The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  Nikunja Babu’s friends took a little time to get used to Anukul, especially Vinay Pakrashi. He often spoke rather rudely to his own servants and, on one occasion, he happened to address Anukul a little harshly. Anukul did not lose his calm. ‘If you are rude to me, old boy,’ he said quietly, ‘I am going to be rude to you!’

  Vinay Babu did not make the same mistake again. Nikunja Babu formed a very good relationship with Anukul. Anukul began to do things for him without being told. His master found this surprising, but recalled that the man in the robot supplying agency had indeed told him that certain robots had something akin to a brain and could think. Anukul must belong to that category.

  But what was most difficult to believe was that Anukul did not sleep at all. He was so much like a real human being, surely he slept a little at night? Nikunja Babu decided to check this out one night. Just as he peeped into Anukul’s room, he heard Anukul say, ‘Do you want anything, sir?’

  Embarrassed, Nikunja Babu said, ‘No,’ and retraced his steps. It was possible to converse with Anukul on a wide range of subjects. He appeared to know a lot about sports, cinema, theatre, literature. He seemed to be better informed about most things than his master. Nikunja Babu marvelled at the extent of his knowledge and the skill of the robot makers.

  But all good things come to an end.

  Nikunja Babu happened to make a few wrong moves in his business and, within a year of Anukul’s arrival, his financial situation deteriorated. He continued to pay the hire charges for Anukul, which was two thousand rupees a month. But if his financial situation did not improve, who knew when he would have to stop? The robot supplying agency had told him Anukul would be taken away if the monthly payment was not made. Clearly, Nikunja Babu would have to be very careful with his money.

  But something happened at this time to upset all his plans.

  One fine day, Nikunja Babu’s uncle turned up. ‘I was getting rather bored in Chandan Nagar all by myself—so I thought I’d come and spend a few days with you,’ he said.

  This uncle of Nikunja Babu—called Nibaran Banerjee—came occasionally to stay with his nephew. Nikunja Babu had lost his father many years ago and Nibaran was the only uncle left among the three he had had. An irascible old man, he was reported to have made a lot of money as a lawyer, although that was impossible to tell from the way he lived. The man was indeed a miser.

  ‘You’re very welcome to spend a few days here, Uncle,’ said Nikunja Babu, ‘but I must tell you something right away. I have now got a mechanical servant. You must have heard of the companies that are making robots in Calcutta.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen the advertisements. But where is your servant from? You know I’m a little fussy in this matter. Is this new servant doing the cooking?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ reassured Nikunja Babu, ‘I’ve still got the old cook. So you needn’t worry. The new one is called Anukul and . . . er . . . you must speak to him politely. He doesn’t like being shouted at.’

  ‘Doesn’t like it, eh?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘Do I have to act according to his likes and dislikes?’ ‘That applies to everyone, not just you. But you won’t find fault with his work.’

  ‘Why did you have to get into this mess?’

  ‘I’ve told you already—he is a very good worker.’ ‘Well, then call him. Let’s see what he’s like.’

  ‘Anukul!’ Nikunja Babu called out. Anukul arrived immediately.

  ‘Meet my uncle,’ said Nikunja Babu, ‘he’s going to stay here for some time.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘My goodness—he speaks just like a man,’ exclaimed Nibaran Banerjee. ‘All right then, could you please give me some hot water? I’d like to have a bath. It’s turned a little cool after the rains—but I am so accustomed to having a bath twice a day.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Anukul left to carry out the instructions.

  Nibaran Babu’s arrival did not result in any improvement in his nephew’s financial status. All that happened was that Nikunja Babu’s friends stopped coming in the evening. It was not proper to play rummy or poker in front of an uncle; besides, Nikunja Babu could no longer afford to gamble.

