by Satyajit Ray
‘“For ten years, Guruji took no notice of me. Then, one day, he suddenly looked at me and said, ‘Beta, I am very pleased with you. But you must not think of leaving home. There’s a lot for you to do. One day, you will become a king among magicians. You will be famous. I will help you in whatever you do, to repay you for all that you’ve done for me in the last few years. But I cannot do anything now. I can be of help to you only after my death.’
‘“‘How? How is that going to happen, Guruji?’ ‘“Guruji mentioned a date in the future. ‘On this day,’ he said, ‘you must go to an old city called Mandhata, by the river Narmada, and find its cremation ground. There, you will see a woodapple tree. When you do, start walking to the west. Just follow the river, and count your steps. Nine hundred and ninety-nine steps should bring you to a forest. You should be able to spot a tamarind tree as soon as you enter the forest. Next to that tree, behind a bush, you will find a skeleton lying on the ground. That will be my skeleton. Take it with you, and use it in your work. It will perform with you on the stage, obey your commands, and help you win both fame and fortune. Then, when your work is over, throw it into a river. If there is still something that remains to be done, it will not sink. Pick it up again and bring it back with you.’”
‘I remained silent when Bhojraj finished his story. After a few moments, I asked: “Isn’t it time to throw it into a river?”
‘“No, that time has not yet come. I did try, but it did not sink. So I brought it back. Now, I can see that it was simply waiting for you.”
‘“Me?”
‘“Yes. Were you born under the sign of cancer?” ‘“Yes.”
‘“On the fifth day after a full moon?”
‘“That’s right.”
‘“Well then, it has to be you. But even if your zodiac sign was different, it would not have mattered. It is clear to me that you are a good man. If Guruji can finally find peace through your hands, I should be very glad. He would have liked you. He could recognize good, honest men.”
‘“What do I have to do now?”
‘“See that box over there? Go and open it.”
‘There was a large box—almost like a chest—standing in a corner. I went and lifted its lid. The skeleton lay on a piece of red velvet, with its knees bent. “Take it out and bring it here,” said Bhojraj. I placed my hands on its ribcage and lifted it. All the bones were threaded delicately to one another with thin copper wires.
‘“Put it down on its feet.”
‘I placed it on the floor, holding its arms to give it support. “Now let go of its arms,” Bhojraj commanded.
‘I removed my hands and saw, to my complete amazement, that the skeleton was standing straight without any support at all.
‘“Now salute it. It is now your property. You are responsible for the final job.”
‘What final job? I had no idea, but decided not to take any chances. Instead of merely saluting it, I threw myself prostrate on the ground, to show my respect.
‘“Do you realize the true significance of what you’ve taken on?” Bhojraj wanted to know. “Do you really believe everything you just heard?”
‘“I keep an open mind about everything, sir,” I replied. “I believe in afterlife, I believe in magic, I believe in science.”
‘“Good. Now arrange to take it away. Please see that Guruji gets what he wanted. When your work is done, throw it into the river Musi.”
‘Martyand was so pleased to get a skeleton that he paid me five hundred, instead of two. Then he said, “What are you doing this evening?”
‘“Why do you ask?”
‘“I will start the painting of Vikramaditya and Betal. I would like you to be there.”
‘“I thought you painted only during the day.”
‘“Yes, but this is a special case. The particular mood and atmosphere I need for this one will come more easily at night. I have arranged special lighting. I want you to see it.”
‘“But what if your model objects?”
‘“He won’t even know you are there. Come at seven o’clock, and stand quietly in that corner. All the lights will be focused on the model. He won’t be able to see what’s on the other side.”
‘I had once been in amateur theatre. I knew that, from the stage, it was impossible to see those sitting on the other side of the footlights. What Martyand was suggesting would be something similar. I agreed to return in the evening.
‘When I turned up, with my heart beating just a little faster than usual, it was five minutes to seven. Martyand’s servant, Shivsharan, opened the door and helped me slip into the studio quietly.
‘The model had not yet arrived. But the lighting was ready. It was truly impressive: perfectly appropriate for a place where ghosts and spirits were supposed to converge.
‘Martyand was sitting before the canvas, a strong light by his side. He glanced briefly at a door, to let me know that the model was in the ante-chamber, getting ready.
‘Now I noticed something else. It was the skeleton. Martyand had hung it from a hat-stand. In the pale, ghostly light that fell on it, it looked as if it was grinning. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but if you look at a skull, it will always appear to grin at you, possibly because its teeth are exposed.
‘A faint click made me look at the other door that led to the ante- chamber. Vikramaditya emerged from it, wearing garments suitable for a king, a sword in his hand. He had a thick moustache, a heavy beard and long, wavy hair. Every little detail in his make-up and costume was in place. It was perfect. Just for a moment, I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy. I would have been wearing that costume, but for a stroke of misfortune!
‘The model took his position under the lights, on what had become a stage. Martyand got up to make a few changes to his pose, then took the skeleton off the hat-stand. “Make it sit on your shoulders,” he said to the model. “Bring its arms forward and hold them with your right hand. Get the legs to go round your waist, and grab the feet with your left hand.”
