by Satyajit Ray
I have never harmed anybody. Not consciously, anyway. Ever since I learnt that my appearance was likely to frighten people, I have become extremely cautious. There is a broken-down and abandoned room at the far end of the garden in Lily Villa, behind some mango and jackfruit trees. I believe the room was once used by a mali. That is where I now spend most of my time. Not that there is anyone in the main building who might see me. Lily Villa has been lying empty for a long time. But, sometimes, children from the neighbouring house of the Chowdhurys come here to play hide-and-seek. Surprisingly, they do not appear to be afraid of ghosts at all. Or perhaps they come because they expect to see one. But I take great care to remain invisible while they are here. If the sight of my face could make an adult faint, what effect would it have on children? No, I could never take any risks.
However, this does mean that I must continue to be lonely. Yes, ghosts feel lonely, too. Well, if I am alone, I have only myself to blame. It is because of my own mistake that Lily Villa is now known as a haunted house. No one wants to come and live here; and so I cannot hear human voices any more, see them move, or sing, or laugh. This makes me feel very depressed at times. If the living knew how much the spirit of the dead craved their company, would they be afraid of ghosts? Of course not.
One day, however, a visitor turned up in Lily Villa. I heard the horn of a cycle rickshaw one morning. So I peered out and saw that someone’s luggage was being taken out of the rickshaw. How many had arrived? Two, as it turned out. The visitor was accompanied by a servant. That was good enough for me. I did not need a large number of people. Something, I felt, was better than nothing.
Since ghosts can see clearly even from a long distance, I could catch every detail of the visitor’s appearance: he was close to fifty, short, bald, had a bristly moustache, thick eyebrows, and his eyes held a stern look. The first thing he said to his servant upon entering the house was, ‘Get cracking. I need a cup of tea in half an hour. Then I’ll start working.’
Needless to say, I could hear every word from my own room. A ghost’s hearing is as good as his sight. His eyes and ears both work like binoculars.
The servant was most efficient. He brought his master a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits in half an hour. The visitor was in the room that overlooked the garden, unpacking and putting his things away. There was a desk and a chair near the window. I noticed that he had placed a sheaf of papers, pens and an inkwell on the desk.
That meant he was a writer. Was he famous?
Yes. Within an hour of his arrival, about eight local residents turned up to meet him, and I learnt his name. He was called Narayan Sharma. I could not tell whether it was his real name, or a pseudonym, but that was how everyone addressed him. The locals were very pleased to find him in their midst. After all, it was not every day that a celebrity came to Deoghar. So, they said, if Mr Sharma had no objection, they would like to hold a reception in his honour.
Narayan Sharma, I could see, was not a man with a soft and gentle disposition. He said, ‘I left Calcutta and came here simply to work undisturbed. And you’re already making impositions on me!’
The others looked suitably abashed. That made Mr Sharma relent somewhat. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘Give me at least five days of peace and quiet. Then we’ll think about a reception, all right? But if you start putting any pressure on me, I’ll just pack my bags and go back to Calcutta.’
At this moment, Nitai Ghosh from the group suddenly asked a question that I did not like at all. ‘Why did you choose Lily Villa, of all places? There are so many other houses in Deoghar.’
For the first time, a smile appeared on Mr Sharma’s face. ‘You are saying that because this house is supposed to be haunted, isn’t that right? Well, I wouldn’t mind seeing a ghost. He could keep me company.’
‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you?’ said Haren Talukdar. ‘Once a doctor from Calcutta came to stay here for a few days, with his family. He saw the ghost. It was apparently a horrific sight. He was unconscious for almost fifteen minutes. Tell you what. There’s a very good dak bungalow here. Its manager is a fan of yours. He’d be prepared to make every arrangement for your stay. It’s just a matter of telling him. Please, you must get out of Lily Villa.’
