by Satyajit Ray
It was about a quarter-past-seven in the evening when Nikunja returned. The light in the passage was on.
‘Who is it?’ asked Shashi Babu as Nikunja stepped in, still dressed as a solicitor.
Nikunja stopped. Then he walked towards Shashi Babu’s room. Now they were facing each other.
‘Who are you looking for?’ said Shashi Babu.
‘Does Nikunja Saha live in this house?’
‘Yes. Turn right as you go up the stairs. His is the first room.’ Shashi Babu turned away to go inside. Nikunja removed his eyebrows and moustaches in an instant and said, ‘I need some information.’
‘Yes?’ Shashi Babu turned back and grew round-eyed, ‘Why—it’s you, Nikunja!’
Nikunja went straight into Shashi Babu’s room. Shashi Babu should be told about what he was doing. It might make things easier if someone in the building could be taken into confidence.
‘Listen Shashi-da, you may find me returning like this now and then dressed differently. I may come as a solicitor or a doctor or perhaps a Sikh or a Marwari—do you understand? I’ll go out in the evening and return at night. I’d like to come straight in here and remove my make- up. But this is just between you and me, all right?’
‘How odd! When did you develop such a weird interest? Are you in the theatre?’
Shashi Babu was a true gentleman. He had read a lot and was the librarian of the local Bankim Library. He knew something of human nature. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘as long as you don’t do anything wrong, it’s fine. Some people do have strange hobbies, I know.’
Nikunja knew he could not go out in disguise more than twice a week, since putting on the right make-up was a time-consuming task. So he decided to spend the rest of his time studying people. New Market was undoubtedly a gold mine for this purpose. Just one visit was enough to expose him to the wide variety of people who came there. Apart from New Market, he went to observe people at the stadium, and in queues for Hindi films. In his diary he noted down the details of all who struck him as interesting. On a few occasions, he even found an excuse to speak to them. Questions like, ‘Could you tell me the time?’ or ‘Which bus do you think would take me to Gariahat?’ often proved useful. On days when he happened to be free, he continued to visit the New Mahamaya Cabin, dressed in his own normal clothes to spend a few hours with his friends, discussing the world’s problems. He would then return as usual to his flat in Vrindavan Basak Lane. His young servant, Nitai, knew about his master’s disguises and seemed to enjoy the whole experience as much as Nikunja himself. But not much could be said of Nitai’s own intelligence.
‘Can you recognize me? Can you recognize me as your Babu?’
‘But you are my Babu. I know it!’
‘Does your Babu have moustaches like these? Is he bald? Does he wear such clothes? Such glasses? Does he wear a shawl?’
Nitai only smiled at these questions and kept leaning against the door, watching him. Nikunja realized his art was something a fool like Nitai would never learn to appreciate. But was it enough simply to deceive a few close friends?
This question kept coming back to Nikunja. He discovered that a stronger ambition was rising in his heart. He must find out how his skill at make-up and disguise worked on a larger audience.
He found an opportunity soon enough.
One day, a few inmates of the house including Nikunja were gathered in Shashi Babu’s room. Among the others was Bhujanga Babu who was interested both in religion and yoga. Rumour had it that he had once very nearly become a sanyasi. In fact, even now, he knew many sadhus and had been on a tour of Kedar-Badri, Varanasi and Kamakshya. It was he who happened to mention that a tantrik sadhu had arrived in Tarapeeth. He was reputed to have more supernatural powers than even the sadhus of mythology whom one had read about.
‘What name, did you say?’ asked Harabilas, who worked in a bank.
‘I didn’t,’ replied Bhujanga Babu, annoyed. His eyebrows had a habit of rising whenever he was irritated and his glasses would come slipping down his nose.
‘Is it Hiccups Baba?’ said Harabilas.
The papers had indeed carried a story on Hiccups Baba. It was said that he was given to having severe fits of hiccups while talking to his visitors, as though his end was near, but he recovered each time and resumed his conversation as if nothing had happened. Yet, doctors had confirmed that those hiccups were indeed of the variety that one might have just before dying.
Bhujanga Babu pushed his glasses back with a finger and said that the sadhu in question was called Kalikananda Swamy.
