyone with such a huge moustache. And his voice! What a deep, loud voice it was! Why did he have to speak so loudly? No one in the class was deaf, after all.

  The disaster occurred two days later. It was a Thursday. The sky was overcast and it was cold outside. Tipu did not feel like going out in the lunch break. So he sat in his class reading the story of Dalimkumar. Who was to know the maths teacher would walk past his classroom and come in upon him?

  ‘What book is that, Tarpan?’

  One had to admit that the new teacher had a remarkable memory, for he had already learnt the name of each boy.

  Tipu felt slightly nervous but took courage from the thought that no one could object to his reading a story-book in the lunch break. ‘Tales from Grandma, sir!’ he said.

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  Tipu handed the book to his teacher. The latter thumbed its pages for a minute. Then he exploded, ‘Kings, queens, princes and demons—birds of pearls on a tree of diamonds, abracadabra—what on earth are you reading? What a pack of nonsense! How do you suppose you’ll ever learn mathematics if you keep reading this idiotic stuff?’

  ‘But these are only stories, sir!’ Tipu stammered. ‘Stories? Shouldn’t all stories make sense? Or is it enough simply to write what comes into one’s head?’

  Tipu was not going to give in so easily.

  ‘Why, sir,’ he said, ‘even the Ramayana talks of Hanuman and Jambuvan. The Mahabharata, too, is full of tales of demons and monsters.’

  ‘Don’t argue,’ snarled Narahari Babu. ‘Those tales were written by sages more than two thousand years ago. Ganesh with the head of an elephant and the body of a man, and the goddess Durga with ten arms are not the same as the kind of nonsense you’re reading. You should read about great men, about explorers, scientific inventions, the evolution of man—things to do with the real world. You belong to the twentieth century, don’t you? Foolish, ignorant people in villages might once have enjoyed such absurd stories. Why should you? If you do, you ought to go back to a village school and try learning maths with the help of rhymed couplets. Can you do that?’

  Tipu fell silent. He had not realized a small remark from him would trigger off such a tirade.

  ‘Who else in your class reads such books?’ his teacher asked.

  To tell the truth, no one did. Sheetal had once borrowed Folk Tales of Hindustan from Tipu and returned it the very next day, saying, ‘Rubbish! Phantom comics are a lot better than this!’

  ‘No one, sir,’ Tipu replied.

  ‘Hmm . . . what’s your father’s name?’

  ‘Taranath Chowdhury.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Station Road. At number five.’

  ‘Hmm.’ His teacher dropped the book back on Tipu’s desk with a thud and left.

  Tipu did not go back to his house straight after school. He wandered off beyond the mango grove near the school and found himself in front of Bishnuram Das’s house. A white horse was tethered outside it. Tipu leant against a jamrool tree and stared at the horse absent-mindedly. Bishnuram Babu owned a beedi factory. He rode to his factory every day. He was still fit enough to do so, although he had crossed fifty.

  Tipu came here often to look at the horse; but today his mind was elsewhere. Deep down in his heart he knew the new maths teacher would try to put a stop to his reading story-books. How would he survive without his books? He read them every day and he enjoyed reading most the ones his teacher had described as stuff and nonsense. His reading such stories had never stopped him from doing well in maths, had it? He had got forty-four out of fifty in the last test. His previous maths teacher Bhudeb Babu had never ticked him off for reading story-books!

  The days being short in winter, Tipu knew he had to return home soon, and was about to leave when he saw something that made him hide quickly behind the tree.

  His maths teacher, Narahari Babu, was coming towards him, a book and an umbrella under his arm.

  Did that mean he lived somewhere close by? There were five other houses next to the one where Bishnuram Babu lived. Beyond these houses was a large, open space known as Hamlatuni’s Field. A long time ago, there was a silk factory on the eastern side of the field. Its manager, Mr Hamilton, was reputed to be a hard taskmaster. He worked as manager for thirty-two years and then died in his bungalow, not far from the factory. His name got somewhat distorted and thus the whole area came to be known as Hamlatuni’s Field.

