The Collected Short Stories

by Satyajit Ray

  Strangely enough, Mriganko Babu did not feel uncomfortable at all in the company of so many monkeys. On the contrary, he felt quite at home, as if he knew them all, and was back with his own people after a long time.

  This happened on the third day after his arrival in Varanasi. On the fifth day, he realized that he was beginning to lose the thread of his conversation. Very often, he was having to stop and say, ‘Er . . .’ Simple, ordinary words appeared meaningless. Neelratan said to him, ‘Mrigankoda, when I come back from work this evening, I’ll take you to Dashashwamedh Ghat. A group there will sing keertan. They’re quite good.’

  Mriganko Babu found the word ‘keertan’ hard to understand. ‘Where will you take me?’ he asked.

  ‘Dashashwamedh Ghat. Will you go?’

  ‘Er . . . Dash . . . Dashashwamedh? Why?’

  ‘I just told you. There will be keertan this evening. You’ll enjoy it. You like keertan, don’t you? At least, you did once!’

  ‘Oh. Er . . . keertan? I see. But . . . those who’ll take part in this . . . I mean, the singers . . . will they be human?’

  ‘Human? What are you talking about? Of course they’ll be human. You don’t expect a group of monkeys to sit and sing devotional songs, do you?’

  ‘Er . . . but in the past . . . weren’t all humans monkeys?’ ‘Now you’re talking utter rubbish. Is this your idea of a joke? No, Mrigankoda, I can’t say I appreciate your humour. I’m off to work now. I’ll come back at half past five, and then we’ll both go. All right?’

  Mriganko Babu went with his cousin to hear the singers in the evening. He had an extraordinary experience there. It seemed to him, every now and then, as if it was a group of monkeys that was singing, beating the drums and cymbals and playing the harmonium. Mriganko Babu hardly knew what to do.

  On returning home, Neelratan declared after dinner that he had to visit his doctor in Bangalitola. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour. He’s a homoeopath, you see. I’ve run out of my medicine. He’ll prepare it himself.’

  Soon after Neelratan’s departure, Mriganko Babu was suddenly seized by the desire to walk like a monkey. He climbed down from his bed, and began crawling on all fours on the floor, going round and round the bed. He had done this about four times, when he realized that Neelratan’s servant, Ramlal, was standing across the threshold, staring at him wide- eyed.

  Mriganko Babu scrambled to his feet. Then he faced Ramlal and said, ‘What’s so amazing about this? You live here in Varanasi. Haven’t you seen a monkey before?’

  Without uttering a word, Ramlal came into the room and began making the bed.

  Mriganko Babu spent the remainder of his stay in almost complete silence. Neelratan remarked on it one day. ‘What’s the matter, Mrigankoda?’ he asked. ‘Why are you so quiet? Are you feeling unwell or something?’

  ‘Un-unwell? N-no, I don’t think so. I mean, the th-thing is, if monk- monkeys could become men, m-men could become monkeys, couldn’t they? Ev-evolution in rev-reverse?’

  Neelratan was perfectly taken aback, but chose to say nothing. Mriganko Babu’s behaviour was distinctly odd. Should he perhaps consult his homoeopath?

  Two days later, Mriganko Babu returned to Calcutta. His servant, Dasharathi, was the first to greet him when he reached his house in Hajra Lane, suitcase in hand. Dasharathi was an old servant, he had worked for Mriganko Babu for years. ‘Oh, you’re back, babu!’ he smiled in welcome. ‘All went well, I hope?’

  Mriganko Babu said, ‘Hoop!’

  Dasharathi burst out laughing. ‘That was very good, babu. You sounded exactly like a monkey. I went to Varanasi once in my childhood. It’s packed with monkeys, isn’t it?’

  In reply, Mriganko Babu said, ‘Hoop! Hoop!’