‘Will you go and visit him?’ asked Tanmay Babu, an insurance agent. ‘I’ll come with you, if I may. Being in the presence of a sadhu always gives me a feeling of . . . you know . . . of something. I’m disgusted with this wholesale filth in Calcutta.’
Bhujanga Babu mentioned that he did intend going one day.
Nikunja went back to his room without a word. His heart beat faster. He must check immediately what kind of things he would need to dress as a tantrik, and how many of those things he had already got.
He cast a quick glance through the description of a tantrik in Bankimchandra’s Kapalkundala. Nothing had changed. Sadhus and sanyasis dressed today just as they had done hundreds of years ago. Nikunja had once gone to Varanasi. A look at the Dashashwamedh Ghat had given him a glimpse of ancient India.
He made his plans.
Tarapeeth was in Birbhum, near Rampurhat. He had a cousin living in Rampurhat. He would first go to his cousin’s house with his make-up kit. He would get dressed there and then go to Tarapeeth. That was where the real challenge lay. He had to find out if he could mingle easily with the other sadhus. Besides, if Bhujanga Babu and the others were also going to be there, so much the better. It would give him added pleasure if they failed to recognize him.
Nikunja already had most of what was required. All he needed was a large walking stick, a pair of tongs and a copper bowl. He would also need a special wig, but that could be arranged quite easily.
Bhujanga Babu and his family were going to leave for Tarapeeth on Wednesday. Nikunja left the day before. He had already told his cousin, Santosh, of his arrival, although Santosh did not yet know the reason.
Santosh’s father had been the owner of Purnima Talkies in Rampurhat. After his death the year before, its ownership passed on to Santosh who began to show popular Hindi films and earned a fair amount. Possibly as a result of his interest in Hindi films, he grew quite excited at the prospect of an adventure when he learnt of Nikunja’s plans. ‘Don’t worry about a thing, Nikunja-da,’ he said, ‘I shall take you in my car and drop you near the cremation ground.’
Nikunja had forgotten that the cremation ground in Tarapeeth had a temple and it was in the cremation ground that the sadhus stayed. The famous tantrik, Bama Khepa, had lived here.
On Wednesday, Nikunja began working on his make-up quite early in the morning. The real Nikunja was wiped out the minute he fixed a long beard, moustaches and a wig. Long hair rippled down to his shoulders, his forehead was smeared with sandalwood paste with a vermilion mark in the centre; three rows of rudraksha beads were wound around his neck. When he finally slipped out of his own clothes and put on a saffron robe, Santosh jumped up and quickly touched his feet.
‘Oh my God, Nikunja-da! This is perfect! No one on earth can recognize you now. I can tell only because I have been standing here throughout. Or I, too, would have been fooled!’
The experience of the last few months had taught Nikunja’s hands to move faster. He was ready by half-past-two. The tongs and the copper bowl were brand new; so they, too, had to be made to look as though they had been used for some time. By 4 p.m., Nikunja Saha alias Ghanananda Maharaj was ready to depart. It was necessary to have a new name, but Nikunja had decided to speak as little as possible. Sadhus were different from ordinary folk. If a sadhu did not speak, no one would find it odd. The new name was Santosh’s idea. ‘When you get down from the car, Nikunja-da,’ he said, �
��people are bound to ask me who you are. You must have a name.’
Ghanananda had a deep, sombre ring to it. Santosh felt quite pleased.
Normally he drove himself. But, today, he took a driver. ‘I shall have to go around with this sadhu baba,’ he told the driver, ‘you must keep an eye on the car.’
Here, Nikunja felt it was necessary to mention something to Santosh. ‘I must be left alone when we reach there. I will try to get as close as possible to Kalikananda. I’m sure there will be groups of other sadhus near him. I will try to join one of these. You go and sit among the visitors.’
‘All right. Don’t worry, Nikunja-da, I’ll manage.’
By the time Santosh’s car reached the cremation ground in Tarapeeth, there was barely half-an-hour left before sunset. This place was no different from other holy places—a crowd outside the temple, little shops on both sides of the road selling flowers, vermilion, books, calendars, tea, biscuits, samosas and fly-ridden jalebis.