  In the gathering dusk of the winter evening, Tipu watched Narahari Babu from behind the jamrool tree. He was surprised at his behaviour. Narahari Babu was standing beside the horse, gently patting its back and making a strange chirruping noise through his lips.

  At that very moment, the front door of the house opened and, holding a cheroot in his hand, Bishnuram Babu himself came out.

  ‘Namaskar.’

  Narahari Babu took his hand off the horse’s back and turned. Bishnuram Babu returned his greeting and asked, ‘How about a game?’

  ‘That’s precisely why I’ve come!’ said Tipu’s teacher. This meant he played chess, because Tipu knew Bishnuram Babu did.

  ‘Nice horse,’ said Narahari Babu. ‘Where did you get it?’ ‘Calcutta. I bought it from Dwarik Mitter of Shobhabazar. It used to be a race horse called Pegasus.’

  Pegasus? The name seemed vaguely familiar but Tipu could not recall where he had heard it.

  ‘Pegasus,’ said the maths teacher. ‘What a strange name!’ ‘Yes, race horses usually have funny names. Happy Birthday, Subhan Allah, Forget-Me-Not . . .’

  ‘Do you ride this horse?’

  ‘Of course. A very sturdy beast. Hasn’t given me a day’s trouble.’

  Narahari Babu kept staring at the horse.

  ‘I used to ride once.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We lived in Sherpur in those days. My father was a doctor. He used a horse for making house calls. I was in school then. I used to ride whenever I could. Oh, that was a long time ago!’

  ‘Would you like to ride this one?’

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Go ahead!’

  Tipu stared in amazement as his teacher dropped his book and his umbrella on the veranda and untied the horse. Then he climbed onto its back in one swift movement and pressed its flanks with his heels. The horse began to trot.

  ‘Don’t go far,’ said Bishnuram Babu.

  ‘Get the chessmen out,’ said Narahari Babu. ‘I’ll be back in no time!’

  Tipu did not wait any longer. What a day it had been! But there was more in store.

  It was around seven in the evening. Tipu had just finished his homework and was contemplating reading a few stories when his father called him from downstairs.

  Tipu walked into their living-room to find Narahari Babu sitting there with his father. His blood froze.

  ‘Your teacher would like to see the books your grandfather has given you,’ said Father. ‘Go bring them.’

  There were twenty-seven books. Tipu had to make three trips to get them all together.

  His maths teacher took ten minutes to go through the lot, shaking his head occasionally and saying, ‘Pooh!’ Finally, he pushed the books aside and said, ‘Look, Mr Chowdhury, what I am going to tell you is based on years of thinking and research. Fairy tales or folklore, call it what you will, can mean only one thing—sowing the seed of superstition in a young m
ind. A child will accept whatever it’s told. Do you realize what an enormous responsibility we adults have? Should we be telling our children that the life of a man lies inside a fish and things like that, when the truth is that one’s life beats in one’s own heart? It cannot possibly exist anywhere else!’

  Tipu could not figure out if Father agreed with all that the teacher said, but he did know that he believed in obeying a teacher’s instructions.

  ‘A child must learn to obey, Tipu,’ he had told him so many times, ‘especially what his elders tell him. You can do whatever you like after a certain age, when you have finished your studies and are standing on your own feet. You would then have the right to voice your own opinion. But not now.’

  ‘Do you not have any other books for children?’ asked Narahari Babu.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Father, ‘they’re all here on my bookshelf. I won them as prizes in school. Haven’t you seen them, Tipu?’

  ‘I have read them all, Father,’ said Tipu.

  ‘Each one?’

  ‘Each one. The biographies of Vidyasagar and Suresh Biswas, Captain Scott’s expedition to the South Pole, Mungo Park’s adventures in Africa, the story of steel and spaceships . . . you didn’t win that many prizes, Father.’

  ‘All right,’ said Father, ‘I’ll buy you some more.’

