The Collected Short Stories Read online

  Satyajit Ray

  THE COLLECTED SHORT STORIES

  Contents

  About the Author

  1. Bonku Babu’s Friend

  2. The Pterodactyl’s Egg

  3. The Hungry Septopus

  4. The Small World of Sadananda

  5. Anath Babu’s Terror

  6. The Two Magicians

  7. Shibu and the Monster

  8. Patol Babu, Film Star

  9. Bipin Chowdhury’s Lapse of Memory

  10. The Vicious Vampire

  11. Indigo

  12. Pikoo’s Diary

  13. Ratan Babu and That Man

  14. Fritz

  15. Mr Brown’s Cottage

  16. Mr Eccentric

  17. Khagam

  18. Barin Bhowmick’s Ailment

  19. The Admirer

  20. Fotikchand

  21. Ashamanja Babu’s Dog

  22. Load Shedding

  23. The Class Friend

  24. Sahadev Babu’s Portrait

  25. A Strange Night for Mr Shasmal

  26. Pintu’s Grandfather

  27. Big Bill

  28. The Attic

  29. Bhuto

  30. Stranger

  31. The Maths Teacher, Mr Pink and Tipu

  32. Spotlight

  33. Uncle Tarini and Betal

  34. Chameleon

  35. The Citation

  36. Sadhan Babu’s Suspicions

  37. Gagan Chowdhury’s Studio

  38. A Duel in Lucknow

  39. The Millionaire

  40. I Am a Ghost

  41. The Two Comedians

  42. A Dream Come True

  43. Nitai and the Holy Man

  44. Uncle Tarini, the Maharaja

  45. Anukul

  46. The Scarecrow

  47. Kutum-Katam

  48. The Case of Mriganko Babu

  49. The Promise

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  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE COLLECTED SHORT STORIES

  Satyajit Ray was born on 2 May 1921 in Calcutta. After graduating from Presidency College, Calcutta, in 1940, he studied art at Rabindranath Tagore’s university, Shantiniketan. By 1943, Ray was back in Calcutta and had joined an advertising firm as a visualizer. He also started designing covers and illustrating books brought out by Signet Press. A deep interest in films led to his establishing the Calcutta Film Society in 1947. During a six-month trip to Europe in 1950, Ray became a member of the London Film Club and managed to see ninety-nine films in only four and a half months.

  In 1955, after overcoming innumerable difficulties, Satyajit Ray completed his first film, Pather Panchali, with financial assistance from the West Bengal government. The film was an award winner at the Cannes Film Festival and established Ray as a director of international stature. Together with Aparajito (The Unvanquished, 1956) and Apur Sansar (The World of Apu, 1959), it forms the Apu trilogy and perhaps constitutes Ray’s finest work. Ray’s other films include Jalsaghar (The Music Room, 1958), Charulata (1964), Aranyer Din Ratri (Days and Nights in the Forest, 1970), Shatranj Ke Khilari (The Chess Players, 1977), Ghare Baire (The Home and the World, 1984), Ganashatru (Enemy of the People, 1989), Shakha Proshakha (Branches of a Tree, 1990) and Agantuk (The Stranger, 1991). Ray also made several documentaries, including one on Tagore. In 1987, he made the documentary Sukumar Ray to commemorate the birth centenary of his father, perhaps Bengal’s most famous writer of nonsense verse and children’s books. Satyajit Ray won numerous awards for his films. Both the British Federation of Film Societies and the Moscow Film Festival Committee named him one of the greatest directors of the second half of the twentieth century. In 1992, he was awarded the Oscar for Lifetime Achievement by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science and, in the same year, was also honoured with the Bharat Ratna.

  Apart from being a film-maker, Satyajit Ray was a writer of repute. In 1961, he revived the children’s magazine Sandesh which his grandfather, Upendrakishore Ray, had started and to which his father used to contribute frequently. Satyajit Ray contributed numerous poems, stories and essays to Sandesh, and also published several books in Bengali, most of which became bestsellers. In 1978, Oxford University awarded him its DLitt degree.