But Nikunja’s experience here turned out to be very different from that in the New Mahamaya Cabin. It was amazing how a saffron-clad figure could arouse respect and admiration. The minute he came out of the car, people—young and old, men, women, boys and girls—started touching his feet. Nikunja’s hand rose automatically in a gesture of blessing as he began to move forward. Soon, it became impossible to put his hand down even for a second. Had Santosh not been with him, he would probably have stayed rooted to the same spot all night. ‘Please, please, make way,’ said Santosh and pushed through the crowd. They finally managed to get inside and reach a relatively quiet corner. There were other sadhus, all dressed in saffron, so there was not much of a chance here for being singled out for attention.
Nikunja glanced around. A small crowd had gathered under a banyan tree at some distance. Not many were wearing saffron, so presumably they were ordinary people who had come to look at a sadhu.
‘Wait here for a minute, Nikunja-da,’ said Santosh, ‘while I go and check if that is where Kalikananda is sitting. I will take you near him and then leave you. But I won’t go far. Let me know when you wish to leave.’
Santosh returned a few moments later and confirmed that Kalikananda was indeed sitting under that tree and the crowd was listening to his words of wisdom.
‘Go ahead, Nikunja-da. There’s nothing to worry about.’ Nikunja made his way to the banyan tree. He was not worried. A feeling of complete satisfaction had enveloped his mind the minute he had set foot here. His make-up was flawless. He was the perfect artist, he felt convinced.
Kalikananda’s discourse could be heard from where Nikunja had been standing. His voice grew louder as Nikunja came closer. Then he saw him. A strong personality, no doubt, made stronger by the tiger skin he was sitting on. What he was saying was nothing new, but the man was clearly a gifted speaker. There was something special in the way he spoke. And his eyes! The whites of his eyes were not really white. There was a tinge of pink in them. Could it be a result of smoking ganja? Possibly.
About fifty people were gathered around and the number was increasing steadily. There was Bhujanga Babu with his wife! Tanmay Babu must also be sitting somewhere in the crowd. Bhujanga Babu must have arrived quite early, for he was sitting right in front.
On both sides of Kalikananda and behind him, sat other sadhus. All had flowing beards, long hair, rudraksha beads round their necks and their bodies were smeared with ash. There was no difference at all between their appearance and Nikunja’s.
Nikunja passed the crowd and moved towards this group of sadhus. From somewhere in the distance, came the faint strains of a bhajan. Suddenly the song started to sound louder. The reason was simple. Kalikananda had stopped speaking.
Nikunja looked at the sadhu. Kalikananda’s bloodshot eyes were fixed on him in an unblinking stare.
Nikunja stopped.
Everyone else turned their eyes on him.
This time Kalikananda spoke.
‘A disguise, eh? Is a saffron costume all that is required to make a sadhu? And a few beads round one’s neck? And ash on one’s body? How dare you! What if I pulled at your hair? Do you realize what might happen? Could you still go on pretending?’
Santosh was beside Nikunja in a flash.
‘That’s enough, Nikunja-da. Back to the car. At once.’ Nikunja’s whole body felt numb. He had to lean on Santosh for support as they began walking towards the main gate. His eyes were virtually closed, but he could not shut his ears. Kalikananda’s final words boomed in the air: ‘Do you know the result of such deception, Nikunja Saha?’
Nikunja had to move into a new flat in Calcutta, far away from where he had lived before. Bhujanga Babu was a witness to the Tarapeeth episode. No doubt he would have gossiped and then it would have been quite impossible to face all the others who knew him. Luckily, he found a small flat in Bhawanipore. The rent was Rs 250 per month.
Even after his return to Calcutta, Nikunja shivered every time he thought of Kalikananda. Heavens—what acute perception that tantrik had! Nikunja got rid of all the ‘religious’ costumes he had. Dresses meant for priests, pandits, maulvis and monks were all thrown into the river.