  Four days later, an event hit the headlines in every newspaper. At dawn the previous day, an employee of the zoo had found a strange creature lying on the ground just outside the cage of a chimpanzee. It appeared to be asleep. Quite possibly, it had jumped over the wall in the middle of the night. The superintendent of the zoo had stated that the creature seemed to be a monkey, but from a totally new species, hitherto unseen. Just as a mule is a cross between a horse and a donkey, this animal seemed a mixture of a man and a monkey. It was still alive, screeching and making noises very much like a monkey.

  The most amazing thing was that on the third finger of its left hand was a blue ring. In its centre, engraved in white, was the letter ‘M’.

  Translated by Gopa Majumdar

  First published in Bengali in 1988

  The Promise

  Mahim glanced at his watch. Seven minutes to twelve. It was a quartz, so the time had to be accurate. Over the last few minutes his heart had started galloping. It was only natural. Twenty years! Today, it was 7 October 1989. That day, it was 7 October 1969. Mahim remembered the day so well. The question was, would Pratul? Well, in another seven minutes, that question would be answered.

  Mahim looked around, simply to pass the time. He was standing in the lobby of the Lighthouse cinema, opposite the ticket windows. Pratul was supposed to come and meet him here, at this very spot. Through the open door in front of him, Mahim could see the street outside. A knot of people had gathered around a book stall on the opposite pavement. Four Ambassadors of different colours were parked in the road. And there was a cycle rickshaw. Mahim’s eyes moved above the door. There was a poster of the film currently running at the cinema. The figure that stood out most prominently was the villain, Kishorilal, with his thick moustache, its points upturned. Mahim did not watch Hindi films. These days, videos were so common that most people liked watching films at home, anyway. Besides, the cinemas were in an awful state. Mahim had heard his father say that once the Lighthouse was the city’s pride and joy. Today, just looking at it was bound to bring tears to his eyes.

  Staring at the stream of people that flowed past the ticket windows, Mahim’s mind drifted back to the past.

  Mahim was then fifteen years old, and Pratul was older by a year. How clearly he remembered that particular day! It was their lunch break. The two friends were sitting under a tree, having a quick snack. They were bosom pals. Both were famous for the mischief they could get up to. They were not afraid of a single teacher, not even Karali Babu, who taught maths and had succeeded in terrorizing the rest of the school. Karali Babu punished them often. When everyone else was sitting peacefully in their class, Mahim and Pratul were seen standing on a bench. But that made no difference to them. They went back to their pranks in the very next class.

  However, both boys were reasonably intelligent. Neither of them ever spent a lot of time studying, but when the final exam results came out, Mahim always managed to secure a position somewhere in the middle ranks. Pratul did not fare so well; but he never failed in any subject, either. Pratul’s father worked for the railways, and had a transferable job. In 1969, he was transferred to Dhanbad. Pratul, naturally, had to go with his father, which meant an end to his friendship with Mahim. The two boys discussed this that day before Pratul left.

  ‘Who knows when we’ll meet again?’ said Pratul. ‘If we leave Calcutta permanently, I can’t come back even for a short visit. But if you go to Dhanbad, we can get together again.’

  ‘Dhanbad? No, I don’t think so. My father will never consider spending our holidays there. He always chooses either Puri or Darjeeling. We’ve never gone anywhere else.’

  Pratul sighed, staring at the grass. After a while, he asked, ‘Have you decided what you’d like to be when you grow up?’

  Mahim shook his head. ‘No. I’ve got plenty of time to think about that. My father’s a doctor, so he’ll be pleased if I study medicine. But I have no such desire. Why, have you decided what you want to be?’

  ‘No.’

  Both fell silent after this. It was Pratul who broke the silence. ‘Listen!’ he said, ‘Why don’t we do something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re friends, aren’t we? So I was thinking of testing our friendship.’
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  Mahim frowned. ‘Testing our friendship? What nonsense are you talking?’

  ‘It isn’t nonsense at all. I’ve read about this. It’s been done before.’ ‘What’s been done before?’

