by Satyajit Ray
Nikunja started to remove his make-up. He must first take off his false moustaches.
False?
If the moustaches were false, why didn’t they come off? Anything stuck with spirit gum usually came off at the first pull. Why didn’t these?
Nikunja brought the candle closer to his face and peered at the mirror. His blood froze.
The moustaches were real. Each hair had sprung from his own skin. There was no sign of gum on them!
The wig was not a wig, either. It was his own hair. And the stubble, which he had created by pasting each individual hair, also appeared to be perfectly genuine.
And the scar? No artist on earth could have created that scar simply with the help of paint and plasticine. It was the result of the fight fought nineteen years ago with Badru Sheik in Entally. Bagha, who was then called Radhu Mandal, was still an apprentice in the world of crime and criminals, learning the tricks of the trade from Meghnad Rakshit . . .
The police had to break the door open. The inspector turned a powerful torch on the figure of Bagha Mandal, lying flat on the ground, unconscious.
‘Does this man live in this house?’ he asked Nitai. ‘Yes, sir. He’s my master.’
‘What is he known as?’
‘Nikunja Babu. Saha Babu.’
‘Ha! Pretending to be a gentleman, was he?’
Then he said to his constable, ‘Shake him. Shake him well, until he regains consciousness. Then we shall decide what to do with him.’
The inspector raised his revolver and aimed at the inert figure. The wig came off and fell on the ground with the first shake. Then came the moustaches. And then the scar slipped off, together with the nylon net and the extra bit of plasticine with which the shape of the nose had been altered.
By then, Nikunja was fully conscious.
A stern warning from the police had the effect a tantrik’s threat had failed to produce.
Nikunja is now reading a lot on clay modelling. Since the river is not far away, it is possible for Nitai to bring him all the clay he needs. Nikunja plans to use Nitai as his first model.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1983
The Citation
For about a minute, none among those present at the meeting of the Shatadal Club could utter a word when their secretary, Pranabesh Datta, dropped the bomb.
It was an emergency meeting, being held just five days before the Bengali New Year. Pranabesh did not tell anyone why he wanted them there. His note had only said that there was a crisis and a meeting of the members was essential.
Jayanta Sarkar was the first to speak.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ he asked.
‘Look at this letter if you don’t believe me,’ said Pranabesh. ‘Here it is—Samar Kumar himself signed the letter. What better surety could you want?’
The letter made its rounds among the members and returned to Pranabesh.
No, there was no doubt. The signature was indeed Samar Kumar’s. Thanks to the film magazines, there were very few people who had not seen that famous signature before.
‘Did he give a reason?’ asked Naren Guin.
‘Shooting,’ said Pranabesh, ‘outdoor shooting in Kalimpong. Came up most unexpectedly. So he’s very sorry, but . . .’
‘Strange!’ exclaimed Shantanu Rakshit. ‘How could the man simply turn his “yes” into a “no”?’
Naren Guin remarked, ‘I told you in the beginning not to get involved with film-stars. They never keep their word.’
‘What a catastrophe!’ said Jayanta. He liked being dramatic.
‘Can you not think of an alternative arrangement?’ asked Chunilal Sanyal, who taught Bengali at the local Vivekananda Institute.
‘What alternative arrangement do you expect us to make, Chuni-da, at this last minute?’ asked Pranabesh. ‘Besides, I have already tried everything. I spoke twice to Nimu in Calcutta. Told him to get hold of someone else—it didn’t matter if it was a singer or dancer or painter or sportsman. We’ve done all the publicity possible for our felicitation, we’ve got the citation written. We’ve held such felicitations regularly for the last ten years, it has become our tradition and we cannot do without it. But Nimu said, no chance. Seven felicitations have been arranged in Calcutta alone. There isn’t much of a choice in the matter of candidates, is there? All the well-known people are already engaged. Paltu Banerjee is being felicitated twice on the same day. But he can manage it because both are in Calcutta. Shyamal Shome, Rajat Manna, Harabilash Gupta, Debraj Saha—everyone’s been booked by some club or the other.’