  Satyajit Ray died in Calcutta in April 1992.

  Gopa Majumdar has translated several works from Bengali to English, the most notable of these being Ashapurna Debi’s Subarnalata, Taslima Nasrin’s My Girlhood and Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay’s Aparajito, for which she won the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2001. She has translated several volumes of Satyajit Ray’s short stories, a number of Professor Shonku stories and all of the Feluda stories for Penguin Books India. She is currently translating Ray’s cinematic writings for Penguin.

  Bonku Babu’s Friend

  No one had ever seen Bonku Babu get cross. To tell the truth, it was difficult to imagine what he might say or do, if one day he did get angry.

  It was not as if there was never any reason for him to lose his temper. For the last twenty-two years, Bonku Babu had taught geography and Bengali at the Kankurgachhi Primary School. Every year, a new batch of students replaced the old one, but old or new, the tradition of teasing poor Bonku Babu continued among all the students. Some drew his picture on the blackboard; others put glue on his chair; or, on the night of Kali Puja, they lit a ‘chasing-rocket’ and set it off to chase him.

  Bonku Babu did not get upset by any of this. Only sometimes, he cleared his throat and said, ‘Shame on you, boys!’

  One of the reasons for maintaining his calm was simply that he could not afford to do otherwise. If he did lose his temper and left his job in a fit of pique, he knew how difficult it would then be to find another, at his age. Another reason was that in every class, there were always a few good students, even if the rest of the class was full of pranksters. Teaching this handful of good boys was so rewarding that, to Bonku Babu, that alone made life as a teacher worth living. At times, he invited those boys to his house, offered them snacks and told them tales of foreign lands and exciting adventures. He told them about life in Africa, the discovery of the North Pole, the fish in Brazil that ate human flesh, and about Atlantis, the continent submerged under the sea. He was a good storyteller, he had his audience enthralled.

  During the weekend, Bonku Babu went to the lawyer, Sripati Majumdar’s house, to spend the evenings with other regulars. On a number of occasions, he had come back thinking, ‘Enough, never again!’ The reason was simply that he could put up with the pranks played by the boys in his school, but when grown, even middle-aged men started making fun of him, it became too much to bear. At these meetings that Sripati Babu hosted in the evenings, nearly everyone poked fun at Bonku Babu, sometimes bringing his endurance to breaking point.

  Only the other day—less than two months ago—they were talking about ghosts. Usually, Bonku Babu kept his mouth shut. That day, for some unknown reason, he opened it and declared that he was not afraid of ghosts. That was all. But it was enough to offer a golden opportunity to the others. On his way back later that night, Bonku Babu was attacked by a ‘spook’. As he was passing a tamarind tree, a tall, thin figure leapt down and landed on his back. As it happened, this apparition had smeared black ink all over itself, possibly at the suggestion of someone at the meeting.

  Bonku Babu did not feel frightened. But he was injured. For three days, his neck ached. Worst of all—his new kurta was torn and it had black stains all over. What kind of a joke was this?

  Other ‘jokes’, less serious in nature, were often played on him. His umbrella or his shoes were hidden sometimes; at others, a paan would be filled with dust instead of masala, and handed to him; or he woul
d be forced to sing.

  Even so, Bonku Babu had to come to these meetings. If he didn’t, what would Sripati Babu think? Not only was he a very important man in the village, but he couldn’t do without Bonku Babu. According to Sripati Majumdar, it was essential to have a butt of ridicule, who could provide amusement to all. Or what was the point in having a meeting? So Bonku Babu was fetched, even if he tried to keep away.

  On one particular day, the topic of conversation was high-flying—in other words, they were talking of satellites. Soon after sunset, a moving point of light had been seen in the northern sky. A similar light was seen three months ago, which had led to much speculation. In the end, it turned out to be a Russian satellite, called Khotka—or was it Phoshka? Anyway, this satellite was supposed to be going round the earth at a height of 400 miles, and providing a lot of valuable information to scientists.