  ‘When two friends part, they promise to meet each other again, at a certain time, on a certain date.’

  Now Mahim could grasp his friend’s intention. ‘All right,’ he said, thinking it over, ‘I am quite prepared to make such a promise. But when should we meet? After how many years?’

  ‘Say, twenty? It’s 7 October today, and the year is 1969. We’ll meet again on 7 October 1989.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Twelve o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘All right. But where?’

  ‘It has to be a place we’d both be familiar with.’

  ‘What about a cinema? We’ve seen so many films together.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s meet in twenty years, at the Lighthouse, opposite the ticket windows.’

  ‘All right, that’s a promise.’

  The two friends parted company. Mahim did wonder at times whether he would be able to remember his promise. Funnily enough, in the last twenty years, he had not forgotten about it even once.

  After Pratul left Mahim began to change very much for the better, possibly because he had no other close friend. His behaviour in class improved, as did his results. He came to be known as one of the good students of his school.

  He began writing when he went to college. Soon, his stories, essays and poetry began to appear in magazines. When he was only twenty- three—that was in 1977—he wrote his first novel. A well-known publisher published it, and it got good reviews. Eventually, it even won a literary award. Today, Mahim Chatterjee was a famous figure in the world of literature. Most critics rated him among the best contemporary novelists.

  In the last twenty years, he had had no contact with Pratul, except the few letters he wrote at first. Pratul had written to say that although he had made a few friends in Dhanbad, no one could take Mahim’s place. He had sent him four letters in the first six months, but that was all. This did not surprise Mahim. He knew Pratul was extremely lazy when it came to writing letters. It struck him as a chore that he wanted to avoid most of the time. Mahim did not mind writing letters, but he could not keep up the flow of correspondence singlehanded.

  It was now two minutes after twelve. Pratul must have forgotten his promise. Even if he hadn’t, he could well be in a different city, thousands of miles away. One could hardly expect him to rush back to Calcutta just to keep an appointment made twenty years ago. Besides, there was something else to consider. Pratul might be in Calcutta, he might have remembered his promise, but it could well be that he was held up in a traffic jam.

  Mahim decided to wait for another ten minutes before going home. Thank goodness it was a Sunday today, or he would have had to leave his office an hour before lunch. Mahim earned well enough as a novelist, but he had not given up the job he had in a private firm. He had made a lot of new friends, too, in the course of time. But he could not forget his days at school, filled with laughter and mischief.

  ‘Excuse me!’ said a voice, bringing Mahim out of his reverie. He turned, to find a boy of about sixteen looking at him. In his hand was an envelope.

  ‘Are you Mahim Chatterjee?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Here’s a letter for you.’

  The boy passed the envelope to Mahim. Then he said, ‘I need your reply,’ and waited.

  Slightly taken aback, Mahim took the letter out and read it quickly. It said:

  Dear Mahim,

  If you have not forgotten the promise we made to each other, you will get this letter. I am in Calcutta, but there is no way I can meet you at the Lighthouse. I wanted to let you know that, and ask to be forgiven. I have not forgotten you; nor did I forget our appointment. I would like to go to your house to meet you. If you write your address on the other side of this sheet, and also let me know the date and time that might be convenient, I will call on you. With good wishes,

  Your friend,

  Pratul

  Mahim had a pen in his pocket. He scribbled his address on the letter as instructed, and wrote, ‘Next Sunday, between nine and twelve o’clock’. Then he returned the letter to the boy. He took it silently, and went out of the door.

  There was no need for him to linger in the lobby. Mahim left the cinema, and went to find his new blue Ambassador, parked in Humayun Court. The important thing was that Pratul had not forgotten. But why couldn’t he have come today, when he was in town? Mahim felt quite mystified. There was no mention of Pratul’s address on the letter, so Mahim could not contact him. He could have asked the boy, but the thought had not occurred to him at the time. The letter was written on an ordinary piece of paper, torn out of an exercise book. Could that mean that Pratul had fallen on hard times, and did not want his friend to find out? But he had offered to come to his house. Well, Mahim would have to wait until he arrived to learn the truth.

