The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  His visit to Ranchi this time was also connected with his business. There were great possibilities in the business of lac. Tridib Babu was going to examine these. He would stay in his own house, and thought he’d be able to finish his work in two days. He had written to his childhood friend Prashant Sarkar. He would tell his servant and make all arrangements. Prashant now taught in a missionary school in Ranchi. It was not as if the two of them were in regular contact, but Tridib Babu knew that if requested, Prashant would readily do this for an old friend.

  Tridib Babu’s mind jumped from one thought to another. He could not tell when he finally fell asleep. Nor did he realize that, in his sleep, he joined the chorus of the other three passengers, snoring in harmony.

  The Ranchi Express was scheduled to arrive at a quarter past seven in the morning. Prashant Sarkar reached the station ten minutes before its arrival to greet his friend. He had been quite close to Tridib, alias Montu, when they were in school. They wrote to each other regularly even after Tridib Babu went to Calcutta. But soon after he left college, their intimacy began to wane. Tridib Babu, of course, was largely to blame. On the few occasions he came to Ranchi to see his parents, he would arrive without telling Prashant. As a result, most of the time, the two could not even meet for a chat. Prashant could not at first understand the reason behind the change in his friend’s behaviour. Then he read in the papers that Tridib had become an important businessman, which meant that he was now beyond Prashant’s reach—member of a different class. This was made more obvious by the dry and matter-of-fact tone of the brief letter Tridib had sent him.

  Prashant Babu felt sad at this change in his friend. The millionaire T. Chowdhury of today was indeed different from the simple, fun-loving Montu he had once known. Did people really change so much over a period of time? It was true that Tridib Chowdhury’s financial status had changed dramatically. But Prashant Sarkar was not a man who judged people by their possessions. This aspect of his character was something he inherited from his father. Pramatha Sarkar, Prashant’s father, had been a believer in Gandhian principles. There had been no major upheaval in Prashant’s own life. After all, a schoolmaster’s life did not have much scope of being filled with new excitements. It was, therefore, not difficult to place him as the Panu one had known as a child. But could the same be said about Tridib Chowdhury? Prashant waited eagerly to find out. If Tridib had indeed turned into a snob, Prashant would find that difficult to put up with.

  The train was late by ten minutes. Since the visit was going to be a short one, Tridib Babu had brought nothing except a small suitcase and a flask. Prashant Babu took the suitcase from his hand, despite his protests. Then they both began to walk towards the taxi-stand.

  ‘Did you have to wait for a long time?’ Tridib Chowdhury asked.

  ‘Just about twenty minutes.’

  ‘I did not expect you to come to the station. There was no need. After all, this is not my first visit to Ranchi.’

  Prashant Babu smiled but did not comment. He had not failed to note the slightly formal tone his friend was using.

  ‘Are things all right here?’ asked Tridib Babu.

  ‘Yes, everything’s arranged. Your gardener and Chintamani are both very excited at the thought of their Babu returning to the house.’

  Chintamani was the cook-cum-chowkidar.

  ‘Is the house still liveable? Or has it turned into a haunted house?’

  Prashant Babu smiled again. Then, after a few moments of silence, said, ‘I don’t know about the house being haunted, but there’s something I ought to tell you. I saw a little boy playing in your garden the other night as I was passing by.’

  ‘At night?’

  ‘Yes, it was pretty late. About eleven-thirty. I was startled. It seemed as though the ten-year-old Montu had come back!’

  ‘Anyway, obviously it wasn’t a ghost. My father had this house built, so I know all about those who lived and died here. What I’m more concerned about is whether they’ve kept it clean.’

  ‘It’s spotless. I saw that for myself yesterday. Well—what do you have to do now? Where do you have to go?’

  ‘I need to go to Namkan today after lunch. There’s a man called Maheshwar Jain there dealing with lac. My appointment is for two- thirty.’

  ‘All right. You can keep the same taxi that we will take now. It can come back after lunch and take you to Namkan. Shouldn’t take you more than ten minutes to get there.’