‘The citation you just mentioned,’ said Indranath Ray, who happened to be the oldest among those present, ‘well—how can you use a citation meant for Samar Kumar for someone else?’
‘You haven’t seen the citation, have you, Indra-da?’ ‘No.’
‘That explains it. You see, it doesn’t talk about films or film-stars. It begins with Dear Artiste. So it could be anyone.’
‘May I see it now?’
Pranabesh took out a rolled parchment from a drawer. ‘It took Monotosh a whole week to write it by hand. The language used was Chuni-da’s.’
Chunilal coughed softly, a polite reminder of his presence.
‘“We look at you, and our wonder knows no bounds” . . . why, I seem to have heard this one before!’
Indranath had unrolled the paper. His brows were puckered in a frown, his eyes fixed on Chunilal.
‘So you have,’ said Chunilal. ‘Sir Jagadish Bose had once read an address at a reception given in honour of Tagore. This was the opening sentence. The speech had been written by Sarat Chandra.’
‘And you just lifted it?’
‘It’s only a quotation, Indra-da. Surely no one can object to that? It’s a famous line—every educated Bengali would recognize it. Besides, it makes such a good introduction.’
‘How many other quotations have you got in this citation?’
‘That’s the only one. The rest is totally original.’ Indranath dropped the roll on the table, yawned and said, ‘Well, then—you must decide on the next course of action.’
Akshay Bagchi was a rather grave and sombre man of about fifty. He now lit a cigarette and said, ‘If you can give up the idea of having someone very well known, I can suggest a name. Since you must felicitate someone, you may wish to think about it.’
‘Yes, it’s obvious we can’t get anyone all that well known,’ said Pranabesh. ‘But, at the same time, we can’t get hold of any Tom, Dick or Harry, can we? The person you have in mind ought to have made some kind of fruitful contribution.’
‘Yes,’ said Akshay Bagchi, ‘he has indeed.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ Pranabesh grew slightly impatient.
‘Haralal Chakravarty.’
Silence fell. Clearly, nobody had heard the name before. Indranath Ray was the only person who frowned a little and then said, ‘Haralal Chakravarty? You mean the illustrator?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Akshay Bagchi nodded, ‘we used to see his illustrations quite often in story-books when we were very young. Most of these were mythological in nature. He was once very popular. He even used to do illustrations for magazines. I think felicitating him is a better idea than doing something for people who are already quite successful.’
‘Not a bad idea at all,’ Indranath sat up. ‘I quite agree with Akshay. Now I can recall those illustrations clearly. The edition of the Mahabharata we had at home had pictures drawn by Chakravarty.’
‘Were they really good?’ asked Jayanta Sarkar. ‘I mean, this man in whose honour we’ll arrange a reception—does he deserve it?’
This time Naren Guin said, ‘Yes, I remember now. We had a copy of Hatemtai, and the illustrations were signed H. Chakravarty.’
‘Any good?’ Jayanta wanted to know.
‘Yes, certainly better than the average kitsch,’ said Naren and went out of the room. It was time for a smoke, but not where so many elde
rs were present.
‘Whether the pictures he drew were of a high standard or not is not really important,’ said Indranath, ‘what matters is that he worked continuously over a long period of time. He could not have done so if there was no demand for his work. So he must have earned a certain amount of popularity. But, as Akshay just said, true recognition never came his way. Our Shatadal Club can now give him that.’
‘And the most important thing,’ said Akshay Bagchi, ‘also, if you like, the most convenient thing, is that he lives in this town. You don’t have to run around Calcutta to get him.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Pranabesh. ‘We didn’t know that!’ The whole idea was so new that everyone started talking at once.
‘But where does he live?’ Pranabesh looked at Akshay Bagchi enquiringly.
‘I know the place,’ said Bagchi. ‘If you go to the crossing at the end of Kumorpara and turn left, you will soon come to Dr Manmatha’s house. He once mentioned that Haralal Chakravarty was his neighbour.’