  That evening, Bonku Babu was the first to spot that strange light. Then he called Nidhu Babu and showed it to him. However, he arrived at the meeting to find that Nidhu Babu had coolly claimed full credit for being the first to see it, and was boasting a great deal. Bonku Babu said nothing.

  No one knew much about satellites, but there was nothing to stop them from offering their views. Said Chandi Babu, ‘You can say what you like, but I don’t think we should waste our time worrying about satellites. Somebody sees a point of light in some obscure corner of the sky, and the press gets all excited about it. Then we read a report, say how clever it all is, have a chat about it in our living rooms, perhaps while we casually chew a paan, and behave as if we have achieved something. Humbug!’

  Ramkanai countered this remark. He was still young. ‘No, it may not be any of us here, but it is human achievement, surely? And a great achievement, at that.’

  ‘Oh, come off it! Of course it’s a human achievement . . . who’d build a satellite except men? You wouldn’t expect a bunch of monkeys to do that, would you?’

  ‘All right,’ said Nidhu Babu, ‘let’s not talk of satellites. After all, it’s just a machine, going round the earth, they say. No different from a spinning top. A top would start spinning if you got it going; or a fan would start to rotate if you pressed a switch. A satellite’s the same. But think of a rocket. That can’t be dismissed so easily, can it?’

  Chandi Babu wrinkled his nose. ‘A rocket? Why, what good is a rocket? All right, if one was made here in our country, took off from the maidan in Calcutta, and we could all go and buy tickets to watch the show . . . well then, that would be nice. But . . .’

  ‘You’re right,’ Ramkanai agreed. ‘A rocket has no meaning for us here.’

  Bhairav Chakravarty spoke next. ‘Suppose some creature from a different planet arrived on earth . . . ?’

  ‘So what? Even if it did, you and I would never be able to see it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true enough.’

  Everyone turned their attention to their cups of tea. There did not seem to be anything left to be said. After a few moments of silence, Bonku Babu cleared his throat and said gently, ‘Suppose . . . suppose they came here?’

  Nidhu Babu feigned total amazement. ‘Hey, Bunkum wants to say something! What did you say, Bunkum? Who’s going to come here? Where from?’

  Bonku Babu repeated his words, his tone still gentle: ‘Suppose someone from a different planet came here?’

  As was his wont, Bhairav Chakravarty slapped Bonku Babu’s back loudly and rudely, grinned and said, ‘Bravo! What a thing to say! Where is a creature from another planet going to land? Not Moscow, not London, not New York, not even Calcutta, but here? In Kankurgachhi? You do think big, don’t you?’

  Bonku Babu fell silent. But several questions rose in his mind. Was it really impossible? If an alien had to visit the earth, would it really matter where it arrived first? It might not aim to go straight to any other part of the world. All right, it was highly unlikely that such a thing would happen in Kankurgachhi, but who was to say for sure that it could not happen at all?

  Sripati Babu was silent so far. Now, as he shifted in his seat, everyone looked at him. He put his cup down and spoke knowledgeably: ‘Look, if someone from a different planet does come to earth, I can assure you that he will not come to this God-forsaken place. Those people are no fools. It is my belief that they are sahibs, and they will land in some western country, where all the sahibs live. Understand?’

  Everyone agreed, with the sole exception of Bonku Babu. Chandi Babu decided to take things a bit further. He nudged Nidhu Babu silently, pointed at Bonku Babu and spoke innocently: ‘Why, I think Bonku is quite right. Isn’t it natural that aliens should want to come to a place where there’s a man like our Bonkubihari? If they wanted to take away a specimen, could they find anything better?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so!’ Nidhu Babu joined in. ‘Consider his looks, not to mention his brains . . . yes, Bunkum is the ideal specimen!’

  ‘Right. Suitable for keeping in a museum. Or a zoo,’ Ramkanai chipped in.