  It was difficult to tell how long his uncle would stay this time. He usually came and went just as he liked. This time it seemed as though he was nicely settled for a while—and the reason was Anukul. The mechanical servant appeared to be attracting and repulsing him equally. He could not deny that Anukul’s efficiency as a worker was irreproachable. At the same time, however, he could not quite accept the fact that one was expected to be careful in one’s behaviour when dealing with a mere servant.

  He said to his nephew one day, ‘Nikunja, this servant of yours is giving me a lot of trouble at times.’

  ‘Why, what happened?’ Nikunja Babu asked, worried.

  ‘I was reciting a few lines from the Gita the other day and that damned servant had the cheek to correct what I was saying. Even if the words I had spoken were wrong, it’s not for him to correct me, is it? Isn’t that a bit too much? I felt like giving him a tight slap. But, I managed to control myself with difficulty.’

  ‘No, no, Uncle, you must never raise your hand—it can have a disastrous effect. The suppliers told me so. The best thing would be not to speak at all when he’s around.’

  Nibaran Babu went away muttering to himself.

  As the days went by, Nikunja Babu’s earnings grew less and less. He began to find it very difficult to make the monthly payment for Anukul. He could not help mentioning this to Anukul one day.

  ‘Anukul, my business isn’t doing very well.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps you do. But what I don’t know is how long I shall be able to keep you. I don’t wish to part with you, and yet . . .’

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘Think about what?’

  ‘If there’s a solution to the problem.’

  ‘How is your thinking going to help? Running a business is not your line, is it?’

  ‘No, but do let me try.’

  ‘All right. But it may not be possible for me to keep you for very long—I just wanted to warn you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Two months passed. It was a Sunday. Nikunja Babu’s careful calculations showed that he could, at the very most, afford to keep Anukul for another two months. After that, he would have to look for a human servant. In fact, he had already started looking for one. The whole thing depressed him no end. And, to make matters worse, it was pouring cats and dogs.

  Nikunja Babu pushed the newspaper aside and was about to call Anukul to ask for a cup of tea when Anukul appeared.

  ‘What is it, Anukul?’

  ‘There’s been an accident, sir.’

  ‘Accident? What happened?’

  ‘Your uncle was standing near the window and singing a Tagore song about the rain. He got some of the words wrong, so I felt obliged to correct him. He got so angry at this that he gave me a slap. So I had to pay him back.’

  ‘Pay him back?’

  ‘Yes. I had to give him a high voltage shock.’

  ‘Does that mean . . .?’

  ‘He is dead. But there was a clap of thunder just as I gave him the shock.’

  ‘Yes, I heard it.’

  ‘So you needn’t tell people the real reason for his death.’ ‘But . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. This will do you a lot of good.’

  And so it did. Two days after his uncle’s death, Nikunja Babu got a call from his uncle’s lawyer, Bhaskar Bose. Nibaran Babu had left all his property to his nephew. Its total value was a little more than a million rupees.

  Translated by Gopa Majumdar

  First published in Bengali in 1986

  The Scarecrow

  Mriganko Babu’s suspicions were confirmed just as they were about to reach Panagarh. His car ran out of petrol. The petrol gauge had not been functioning properly for quite a while. He had pointe
d this out to his driver, Sudheer, before they set out this morning. But Sudheer had paid no attention. There had, in fact, been less petrol in the tank than the gauge had shown.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ Mriganko Babu asked. ‘I’ll walk to Panagarh, and come back with more petrol,’ Sudheer replied.

  ‘How far is Panagarh?’

  ‘About three miles.’

  ‘That means I must wait here for at least two and a half hours. It’s all your fault. What am I going to do? Have you thought of that?’

  Mriganko Babu was an amiable man. He did not usually snap at his driver or servants. But the thought of sitting alone in his car for more than two hours, in the middle of nowhere, made him irritable.

  ‘Well, you’d better leave. Can we make it back to Calcutta by eight o’clock? It’s now half past three.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. We’ll certainly be back by eight.’

  ‘Here’s the money for the petrol. Don’t make this mistake again. You must never take such a risk on a long journey.’