  Both men got into the taxi. Prashant Sarkar came to the point a little later.

  ‘Er . . . how long are you here for?’

  ‘If I don’t finish the business dealings with Jain today, I’ll have to go back tomorrow. Then I’ll return to Calcutta the day after.’

  ‘You seem so different . . . one feels hesitant to talk to you.’

  ‘Tell me what you have to. Don’t beat about the bush. I get suspicious when people do that.’

  ‘It’s nothing much, really. Just a request. If you agree, this childhood friend of yours would feel most grateful.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you remember Father William?’

  ‘William? Willie . . . the red beard?’

  ‘Yes, the red beard. About five years ago, he opened a school for poor children. All kinds of children go there regardless of what families they come from—Hindus, Muslims, Christians. Father William’s worked really hard to get it going. He’s very keen that you go and visit the school. It shouldn’t take you more than half an hour. He’d feel very encouraged if you went.’

  ‘Going there means being offered a begging bowl.’ ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Do you not know the real reason behind such an invitation? A new institution, need for funds, a wealthy client and a begging bowl. If I must give my money away in the name of charity, I shall do so in my old age, when it’s time to think of the other world. But now is not the time for this. This is the time to save. If it gets known that I am the loving and giving kind, there shall be no end to appeals for help. So don’t try to make a request like this. I shall pay no attention. I’m sure if you explained things to Father, he’ll understand. All I want to do here, apart from making a business deal, is to rest. I don’t get much relaxation in Calcutta.’

  ‘All right.’

  Prashant had not expected such a violent reaction. But perhaps it was natural enough. This man was not the Montu he had once known. He was a stranger.

  But the sight of the place he was born in made Tridib Babu grow a little less pompous and more cheerful. Prashant Babu took this opportunity to make the second request.

  ‘You rejected one of my proposals, dear friend, but you’ve got to accept this one. My wife gave me strict instructions to bring you over to our house for dinner tonight. We are not very wealthy ourselves, but I can say with full confidence that no one in my house shall greet you with a begging bowl.’

  Tridib Babu accepted his invitation readily enough. Was it simply out of pity? Prashant Babu chose not to brood on the issue. He had a lot of work to do now—finish all the shopping, go back home, take a bath, then a meal and then go to his school.

  ‘I will come myself to fetch you at around eight,’ he told Tridib Babu as they parted, ‘and I promise to drop you back by ten o’clock.’

  It was proved once more that day that it was the personality of Tridib Chowdhury and his sharp communications skills that were responsible for his success. His visit to Ranchi resulted in the addition of a new side to his business—the development of trade dealing with lac. No doubt this also meant additional complications, but they seemed insignificant when one considered the extra income that would be generated.

  Tridib Babu returned home at about five in the evening, just in time for a cup of tea. Then he moved about in the house, looking carefully at everything. This was where he was born. The ground floor had the living- and the dining- rooms, a guest-room and the kitchen. There were two bedrooms on the first floor, a bathroom and a covered veranda facing the west. The small
er of the two bedrooms had been his own.

  The room seemed much smaller than he remembered possibly because he had grown in size. He stared for a few minutes at the bed and decided to sleep in the same room. Chintamani had already asked him once, but he had been undecided. He called the servant before setting out with his friend and told him to make his bed in the small bedroom.

  Prashant Sarkar’s wife, Bela, was not only an efficient housewife but also an excellent cook. The dinner, therefore, was a success. Prashant Babu had spared no expense to feed his friend well—there were meat and fish dishes of more than one kind, pulao, puris and sweets. Tridib Babu ate everything with relish but did not stay for more than ten minutes after dinner. Prashant Babu did not get a single opportunity to ask him about his present position in society and how he had got there. Tridib Babu returned to his own house at a quarter to ten.

  The house was in a relatively quiet locality. All was silent when he reached home. As Tridib Babu began to go up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps, even to his own ears, seemed unnaturally loud.