In reply, Narayan Sharma said something very strange. ‘Perhaps you are not aware that very few people know as much as I do about spiritualism. In fact, I have come here to write on this subject. I can assure you that I will not end up like your doctor. He had taken no precautions against ghosts, had he? I will. No ghost could do me any harm. I realize you have all got my best interests at heart, but I want to stay and work in Lily Villa. You see, I have stayed in this house before, as a child. I have many fond memories of that time.’
This was the first time I’d heard anything about precautions against ghosts. I did not like it at all. And spiritualism? How could spirits and spooks be a subject for study? What was Narayan Sharma talking about?
There was no point in pondering over this now. I would have to wait until it got dark. After that, I was sure to get all the answers.
There was one thing I wanted to do, however. I felt I had to pass on whatever I had heard so far to Bheem Naskar, if only as a joke, to see his reaction. He had once broken a man’s neck. What would he say to all this?
As the day wore on, I grew increasingly restless. In the end, I could contain myself no more. I left Lily Villa, taking great care to remain invisible, and went to the derelict old house owned by the Malliks. It was said to be two hundred years old.
‘Naskarda!’ I called.
He came floating down from a broken, roofless room on the first floor, and said irritably, ‘What do you want at this odd hour?’
I told him about Narayan Sharma. Naskarda’s frown deepened ominously. ‘Really? Is that so? Tell me, does he think he is the only one who can take adequate steps? Can’t we?’
‘Take steps? What do you propose we do?’ I asked a little nervously. I could see that a plan was already taking shape in his mind.
‘There’s one thing I could do quite easily. When I was alive, for thirty-two years, I exercised regularly. Push-ups, heavy clubs, dumb- bells, chest-expanders . . . you name it, I had used them all. You think I haven’t got the strength to break this Narayan’s neck?’
It was true that Naskarda was once a bodybuilder. He had died by swallowing poison, which meant that his appearance had remained unchanged. Even now, when he moved, muscles rippled all over his body.
‘Well, what does that mean?’ I asked. If I still had a heart, I am sure it would have started thudding madly by now.
‘Only this: tonight, at twelve o’clock, Narayan Sharma’s life is going to come to an end. If he thinks he can mess around with ghosts, no ghost worth his name is going to let him get away with it.’
Only I know how nervously I passed the rest of the day. Narayan Sharma spent most of his time writing in his room. Some time before the sun set, he went for a long walk along the street going to the north. He returned a little before the evening star appeared in the sky. It was going to be a moonless night.
I could see everything from my little den. Now I saw Narayan Sharma do something rather strange. He opened his suitcase and took out a handful of powder from a bag. Then he poured it into an incense-burner, lit it and placed it just outside the threshold to his room. Smoke began billowing from it very soon, and a southern breeze brought the smoke into my own room.
Oh my God, was this his ‘precaution’? If so, it was undoubtedly most effective. With the smoke had come a smell. Normally, one wouldn’t expect a ghost to be able to smell anything, but this smell was so strong that it seemed to burn not just my nose, but the inside of my head as well. It was terrible. Even Naskarda would find it difficult to make his way through this powerful stuff. How would he get anywhere near this house?
My fears were confirmed, a few hours later. Around midnight, I heard a hushed voice call from the other side of the garden wall: ‘Sudhanya! Are you
there?’
Sudhanya was my name. I went out. Naskarda was sitting by the road, on the grass, clutching his nose. His voice sounded nasal when he spoke.
‘I died twenty-one years ago. This is the first time that I’ve been beaten by a live man. Who knew man had learnt to use such contraptions?’
‘That particular man has studied his subject thoroughly, Naskarda. He knows a lot.’
‘How sad . . . how absolutely awful. Just think what fun I might have had, breaking his neck!’
‘Yes, but that is not going to happen. You do realize that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I most certainly do. I’d better go now. This has been a totally new experience for me.’
Naskarda left, and I returned to my room. Only a minute later, I suddenly discovered that I was feeling extremely sleepy. This was incredible, completely unheard of. A ghost never feels sleepy. But tonight was obviously going to be an exception. That powder in the incense- burner clearly contained something that put ghosts to sleep, even though the best time for them to move about was during the night.