  ‘If you tell the Tirthankar Book Stall here, they can get you some books from Calcutta,’ said Narahari Babu. ‘You will read only those from now, Tarpan. Not these.’

  Not these! Two little words—but they were enough to make Tipu’s world come to an end. Not these!

  Father took the books from Narahari Babu and locked them away in his cupboard.

  Now they were quite out of reach.

  Mother, however, appeared to be on Tipu’s side. He could hear her grumble and, while they were having dinner, she went to the extent of saying, ‘A man who can say such a thing does not deserve to be a teacher at all!’

  Father disagreed, ‘Can’t you see what he has suggested is for Tipu’s good?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mother. Then she ruffled Tipu’s hair affectionately and said, ‘Don’t worry. I will tell you stories. Your grandmother used to tell me lots of stories. I haven’t forgotten them all.’

  Tipu did not say anything. He had already heard a number of stories from his mother and did not think she knew any more. Even if she did, hearing a story from someone was not the same as reading it. With an open book in front of him, he could lose himself in a totally different world. But how could he make his mother see that?

  Two days later, Tipu realized he was really feeling sad. It was decidedly the kind of sadness Mr Pink had mentioned. Now he was Tipu’s only hope.

  Today was Sunday. Father was taking a nap. Mother had left the veranda and was now at her sewing machine. It was three-thirty. Should he try to slip out of the back door? If only the man had told him where he lived! Tipu would have gone to him straightaway.

  Tipu tiptoed down the stairs and went out through the back door.

  Despite bright sunlight, there was quite a nip in the air. In the distance, the rice fields stretching right up to the hills looked golden. A dove was cooing somewhere and the occasional rustle that came from the shirish tree meant that there was a squirrel hidden in the leaves.

  ‘Hello!’

  Oh, what a surprise! When did he arrive? Tipu had not seen him come.

  ‘The back of your ears are blue, your palms seem dry. I can tell you have reason to feel sad.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Tipu.

  The man came walking towards him. He was wearing the same clothes.

  The wind blew his hair in tufts.

  ‘I need to know what has happened, or else I’m gobbledygasted.’

  Tipu wanted to laugh, but made no attempt to correct what the man had said. Instead, he briefly related his tale of woe. Tears pricked his eyes as he spoke, but Tipu managed to control himself.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the man and started nodding. His head went up and down sixteen times. Tipu began to feel a little nervous. Would he never stop? Or was it that he could find no solution to the problem? He felt like crying once more, but the man gave a final nod, stopped and said ‘Hmm’ again. Tipu went limp with relief.

  ‘Do you think you can do something?’ he asked timidly. ‘I shall have to think carefully. Must exercise the intestines.’

  ‘Intestines? You mean you wouldn’t exercise your brain?’

  The man did not reply. He said instead, ‘Didn’t I see Narahari Babu ride a horse yesterday in that field?’

  ‘Which field? Oh, you mean Hamlatuni’s Field?’

  ‘The one that has a broken building in it.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Is that where you stay?’

  ‘My tridingipidi is lying just behind that building.’

  Tipu could not have heard him right. But even if he had, he would probably have been totally unable to pronounce the word.

  The man had started nodding again. This time he stopped after the thirty-first nod and said, ‘There will be a full moon tonight. If you wish to see what happens then come to that field just as the moon reaches the top of the palm tree. But make sure no one sees you.’

  Suddenly a rather alarming thought occurred to Tipu. ‘You will not try to kill my maths teacher, will you?’ For the first time he saw the man throw back his head and laugh.

  He also saw that there were two tongues in his mouth and no teeth.

  ‘Kill him?’ The man stopped laughing. ‘No, no. We don’t believe in killing. In fact, I was banished from my land because I had thought of pinching someone. The first set of calculations gave us the name “Earth” where I had to be sent. Then we got the name of this place and then came your own name. I will be set free as soon as I can wipe out the cause of your sadness.’

  ‘All right then. See you . . .’

  But the man had already taken another giant leap over the mulberry tree and disappeared.