‘Do you know Haralal?’
‘Well, I saw him once at the Mukherjees’ about five years ago and that too, only for a few seconds. I think he was painting something for their family.’
‘But . . .’ Pranabesh still sounded a little doubtful.
‘But what?’
‘No, I mean, we shall have to announce his name if he accepts our proposal.’
‘So what?’
‘If no one has heard his name, then . . .’
‘Then they’ll wonder who on earth he is. Is that what you’re worried about?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Don’t worry. Just add “Distinguished Doyen of Illustrators” before his name. Those who haven’t heard his name will get to know of it this way. Isn’t that one of the aims of our club?’
‘Yes, rescuing men from oblivion,’ said Jayanta. ‘A very good idea.’
Everyone agreed. The idea revived their waning enthusiasm and they had to admit that, if anything, such a step would only enhance the prestige of the club. What they were going to arrange was not just an ordinary reception, it was their commitment to society. This could well become their policy in future: to bring into the limelight once more, all those gifted sons of Bengal who were languishing in the darkness.
It was decided that Akshay Bagchi would call on Haralal Chakravarty, together with Pranabesh and some other members of the club. They would have to go the very next day for there was no time left. If Mr Chakravarty agreed, the name of Samar Kumar would have to be replaced on all the posters.
And, of course, one must not forget to add the words, ‘Distinguished Doyen of Illustrators’ before his name.
The pink house by the side of the road had a nameplate proclaiming ‘Haralal Chakravarty, Artist’. This made their job a lot simpler. Akshay Bagchi was right. Dr Manmatha lived only two houses away. Akshay Bagchi and Pranabesh were accompanied by Chunilal Sanyal.
They opened the gate and went in.
There were a few flower beds in front of the house and an amra tree.
The surroundings were clean, but showed no sign of affluence. Obviously, Haralal Chakravarty had missed out not just on recognition, but also on earning a comfortable living.
There was no need to knock. Their arrival had probably been seen from a window. An elderly gentleman, wearing glasses and sporting a pair of grey moustaches, opened the door. He was clad in a dhoti draped like a lungi, and a vest with sleeves.
Akshay Bagchi greeted him with a namaskar and went forward.
‘You may not remember, but we met briefly about five years ago in Dharani Mukherjee’s house.’
‘I see . . .’
‘We . . . er . . . wanted to talk to you about something,’ said Pranabesh. ‘Could we come in?’
‘Yes, of course.’
The living-room was to the left. There were a few framed paintings on the wall. At the bottom of each one, clearly visible, was the painter’s signature: H. Chakravarty. Except for these, the room was devoid of any trimmings. The visitors sat on wooden chairs and a wooden bench.
‘We have come from the Shatadal Club,’ began Pranabesh.
‘Shatadal Club?’
‘Yes. It’s a rather well-known club in this area. Barada Babu—you know, Barada Majumdar, MLA—is our President.’
‘I see.’
‘We have a function every year to celebrate the first of Baisakh. There’s usually a musical performance, a one-act play and a reception given in honour of someone who has made a significant contribution to our art and culture. This time we thought of you. I mean—you live in the same town, and yet not many people know about you, so . . .’
‘Hmm. The first of Baisakh, did you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s only four days away.’
‘Yes. Yes, I realize it’s late. There were,’ Pranabesh coughed, ‘a few difficulties.’
‘I see. But what does this reception really entail?’
‘Oh, nothing much. We’ll come and collect you at around six in the evening. Your reception will be the last item in our function. A citation will be presented, Mr Bagchi here will say a few words about you and, in the end, if you yourself could give a short speech, we’d all be very pleased. The whole thing would be over by 9 p.m.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Your family—I mean, your wife . . .’
‘She suffers from arthritis.’
‘Oh. But if there’s someone else you’d like to invite . . .’ ‘Let me think about it.’
At this point, Akshay Bagchi raised a different issue. ‘We would like an introduction about yourself.’