  When he returned home, his wife Shubhra asked, ‘Did you meet your friend?’

  ‘No, but he sent me a letter through someone. He remembered our appointment, that’s the main thing. I would never have believed such a thing was possible if I hadn’t done it myself. In fact, even at the time we made that promise, I had wondered whether we’d remember it in twenty years’ time!’

  The following Sunday, Mahim’s doorbell rang at ten o’clock. He was in his living room, reading the newspaper. His bearer, Pashupati, opened the door. ‘Is your babu at home?’ Mahim heard the visitor ask. ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Pashupati. A gentleman walked in through the door a second later. He had an outstretched arm, and on his lips was a big smile.

  Mahim stretched his own arm and clasped the man’s hand firmly. ‘Pratul?’ he said wonderingly, smiling back. ‘Why, you haven’t changed! I mean, you’ve grown older, obviously, but that’s about all. Do sit down.’

  Pratul sat down on a sofa, still smiling. ‘What better proof of friendship could you ask for?’ he said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You’re a writer, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You won an award . . . I saw it in the papers.’

  ‘Yes. But what about you? You seem to know enough about me!’

  Pratul stared at Mahim for a few moments. Then he said slowly, ‘I am . . . getting along. Yes, I am doing all right.’

  ‘Do you live here in Calcutta?’

  ‘Not all the time. I have to travel.’

  ‘Are you a travelling salesman?’

  Pratul gave a slight smile in reply, but remained silent. ‘You still haven’t told me!’ Mahim complained.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why you didn’t come to the Lighthouse that day. What was the reason, you idiot? Why did you have to send a letter through someone else?’

  ‘I had a problem.’

  ‘What problem? Come on, tell me. I can—’

  Mahim stopped. His eyes moved towards the window that overlooked the street. A large number of youths had gathered outside and were making a lot of noise. Irritated, he went to the window and lifted the curtain to have a look. Then he said, sounding incredulous, ‘Is that car yours?’ He could not remember having seen a bigger car anywhere in Calcutta. ‘And why are these boys making such a racket?’ Mahim turned back as he asked the second question. Immediately, his jaw fell open.

  Pratul was grinning at him. But now, under his nose sat a thick moustache, its points turned upward.

  ‘Kishorilal!’ Mahim almost shouted.

  Pratul peeled the moustache off and put it in his pocket. ‘Now can you understand why I couldn’t go to the Lighthouse? It’s the price of fame. I cannot go anywhere without being recognized.’

  ‘My God!’

  Pratul rose. ‘I should not stay here any longer. If I do, that crowd might get quite out of control. So I’ll go now. You haven’t seen any of my films, I take it?’

&nb
sp; ‘No, I am afraid I haven’t.’

  ‘You ought to see one. Please. I’ll have a couple of seats reserved for you at the Lighthouse.’

  Pratul made his way to the front door, followed by Mahim. The crowd roared as soon as the door was opened. ‘Kishorilal! Kishorilal!’ they began chanting. Pratul somehow managed to push his way through the crowd and got into the car. His driver started it at once. Mahim saw his friend waving at him. He raised his own hand to wave back.

  A boy emerged from the crowd and approached Mahim, his eyes wide with amazement. ‘Kishorilal . . . Kishorilal is known to you?’ he gasped.

  ‘Yes. Yes, he’s my friend.’

  It was easy enough to guess what was now going to happen. Mahim knew that, from now on, his own name would get wiped out. The local boys would refer to him simply as ‘Kishorilal’s friend’.

  Translated by Gopa Majumdar

  First published in Bengali in 1990

  THE BEGINNING

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  This collection published 2012

  Copyright © Satyajit Ray 2012

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  ISBN: 978-0-143-42505-2

  This digital edition published in 2016.

  e-ISBN: 978-9-352-14081-7

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.