It took him about three weeks to come back to his normal self. He had made a few friends in the meantime. There was another restaurant here, not very far from his house, called Parashar Cabin. The people he met here—Tarak Babu, Nagenda, Shibu—knew nothing of his scandalous past. Shibu, as a matter of fact, worked in a theatre. He took Nikunja with him one day to see his play, Fiery Sparks. ‘You must see the first- class make-up I’m given,’ Shibu said before they left.
Nikunja did not know whether to laugh or cry when Shibu’s make-up was done. What kind of make-up was this? Had they never seen what really good make-up could be like? If they saw his own, they would be bound to feel ashamed!
The next instant he recalled the incident in Tarapeeth. But, then, tantriks did often have special supernatural powers. There was nothing surprising in that. Nikunja himself had made a wrong move, that was all.
Yes, that experience had been a frightening one. But surely that was no reason to give up his favourite occupation altogether? No that could never be. There were so many other different characters he had not tried his hand at. Why, he had not yet tried disguising himself as a criminal, had he? With the only exception of the tantrik, every other disguise he had donned was harmless and nondescript. No one would give such characters a second glance, anyway. The real challenge lay in disguising oneself as someone everyone would look at; yet they would fail to recognize the real person behind the make-up.
What should the criminal look like? Crew-cut hair, a heavy stubble, a scar under one eye, a broken nose—like a boxer—a tattoo on his hand, a chain round his neck, a buttonless checked shirt and a Burmese lungi.
After his Tarapeeth experience, Nikunja should not have gone anywhere near a disguise. But his passion had developed into a kind of addiction. He forgot the tantrik and began working with renewed enthusiasm.
Nikunja sat down before his mirror fairly early one morning soon after a cup of tea. He did not, therefore, get a chance to glance at the newspaper and so missed the news of the double murder in Kidderpore and the photograph of the absconding miscreant, Bagha Mandal. If he had seen it, no doubt he would have done his make-up a little differently.
A photograph of Bagha Mandal had been published about six months ago after a daring robbery. On that occasion, too, Bagha had managed to hoodwink the police. His photo had been published to warn the general public. Had Nikunja seen his photo at that time and had it, somehow, remained embedded in his memory? Why else should he start disguising himself to look exactly like Bagha Mandal?
But even if he had seen the photograph, he had obviously not grasped the significance of the story that had accompanied it. If he had, he would not have felt any surprise at the way people quickly left Parashar Cabin as soon as he came in and sat at a table.
What was the matter? Why was everyone behaving so strangely? W
here did the manager disappear? Why had the waiter gone so pale?
How was Nikunja to know that the manager had gone to the chemist next door to telephone the police and that his phone call would bring the police van to Nikunja’s neighbourhood?
But, at this critical moment, Nikunja’s guardian angel stepped in. While he did not exactly offer a helping hand to get him out of the mess, he certainly offered a little finger. Nikunja’s eyes suddenly fell on a newspaper that was lying on a vacant chair. The page it was opened at carried Bagha Mandal’s photograph, together with a short, crisp write- up.
This was the face that had gradually come to life this morning in Nikunja’s mirror.
Nikunja’s limbs began to feel rather heavy. But he could not stop himself from grabbing the paper to read the article. Everything fell into place at once.
He forced himself to get up and walk out of the restaurant as casually as he could. Then he began walking towards his house as fast as his legs could carry him (running would attract attention). It took him ten minutes to reach his house. On his way, he heard the sound of a vehicle and assumed—correctly—that it was the police van, but paid no attention. Let them come. The police would be fooled. By the time they came up the stairs, Nikunja Saha’s disguise would have vanished. It did not matter if the police found Nikunja Saha. After all, Nikunja was not the culprit.
He told his servant to make him a cup of tea and bolted the door. Oh no! There was a power cut. It would take him a little while to start the Japanese generator.
Never mind. There were candles. But first he must remove his clothes, and that could be done in the dark.
Nikunja slipped out of the lungi, shirt and the black jacket and threw them on his bed. Then he changed into his pyjamas and took a candle out of the drawer of his table. He lit it and placed it before his mirror.
There was still no sign of the police. Perhaps they were searching the whole area to see where Bagha was hiding. Certainly, no one in this building had seen him come in. But people from the neighbouring houses might have.