‘All right. I shall write a few facts down. Please have it collected.’ ‘
I shall come and collect it myself,’ said Pranabesh.
The three members of the Shatadal Club rose to take their leave.
Haralal Chakravarty appeared to have finally grasped the significance of their proposal. His eyes seemed moist.
The Shatadal Club lived up to its reputation of being supremely efficient in organizing the New Year celebrations. The reception for Haralal Chakravarty was a resounding success. Those who had indeed asked, ‘Who on earth is this man?’ before the reception, ceased to raise questions afterwards.
Everyone learnt about how, after graduating from the Government Art School, Haralal had had to struggle to establish himself as a professional artist. Fifty-six books had been published in a mythological series that contained his illustrations, in addition to a large number of children’s magazines that also published his pictures. Rai Bahadur L.K. Gupta had given him a silver medal. Finally, at the age of sixty-two, arthritis affected his right thumb, forcing him to retire.
When it was his turn to speak, Haralal expressed his appreciation for the efforts made by the Shatadal Club and said just one thing about himself: ‘I do not deserve such praise.’ His humility made a deep impression on the audience.
As he climbed into the car of Nihar Chowdhury, the Vice President of the club, carrying a garland and the citation, duly framed, it was difficult to tell who was more moved by the whole experience—Haralal himself or the members of the club.
Indranath had the last word.
‘My dear Pranabesh,’ he said, ‘I suggest you give a reception for Bagchi next year. After all, wasn’t it he who saved the prestige of the club this time?’
The next day, someone left a packet in the club office. It was addressed to Pranabesh. He opened it and found, to his utter surprise, the framed citation given to Haralal the day before.
It was accompanied by a note that said:
To the Secretary,
Shatadal Club
Dear Sir,
I could see when you called on me the other day that you were indeed in a difficult situation and had decided to give a reception for Haralal Chakravarty simply because there was no other alternative. I am very happy to have been able to play the role of your saviour. But I feel obliged to return the citation for two reasons.
First, I can see that it may be used quite easily next year for a different person. All you need to do is change the name and the date. And, secondly, it is true that I do not really deserve it. The artist Haralal Chakravarty died three years ago in this town. He was my elder brother. I work as a clerk in the post office in Kanthi. I happened to be here on a week’s holiday.
Yours truly,
Rasiklal Chakravarty.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1983
Sadhan Babu’s Suspicions
Sadhan Babu found a small twig lying on the floor of his room as he returned from work one evening. This made him frown for he was very fussy about cleanliness. Every piece of furniture in his room had to be spotless, as did all his bedclothes and embroidered tablecloths and curtains. It did mean paying rather a lot to the dhobi, but Sadhan Babu did not mind.
‘Pocha!’ he called out to his servant.
‘Were you calling me, sir?’ Pocha appeared. ‘Why—do you doubt it?’
‘No, sir. Why should I?’
‘What is this twig doing here on the floor?’
‘I don’t know. A bird may have dropped it.’
‘Why should a bird be allowed to come in and drop things in my room? Didn’t you notice it when you swept the floor today? Or didn’t you sweep it at all?’
‘Oh, but I sweep your room every day, sir. When I did so today this twig wasn’t there.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How strange!’
The next day he noticed a sparrow sitting on his window-sill. This might be the bird trying to build a nest in his room and dropping bits and pieces on the floor. But where could it possibly build a nest? In the skylight? Perhaps.
Sadhan Babu began to think that something was amiss. There were seven rooms on the third floor of the building where he lived. Why was the bird trying to get into his? Did the room have something special to attract birds?
It could, of course, be the new ayurvedic hair oil he had started to use. It did have a rather strong smell and the bird may have come into his room because of it. The oil had been recommended by Nilmani Babu who lived in a flat on the second floor. Nilmani Babu dabbled in ayurvedic medicine and, according to him, this oil was the perfect remedy for dandruff. But could it be that he had played a practical joke on Sadhan Babu, trying deliberately to turn his room into a sanctuary for homeless birds?