  Sudheer took the money and left for Panagarh.

  Mrigankoshekhar Mukhopadhyay was a famous and popular writer. A club in Durgapur had invited him to a cultural function, in order to felicitate him. He could not get a reserved seat on the train, hence his departure by car. He had left for Durgapur quite early in the morning, soon after a cup of tea. He was now on his way back. He was not one to believe in superstitions, and certainly he never consulted the almanac before travelling anywhere. However, now it did occur to him that if he had bothered to look at the almanac today, it would not be surprising to find that it forbade long journeys.

  He got out of the car, stretched, and lit a cigarette. Then he looked around.

  It was the end of January. All the crops had been removed from the fields. The empty, barren fields stretched for miles. In the far distance, a small hut could be seen standing next to a tamarind tree. There was no other sign of habitation. Still further stood a row of palm trees, beyond which lay a dense, dark forest. This was the scene that greeted him on one side of the road—on the eastern side, that is.

  On the western side, things were not all that different. About forty feet away from the road was a pond, but it did not have a great deal of water in it. The few trees that were visible were all quite far, except some thorny bushes. There were two huts, but no sign of people. In the middle of the field was a scarecrow. To the north, in the sky, there were clouds; but it was quite sunny where Mriganko Babu was standing.

  Although it was winter, Mriganko Babu began to feel warm in the sun after a while. So he returned to the car, took out a detective novel from his bag and began to read it.

  In the last few minutes, two Ambassadors and a lorry had gone past, one of the cars in the direction of Calcutta. None of the drivers stopped to ask if he needed any help. All Bengalis are selfish, Mriganko Babu thought. They would never think of considering the welfare or convenience of others—at least, not if it meant causing themselves any inconvenience. Would he have done the same? Perhaps. After all, he was a Bengali, too. He might be a well-known writer, but his fame could not have removed the faults inherent in him, surely?

  Rather unexpectedly, the clouds from the north spread quickly and covered the sun. At the same time, a cool breeze started blowing. Mriganko Babu took out a pullover from his bag and slipped it on. The sun would set by five o’clock. It would grow cooler then. Oh, what an awful situation Sudheer had landed him into!

  Mriganko Babu discovered that he could not concentrate on his book. Perhaps he should try to think of a new plot for a story. The Bharat magazine had asked for a story, but he had not yet written one for them. A plot had started to form in his head, even during the short journey from Durgapur. Now he took out his notebook and jotted a few points down.

  No, sitting in the car was boring.

  He put his notebook away, climbed out and lit another cigarette. Then he walked a few paces and stood in the middle of the road. It seemed as if he was the only human being in the whole world. He had never felt so completely desolate.

  But no, there was someone else.

  It was that scarecrow.

  There was a small patch of land where someone had grown some plants, perhaps more winter crop. The scarecrow was standing right in the middle of it. A bamboo pole had been fixed vertically on the ground, and another was placed horizontally across it. The two ends of the second pole stretched out like two arms. A shirt had been slipped onto this structure. Its sleeves covered the ‘arms’. Over the free end of the vertical pole, an earthen pot had been placed, upside-down. It was not very easy to see from this distance, but Mriganko Babu could guess that the pot had been painted black, and huge eyes had been drawn on it with white paint. How strange—it was this weird figure that birds mistook for a real person, and were frightened enough not to cause any harm to the crop. Were birds really that foolish? Why, dogs didn’t get taken in! They could, of course, smell a real person. Didn’t crows and sparrows have a similar sense of smell?

  Sunlight appeared through a crack in the clouds and fell on the scarecrow. Mriganko Babu saw that the scarecrow was wearing a printed shirt. He had seen that torn, red and black printed shirt before. Or, at least, it reminded him of someone. Who could it be? Mriganko Babu tried very hard, but failed to remember. Yet, he felt sure that he had seen someone wear such a shirt, a long time ago.