I could not keep my eyes open any longer. Feeling dazed, I lay down on the floor.
The sound of someone’s voice woke me. It was morning. I sat up hastily. At once, my eyes fell on the man who had entered my room. I could only stare at him in disbelief. How did he . . .?
It was Narayan Sharma, that much was clear. But what had happened to him?
Narayan Sharma answered my unspoken question. ‘My servant was still asleep when I woke. So I thought I’d make myself a cup of tea. I tried to light the stove, and it burst in my face. At this moment, I think everyone’s trying to arrange my funeral. I came here looking for somewhere to live. I like this place. Do you think there’s enough room here for a second person?’
‘Of course!’ I replied, feeling very pleased.
I had company at last. There was no doubt in my mind that one charred face would get on very well with another.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1985
The Two Comedians
‘Today, I’m going to talk about a film star,’ said Uncle Tarini, sipping his tea.
‘Which film star? What’s his name?’ we cried in unison. ‘You wouldn’t have heard of him,’ he replied. ‘You were probably born only after he retired.’
‘Even so, do tell us his name,’ Napla insisted, reluctant to give up easily. ‘We often see old films on TV, and know the names of many old stars.’
‘All right, his name was Ratanlal Raxit.’
‘Yes, I know who you mean,’ Napla nodded sagely. ‘I saw a film called Joy Porajoy (Victory and Defeat) on TV about three months ago. Ratan Raxit played the hero’s father.’
‘Well then, if you have seen him in a film, you’ll be able to enjoy the story all the more.’
‘Is it a ghost story?’
‘No, but it is about something dead and gone. In that sense, I suppose you could call it a ghost story. It concerns the past; events from days gone by.’
‘Very well. Please begin.’
Uncle Tarini pulled a bolster closer to lean against, and began his story:
‘Ratanlal Raxit retired in 1970, at the age of seventy. His health was not very good, so his doctor prescribed complete rest. He had worked in films for forty-five years, right from the era of silent films. He had made a great deal of money, and knew how to put it to good use. He had three houses in Calcutta and lived in the one in Amherst Street. The others he let out on rent.
‘One day, after his retirement, Ratanlal put an advertisement in the papers for a secretary. I was in Calcutta then, and was almost fifty years old at that time. Having spent all my life travelling and trying my hand at a variety of jobs, I was wondering whether it was time to settle down once and for all in my own homeland, when I spotted that ad. So I applied. The name of Ratanlal Raxit was well known to me. I had seen many of his films and, besides, you know I have a special interest in films.
‘I received a reply within a week. I was to appear for an interview.
‘I went to Mr Raxit’s house. I knew he was unwell, but there was no sign of illness in his appearance. His skin was smooth, and his teeth appeared to be his own. The first thing he asked me was whether I had seen any of his films. I told him that I had, not just his later films, but also some of the earliest ones, made in the silent era, when Mr Raxit used to act in comedies.
‘My answer seemed to please him. He said, “I have managed to collect, over the last few years, copies of most of my silent films. A room in this house now acts as a mini-cinema. I’ve got a projector in that room, and appointed someone to run it. It is very difficult to get hold of silent films. Perhaps you know about the fire in the main warehouse that destroyed copies of most silent films in Bengal? It happened not once, but twice. As a result, it is almost impossible to find prints of those films. But I refused to give up without trying. I advertised in the papers, and came to know eventually that many of my films were kept safe in the warehouse of one of my producers called Mirchandani. The reason for this was simply that Mirchandani was not just the producer, but also a fan of mine. He died four years ago. I spoke to his son, and bought from him what films he had. Then I advertised again, and over a period of time, collected the rest. My failing health has forced me to retire, but I cannot possibly stay away from films. So I watch my own films, and pass a pleasant evening every day. Your job will be to look after my film library, make a catalogue of all my films, and find out which ones are missing from my present collection. Can you do it?”