‘The model obeyed every instruction without any apparent discomfort. I had to admire his courage.
‘Martyand began drawing. He would first do a charcoal sketch, then use colour. When I was his model, I never got the chance to see how he worked. This time, I had no difficulty in watching how swiftly and expertly he made his strokes.
‘In less than five minutes, I heard a strange noise. It sounded like a moan, and it was coming from the stage. The artist was engrossed in his work. He did not appear to have noticed anything. All he said was, “Steady, steady!” He had to say this because the model had started to fidget a little.
‘Then it became clear that, despite a word from the artist, the model could not stand still. He was turning and twisting, and the sound escaping through his lips could only be described as a groan, as if he was in pain.
‘“What’s the matter?” Martyand asked irritably. I could see what the matter was, clearly enough, though I could scarcely believe my eyes.
‘The arms of the skeleton were no longer hanging down. They were raised, and placed round the model’s neck, just under his chin. They were getting tighter and tighter, turning it into a horrific, ghostly embrace. But it was not just the arms. The legs round the waist had tightened, too, as if they could never be prised apart.
‘The model looked a pathetic sight. The soft groans had turned into wild screams. He had thrown his sword away, and was tugging at the skeleton’s arms with all his might, in a vain attempt to loosen its grasp.
‘Martyand gave a sharp exclamation, and ran forward to help him. But their combined efforts failed. After a while, Martyand gave up, walked back with unsteady steps, then crashed against the easel, which overturned at once. Finally, he collapsed on the floor near me, leaning heavily against the wall.
‘By this time, I had overcome my own shock and amazement. The model was now rolling on the floor, the skeleton still firmly attached to his body. “Do something!” I heard Martyand say hoarsely.
‘As I got closer, however, something else made my head start to reel once more. During the struggle, the model’s wig, beard and turban had all fallen off. His face was fully exposed. I recognized it instantly. It was the face of the “flop-hero” Vishwanath Solanki.
‘At once, I felt as if a curtain had been drawn aside before my eyes, and I could see the truth, clear as crystal. A cunning idea flashed through my mind in the same instant.
‘I bent over Solanki. “Tell me, Mr Solanki, was it you who hired a goonda to attack me? There’s going to be no escape, remember, unless you tell the truth.”
‘Solanki’s eyes looked as if they would burst out of their sockets any minute. “Yes, yes, yes!” he gasped between short breaths. “Please save me. Please!”
‘I turned to Martyand. “You heard him. Are you prepared to stand witness? I am going to hand him over to the police.”
‘Martyand nodded.
‘I turned back and gently pulled at the skeleton’s shoulders. It loosened its grasp instantly and slipped off the model’s body.
‘Solanki had to say goodbye to his career as an artist’s model because, soon after this incident, he was forced to spend quite a long time in prison.
‘The man who replaced him and dressed as Vikramaditya for the whole series was Tarinicharan Banerjee. Martyand was naturally deeply shaken by the episode, but he recovered within a week and began his work with renewed vigour.
‘The day after the painting showing Vikramaditya with Betal was finished, I took the skeleton to the river Musi and threw it into the water.
‘It disappeared without a trace even before I could blink my eye.’
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1983
Chameleon
Nikunja Saha occupied a chair in the New Mahamaya Cabin, ordered a cup of tea and a plate of potato fries, and looked around carefully. Were any of his acquaintances there in the restaurant? Yes, Rasik Babu and Sreedhar were already here. Panchanan would probably turn up in about ten minutes. The more the merrier. The success of his disguise lay in not being recognized by anyone who knew him.
But then, all his disguises had been remarkably successful so far. Today half his face was covered by a beard and the shape of his nose had been altered a little with the help of plasticine. But he had changed his gait and style of speech so completely that even Panchanan Gui, who had known him for ten years, could not recognize him when he came to ask for a match from Nikunja. Mustering all his courage, Nikunja had even ventured to speak, ‘You may keep the whole box. I have another.’ Panchanan had given no sign of recognition even at the sound of his voice. This was the essence of art.
For Nikunja all his other interests had waned. This passion for disguises had become almost an obsession. He had plenty of time, for he had given up the job he had before. He used to be a salesman in Orient Book Company on College Street. A childless uncle had died recently leaving Nikunja all the money he had made in the share market. The capital brought an interest of seven hundred and fifty rupees every month. He could, therefore, easily afford to leave his job.
The same uncle used to often tell him, ‘Read, Nikunja, read as much as you can. There’s nothing that one can’t learn from books. You needn’t go to a school, you needn’t have a teacher—all you need is books. I have even heard that it is possible to learn to fly aeroplanes simply from instructions in a book.’ There were two things his uncle himself had learnt quite well from books—palmistry and homoeopathy. Nikunja followed his advice and bought books on leatherwork and photography. Very soon, he managed to learn the rudiments of both.
About six months ago he had seen a fat American book on make-up on a footpath in College Street. Unable to resist the temptation, he had bought it and since then, this new interest had a firm grip on his mind.