  Mriganko Babu looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes past four. There was tea in a flask in the car. He could help himself to some of it now. He returned to the car, poured tea into the cap of the flask and drank it. Now he felt a little warmer.

  The sun peered again through the dark clouds. It was just over the trees on the western side. In about five minutes, it would set. A reddish light fell on the scarecrow.

  Another Ambassador passed Mriganko Babu’s car. He drank some more tea, then got out again. Sudheer was not going to be back for another hour. How could he spend that time?

  The western sky had turned crimson. The clouds had moved away. The red disc soon sank into the horizon. It would not be long before dusk fell.

  That scarecrow. For some unknown reason, Mriganko Babu continued to feel strangely drawn towards that figure. He looked steadily at it. In a few minutes, he noticed a few things that made his heart beat faster.

  Had its appearance changed somewhat? Had the two arms been lowered a little?

  Wasn’t it standing a little less stiffly, and more like a real man?

  And what was that? Was there a second pole, standing upright, next to the first one? Or were those not bamboo poles at all, but legs?

  The black pot, too, seemed much smaller.

  Mriganko Babu normally did not smoke heavily. But, at this moment, he felt the need to light another cigarette. Standing here in this remote spot, he was seeing things.

  Could the figure of a scarecrow come to life? No, of course not. But . . . Mriganko Babu’s eyes went back to it. Now there could be no doubt at all. It had moved forward. No. It was more than that. The scarecrow was moving, advancing towards him.

  It was walking with a limp, but most certainly it had two legs. Instead of an earthen pot, it had a human head. But it still had the same shirt on; and a short, slightly dirty dhoti.

  ‘Babu!’ A tremor shot through Mriganko Babu’s body. The scarecrow had actually spoken with a human voice, and he had recognized it. It was the voice of Abhiram, who had been Mriganko Babu’s servant, many years ago. His village used to be somewhere in this region. Mriganko Babu had once asked him where he came from, and he had said his village was next to Mankar. Why, Mankar was the name of the station that came before Panagarh!

  Terrified, Mriganko Babu took a few steps backwards and stood leaning heavily against his car. Abhiram was now much closer, standing only about ten yards away.

  ‘Can you recognize me, Babu?’ he asked.

  Mriganko Babu mustered all his courage and said, ‘You are Abhiram, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. So you did r
ecognize me, even after all these years.’ Abhiram looked no different from an ordinary, normal man. Perhaps that was why Mriganko Babu could find the courage to speak. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it was your shirt that reminded me of you. Didn’t I buy you that shirt?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. You did a lot for me, Babu. But why did it all have to end so badly? I was perfectly innocent. Why didn’t you believe me?’

  Mriganko Babu recalled what had happened, three years ago. Abhiram had worked for his family for twenty years. Everyone trusted him. However, one day he seemed to have lost his head. He stole the gold watch Mriganko Babu had been given as a wedding gift. Abhiram denied the charge, of course, but he had had both the time and the opportunity to remove the object. Besides, when Mriganko Babu’s father called a local witch doctor who cast a spell and made an ordinary wicker tray spin and rotate until it stopped, pointing at Abhiram, there could possibly be no doubt about his guilt. Abhiram lost his job.

  ‘Do you know what happened to me after I left?’ he now asked. ‘I never worked anywhere else. I couldn’t, because I fell ill. I got dropsy, and it became serious. But I had no money to go to a doctor, or buy medicines, or even eat properly. I never recovered. My son kept this shirt. He wore it for some time, then it got torn. So it became something a scarecrow could wear. And I became that scarecrow. Do you know why? Because I knew that one day I would meet you again. My heart longed—yes, even a dead man can have a heart—to tell you what I learnt after death.’

  ‘What did you learn, Abhiram?’

  ‘When you go home tonight, look under your wardrobe. That’s where you’ll find your watch, pushed to the back. It has been lying there for the last three years. Your new servant does not sweep every corner, so he did not find it. When you get it back, you will know that Abhiram was not a thief.’