  His bed had been made in the same room where he had spent his childhood. It was too soon after dinner to go to sleep. Tridib Babu decided to rest for a while in an easy chair on the veranda.

  In less than half an hour he realized all his fatigue had vanished. He began to feel fresh and totally relaxed. There was a pale moon in the sky and, in its light, he could see the dark branches of a bare shirish tree. He could even hear himself breathe. It seemed as though that was the only sound on earth.

  But was it?

  No, the sound of something else was added to it. A faint voice. Difficult to say where it was coming from.

  Tridib Babu listened carefully. A little boy was reciting a poem. A well-known nursery rhyme that Tridib Babu recognized at once.

  The voice still came only faintly, but the words were clear.

  Baa baa black sheep

  Have you any wool?

  It was as though these few lines had been hiding in a corner of his mind. The voice made them leap out of memory.

  The voice grew fainter. Tridib Babu rose. It was no use looking back. What mattered in life was the future, not the past. He knew he had to make a lot more money in future, climb higher on the social ladder, become a billionaire. The past made a man weak. Thoughts of the future, on the other hand, would give him new strength.

  He went into the room and frowned. There was a power cut. A candle flickered on a table by the bed. Even in its dim light, he could see clearly that the bed had not been properly made. The bed-sheet and the pillow case were both wrinkled. He straightened them and took off his kurta. Then he lay down. Should he let the candle burn? No, there was no need. He snuffed it out. The pungent smell of burnt wax hung in the air for a few minutes before fading away gradually. The window was open. Through it, he could see the sky. The moonlight seemed brighter. From where he lay, he faced the door. That too, was open. A portion of the veranda and the staircase could be seen. There was really no reason for him to look at the stairs, but something made him do so—it was the strange sound of bare feet coming up the stairs.

  But no one actually arrived. The sound stopped in the middle of the staircase.

  Tridib Babu suddenly felt he was being very foolish. The whole thing was no more than his imagination. He removed all fanciful thoughts from his mind and closed his eyes determinedly. The Japanese clock in the dining-room downstairs struck eleven. It had stopped working but, this morning, Tridib Babu had got it going again.

  The silence seemed to deepen as the last chime of the clock faded away.

  Even with his eyes closed, Tridib Babu began to see things—broken little pictures, disjointed pieces of a dream. He knew he would soon fall asleep. Just as a singer hummed a tune quietly to himself before starting a song, these broken dreams were a prelude to slumber.

  But he was not quite asleep yet. In spite of his closed eyes, his sixth sense told him someone had entered his room. No, it was not just his sixth sense. His ears, too, said the same thing. He could actually hear someone breathe. It sounded as though someone had come running up the stairs and was now panting in the room.

  Tridib Babu opened his eyes, convinced he would actually be able to see this person. He was not mistaken.

  A boy was standing at the door, his right hand resting lightly on the doorknob, his left foot slightly raised, as though the sight of another person in the room had startled him into halting in his tracks.

  Tridib Babu realized that a cold shiver was working its way up his legs, past his spine and on to his head! Prashant had said he had seen a boy in the garden . . . a little boy . . . the Montu of his childhood . . .

  His limbs froze, a nerve throbbed at his temple. He thought he would faint, his mounting terror choked him.

  The boy took a step forward. He was wearing a purple shirt . . . why, this was the same shirt . . .

  Just before passing into oblivion, he heard a question, spoken in a sweet, boyish voice:

  ‘Who is sleeping in my bed?’

  Tridib Babu woke as usual at half-past six in the morning. He could not recall when he had regained consciousness at night and when he had dropped off to sleep again.

  Prashant had said he could come and have breakfast with him at seven-thirty. Tridib Babu could not focus on any of his routine activities. What happened last night had left him feeling totally shaken. Never before in his life had such a thing happened.

  That nursery rhyme he had heard last night was one that he had recited in class when he was very young and even won a prize for. And the second prize? That had gone to Prashant Sarkar. Montu had been displeased at this.