The strange thing was that Nikunja was not interested in the one place where make-up was needed every day—in the theatre, although he did toy with the idea of utilizing his knowledge in a fruitful way. Who knows, he might even manage to make some extra money, he had thought.
He happened to know Bhulu Ghosh of the Naba Natta Company. Both were members of the East Bengal Club. One day, Nikunja went to Bhulu’s house on Amherst Street and told him of his wish.
Bhulu, however, was not very encouraging.
‘Why,’ he asked, ‘do you want to mess about in the theatre? We already have Aparesh Datta in our company. He’s been our make-up man for thirty-six years. It’s not going to be easy to replace him. He has the entire art of make-up on his fingertips. If you went and told him you’ve been dabbling in it for just over six months, he wouldn’t even look at you. Forget about getting a break, Nikunja. You appear to be leading a fairly happy and carefree life. Don’t get involved in something you don’t know enough about!’
Nikunja dropped the idea of becoming a professional make-up man.
But what was he to do with his knowledge? On whom could he practise his skill? He could not, after all, open something like a hair-cutting salon where people would come and pay to have their appearances altered.
Then he had an idea. What about his own self? There were certain natural advantages in his appearance. Everything about him was average. He was of medium height, neither too dark nor very fair, his features neither sharp nor blunt. A straight, long nose could not be hidden. If one was tall, one’s height could not be disguised. And the amount of make- up that was required to conceal a dark complexion was very likely to give the show away.
Nikunja studied his own appearance for two days and decided to start experimenting on himself.
But what after that? What could he possibly hope to achieve with his make-up and disguises?
Well, two things, certainly. The first would be to take his art to the very peak of perfection; and the second, to enjoy fooling all his friends.
Nikunja began buying materials for his make-up. He had read in the book that the best in the market was the pancake make-up produced by Max Factor. But it was not available in India. Nikunja, therefore, had to go to his neighbour, Dr Biraj Chowdhury. Dr Chowdhury had once treated him for jaundice. Nikunja knew that his son who was studying in America was supposed to be returning home soon to attend his sister’s wedding.
Nikunja did not beat about the bush and came straight to the point.
‘Could I request your son to bring me something from America? I shall pay him here as soon as he arrives.’
‘What is it that you want?’
‘Stuff for make-up. I’ve got the name written down. It’s not available here.’
‘All right. If you let me have the details, I shall certainly write to him.’
The Max Factor pancake make-up arrived within three weeks. Nikunja had already bought every other requisite—brushes, spirit gum, eyebrow pencils, black enamel paint to create missing teeth, white powder for grey hair and a number of fine nylon nets to help wear wigs. In addition to these, he had bought loose strands of hair which he fixed on some of the nylon nets one by one and made at least twenty different moustaches, twenty types of beards and various wigs: rough, smooth, straight, wavy, curly like Africans—the lot.
But, of course, it was not enough simply to change one’s face. One had to have a change of clothes as well. Nikunja took about a week to make a round of New Market, Bara Bazaar and Grant Street to collect clothes of all kinds. Some of these had to be tailor-made since ready- made material was not always available. After sorting out his clothes, he turned his attention to other things he would wear and, eventually, managed to collect seven types of glasses, twelve pairs of sandals, ten different caps—including the cap of a police inspector. He also bought five types of fabric to make pugris and five wristwatches. The kada of Sikhs, the sacred thread of the Brahmins, the different prayer beads of the Vaishnavas and other religious groups, a wide assortment of medal
lions and talismans and, finally, paste diamond earrings to go with the attire of an ustaad—all were added to his collection.
A large mirror was bought and a strong bulb was fixed over it. In order to be able to work even during a power cut he also had to invest in a Japanese generator and teach his servant, Nitai, how to operate it.
He began practising from 16th November. He noted the date in his diary. At eight in the morning, he began working on his make-up and finished by 4 p.m. He knew it would be best if he dressed as someone from an average middle class background. There was no point in dressing as a beggar or a labourer, for the real test lay in being able to visit the New Mahamaya Cabin and having a cup of tea amidst his friends and acquaintances.
The very first day brought him success. He was made up as a solicitor: dark, bushy eyebrows and matching moustaches, white trousers, a much- used black gown, an old briefcase, a pair of worn out black shoes and loose white socks.
Panchanan came and sat at his table. The flutter in Nikunja’s heart persisted for as long as he sat there, sipping a cup of tea. But he realized that day how totally incurious one could be about a fellow being, especially if one’s attention was elsewhere.
Panchanan saw him all right, but took not the slightest notice. He kept reading the little race book he was holding in his left hand and with his right, tearing pieces from an omelette with a spoon, and stuffing them into his mouth. He did not glance at Nikunja even when he asked the waiter for his bill. This was an entirely new experience, a new thrill. Nikunja knew that from that day that this would be his only occupation.
Something rather funny happened that evening when he returned home. He really ought to have anticipated it, but the thought had not occurred to him.
Shashi Babu lived in the ground floor flat, right next to the front door. From his living-room it was possible to see all those who came in and went out of the building.