  The faint tingle that had set in Tipu’s body stayed all evening. By an amazing stroke of luck his parents were going out to dinner that night. Tipu, too, had been invited, but his mother felt he should stay at home and study. His exams were just round the corner.

  They left at 7.30. Tipu waited for about five minutes after they had gone. Then he set off. The eastern sky had started to turn yellow.

  It took him almost ten minutes to reach Bishnuram Babu’s house through the short cut behind his school. The horse was no longer there. It must be in its stable behind the house, Tipu thought. Light streamed through the open window of the living-room. The room was full of smoke from cheroots.

  ‘Check.’

  It was the voice of his maths teacher. He was obviously playing chess with Bishnuram Babu. Was he not going to ride the horse tonight? There was no way one could tell. But that man had asked Tipu to go to Hamlatuni’s Field. He must go there, come what may.

  It was a full moon night. The moon looked golden now, but would turn silver later. It would take another ten minutes to reach the top of the palm tree. The moonlight was not yet very bright, but things were fairly easily visible. There were plenty of plants and bushes. The derelict old factory stood at a distance. The man was supposed to be staying behind it. But where?

  Tipu hid behind a bush, and prepared to wait. In his pocket was some jaggery wrapped in a piece of newspaper. He bit off a small portion of it and began chewing. He could hear jackals calling from the jungle far away. The black object that flew past must be an owl.

  Tipu was wearing a brown shawl over his coat. It helped him merge into the darkness and kept him warm as well.

  A clock struck eight somewhere, probably in Bishnuram Babu’s house.

  And, soon afterwards, Tipu heard another noise: clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

  Was it the horse?

  Tipu peeped from behind the bush and stared at the lane. Yes, it was indeed the same horse with Narahari Babu on its back.

  Disaster struck at this precise moment. A mo
squito had been buzzing around Tipu’s ears. He tried to wave it away, but it suddenly went straight into one nostril!

  Tipu knew it was possible to stop a sneeze by pressing the nose hard. But if he did that now, the mosquito might never come out. So he allowed himself to sneeze, shattering the stillness of the night. The horse stopped.

  Someone flashed a powerful torch on Tipu.

  ‘Tarpan?’

  Tipu began to go numb with fear. Why, why, why did this have to happen? He had gone and ruined whatever plans that man must have made. What on earth would he think of Tipu?

  The horse began to trot up to him with his maths teacher on its back. But suddenly it raised its forelegs high in the air, neighed loudly, and veered off from the lane. Then it jumped into the field.

  What followed took Tipu’s breath away. The horse took off from the ground, flapping two large wings which had grown from its sides! Tipu’s teacher flung his arms around the horse’s neck and hung on as best as he could. The torch had fallen from his hand.

  The moon had reached the top of the palm tree. In the bright moonlight, Tipu saw the horse rise higher and higher in the sky until it disappeared among the stars.

  Pegasus!

  It came back to Tipu in a flash. It was a Greek tale. Medusa was an ogress—every strand of whose hair was a venomous snake, the very sight of whom made men turn into stone. The valiant Perseus chopped off her head with his sword and from her blood was born Pegasus, the winged horse.

  ‘Go home, Tarpan!’

  That strange man was standing beside Tipu, his golden hair gleaming in the moonlight.

  ‘Everything is all right.’

  Narahari Babu had to go to a hospital. He stayed there three days, although there was no sign of any physical injury. He talked to no one. Upon being asked what the matter was, he only shivered and looked away.

  On the fourth day he was discharged. He came straight to Tipu’s house. What transpired between him and Father, Tipu could not make out. But, as soon as he had gone, Father called Tipu and said, ‘Er . . . you may take your books from my cupboard. Narahari Babu said he didn’t mind your reading fairy tales any more.’

  Tipu never saw the strange man again. He went looking for him behind the old factory and passed Bishnuram Babu’s house on the way. The horse was still tethered to the same post. But there was absolutely nothing behind the factory, except a chameleon—pink from head to tail.