  ‘What fun we would have had if we had both won the first prize!’ he had said to his dearest friend, Panu.

  He had not looked at the face of the boy who had come into his room last night, but he had definitely noticed the shirt the boy was wearing. It was the same purple shirt his aunt had given him. It was his favourite shirt. The first time he wore it to school, Panu had said, ‘Good heavens—you look like a European today!’

  The meaning of the incident last night was clear enough. The Tridib Chowdhury of today was definitely not the Montu he had once been. The child Montu was no more. It was his ghost that had come the night before and told him that the new Tridib Chowdhury—the great millionaire—was an obnoxious idiot. He could not be tolerated.

  Tridib Babu did not say anything to Prashant about his experience. But he knew that he was still tense and nervous and quite unable to relax. It was possibly because of this that Prashant Babu, after a while, happened to remark, ‘What is the matter with you? Didn’t you sleep well last night?’

  ‘No . . . Uh . . . I mean, since I’ve finished all my work already, couldn’t we go and visit Father William’s school today?’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Prashant Sarkar cheerfully.

  But he had to hide a smile. His plan had worked beautifully. He must drop in at his neighbour’s house on his way back and tell his son, Babu, that his recitation and acting the night before had been just perfect. And, of course, Chintamani would have to be given a fat tip for his contribution!

  Translated by Gopa Majumdar

  First published in Bengali in 1985

  I Am a Ghost

  I am a ghost. I was alive three years ago. Then, one day, I was burnt to death in this house, in Deoghar. The house is called Lily Villa. I was here with a friend, on holiday. That morning, as I lit the stove to make a cup of tea, it burst into flames and my clothes caught fire. The flames also seared my face. That much I do remember. But I cannot recall anything else. I have been living in this house since that day. I cannot tell what I now look like, for as a ghost, even if I were to go and stand before a mirror, I could not see my reflection. I’ve tried peering into the water in a pond, but that did not work either. But I know I am not really anything much to look at.

  Two years ago, a family came to Lily Villa to spend a few days. The head of that family happen
ed to come face to face with me. I saw his eyes bulge with horror, and he promptly fainted. It was actually my own fault. A ghost can choose to remain invisible, and to be honest, it was my intention to keep myself that way. But I was a bit preoccupied that day, and not really paying much attention to what I was doing. So, just for a moment, I had become visible to that gentleman. Judging by his reaction, my turning into a ghost had done nothing to alter my appearance. Obviously, I still had a badly burnt face.

  After that incident, people stopped coming to this house. Lily Villa has come to be known as a haunted house. I am quite sad at this turn of events, for I liked watching and being with the living. Now I feel very lonely. There are other ghosts in the neighbourhood, but none in this house. No one except me died an unnatural death here. Besides, I don’t like many of the other ghosts in Deoghar. Some of them are really quite wicked. Naskarda, for instance. His name used to be Bheem Naskar when he was alive. I’ve never known a ghost more cunning or malicious.

  A postmaster called Laxman Tripathi used to live in Deoghar. He and Kantibhai Dubey, who worked for the State Bank, could not get on at all. One evening, as Laxman Tripathi was returning home from the post office, the ghost of Bheem Naskar decided to attack him. Just as Tripathy had gone past the house of the Shahs and reached an open field, Naskar slipped down from a tamarind tree and broke Tripathy’s neck. What a ruckus that kicked up! The police came, arrests were made, cases were fought and eventually a man was hanged! Which man? None other than Tripathy’s sworn enemy, Kantibhai Dubey. He had to pay for Naskarda’s misdeed. Naskarda knew this would happen, so he had deliberately killed Tripathy. That time, I felt I had to speak to Naskarda. ‘What you did was wrong,’ I told him. ‘Just because you are a ghost now does not mean that you have the right to meddle with other people’s lives, and harm them. Why don’t you simply mind your own business, and let the living mind theirs? Our two worlds are different, Naskarda. If one interferes with the other, there can only be disaster and calamity.’