‘I said I would certainly do my best. It would not be too difficult to make a catalogue of the films he already had. Looking for the ones he didn’t would naturally be a bigger challenge. “I am not talking only of my silent films,” Mr Raxit added. “Some of the early talkies are missing as well. But I think if you went to the offices of a few producers and distributors in the Dharamtola area, you’d definitely be able to get copies of what you need. I want my collection to be complete, with not a single film missing. In my old age, I wish to entertain myself only by watching my own films.”
‘I got the job. Mr Raxit was an unusual man. His wife had died fifteen years ago. He had two sons, both of whom lived in south Calcutta. His only daughter was in Allahabad. Her husband was a doctor there. Occasionally, his grandchildren came to visit him. So did his sons, at times, but Mr Raxit was not really in close contact with his family. He lived with two servants, a cook, and a special personal bearer called Lakshmikant. Lakshmikant was in his sixties, and totally devoted to his master. Mr Raxit was lucky to have someone like him.
‘I began my work, and with Lakshmikant’s help, managed to produce a catalogue of all the films in the collection within ten days. Then I made a round of the film distributors’ offices in Dharamtola and located many of the early talkies Mr Raxit had featured in. He bought a print of each.
‘I worked from ten in the morning to five in the evening. But sometimes, I spent the evening with Mr Raxit, instead of going home at five. He usually started seeing his films at half past six, and finished at eight-thirty. The projectionist was called Ashu Babu, a cheerful man. The audience comprised only three people—Mr Raxit, Lakshmikant and myself. The bearer had to be present, for Mr Raxit liked smoking a hookah. Lakshmikant was required to take it away from time to time to refill it. Although it was always dark in the room, I could tell by glancing at Lakshmikant’s face that he enjoyed watching the films very much.
‘The silent films were the best of all. I’ve told you already that Mr Raxit had acted in comedies in the silent era. Many of these were short films. There were only two reels, which ran for twenty minutes. They showed the escapades of a duo called Bishu and Shibu, a bit like Laurel and Hardy. Mr Raxit played Bishu, and Shibu was played by an actor called Sharat Kundu. Twenty minutes simply flew when we began watching the antics of these two. In some films they appeared as businessmen, or gamblers. In others, they were clowns in a circus, or a z
amindar and his hanger-on. I knew how popular they were in their time. These short films were often shown before a longer feature film.
‘What I enjoyed watching more than these films, however, was Mr Raxit’s response to his own acting. He would roll around laughing every time he saw himself clowning on the screen. Sometimes, I found it hard to believe that a comedian could laugh so much at his own acting. Naturally, I had to laugh with him. He said to me at times, “You know, Tarini, when I acted in these films, I did not find them funny at all. In fact, they struck me often as slapstick, and the humour seemed forced. It used to annoy me. But now, I can see that these films contain a lot of pure, innocent fun which is far better than what you get to see in modern comedies.”
‘One day, I asked him something that had been bothering me for some time. “I am very curious about one thing, sir,” I said. “You played Bishu. But what about Sharat Kundu, who played Shibu? What happened to him? Aren’t you in touch?”
‘Mr Raxit shook his head. “As far as I know, Sharat Kundu stopped acting in films when the talkies started. We were quite close when we worked together. We used to rack our brains and plan our acts ourselves. There was a director, but only in name. We did everything, including providing the props and costumes. Then, one day, we read in a press report that films in Hollywood were being made with sound; so when the characters spoke, the audience could now hear their voices. That was in either 1928 or 1929. Three or four years later, the same thing happened in Indian films. It created a major stir. The entire process of film-making changed, as did the style of acting. Personally, I did not find that a problem. I had a good voice, so the talkies could do me no harm. I was then in my early thirties. The film industry in Bengal needed a hero with a good voice, and I had no difficulty in meeting that demand. That put an end to clowning around for twenty minutes. I became a hero. But, for some reason, Sharat Kundu disappeared. I asked a few people about him, but no one could tell me where he was. God knows if he died young.”