  Bonku Babu did not reply, but wondered silently: if anyone were to look for a specimen, weren’t the others just as suitable? Look at Sripati Babu. His chin was so much like a camel’s. And that Bhairav Chakravarty, his eyes were like the eyes of a tortoise. Nidhu Babu looked like a mole, Ramkanai like a goat, and Chandi Babu like a flittermouse. If a zoo really had to be filled up . . .

  Tears sprang to his eyes. Bonku Babu had come to the meeting hoping, for once, to enjoy himself. That was clearly not to be. He could not stay here any longer. He rose to his feet.

  ‘Why, what’s the matter? Are you leaving already?’ Sripati Babu asked, sounding concerned.

  ‘Yes, it’s getting late.’

  ‘Late? Pooh, it’s not late at all. Anyway, tomorrow is a holiday. Sit down, have some more tea.’

  ‘No, thank you. I must go. I have some papers to mark. Namaskar.’

  ‘Take care, Bonkuda,’ warned Ramkanai, ‘it’s a moonless night, remember. And it’s a Saturday. Very auspicious for ghosts and spooks!’

  Bonku Babu saw the light when he was about halfway through the bamboo grove. Poncha Ghosh owned that entire area. Bonku Babu was not carrying a torch or a lantern. There was no need for it. It was too cold for snakes to be out and about, and he knew his way very well. Normally, not many people took this route, but it meant a short-cut for him.

  In the last few minutes he had become aware of something unusual. At first, he could not put his finger on it. Somehow, things were different tonight. What was wrong? What was missing? Suddenly, he realized that the crickets were silent. Not one was chirping. Usually, the crickets sounded louder as he delved deeper into the bamboo grove. Today, there was only an eerie silence. What had happened to the crickets? Were they all asleep?

  Puzzled, Bonku Babu walked another twenty yards, and then saw the light. At first, he thought a fire had broken out. Bang in the middle of the bamboo grove, in the clearing near a small pond, quite a large area was glowing pink. A dull light shone on every branch and every leaf. Down below, the ground behind the pond was lit by a much stronger pink light. But it was not a fire, for it was still.

  Bonku Babu kept moving.

  Soon, his ears began ringing. He felt as if someone was humming loudly—a long, steady noise—there was no way he could stop it. Bonku Babu broke into goose pimples, but an irrepressible curiosity drove him further forward.

  As he went past a cluster of bamboo stems, an object came into view. It looked like a giant glass bowl, turned upside-down, covering the pond completely. It was through its translucent shade that a strong, yet gentle pink light was shining out, to turn the whole area radiant.

  Not even in a dream had Bonku Babu witnessed such a strange scene.

  After staring at it for a few stunned minutes, he noticed that although the object was still, it did not appear to be lifeless. There was the odd flicker; and the glass mound was rising and falling, exactly as one’s chest heaves while breathing.

  He took a few steps to get a better look, but
felt suddenly as if an electric current had passed through his body. In the next instant, he was rendered completely immobile. His hands and feet were tied with an invisible rope. There was no strength left in his body. He could move neither forward, nor backward.

  A few moments later, Bonku Babu—still standing stiffly on the same spot—saw that the object gradually stopped ‘breathing’. At once, his ears ceased ringing and the humming stopped. A second later, a voice spoke, shattering the silence of the night. It sounded human, but was extraordinarily thin.

  ‘Milipi-ping kruk! Milipi-ping kruk!’ it said loudly. Bonku Babu gave a start. What did it mean? What language was this? And where was the speaker?

  The next words the voice spoke made his heart jump again. ‘Who are you? Who are you?’

  Why, these were English words! Was the question addressed to him? Bonku Babu swallowed. ‘I am Bonkubihari Datta, sir. Bonkubihari Datta,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you English? Are you English?’ the voice went on. ‘No, sir!’ Bonku Babu shouted back. ‘Bengali, sir. A Bengali kayastha.’

  This was followed by a short pause. Then the voice came back, speaking clearly: ‘Namaskar!’

  Bonku Babu heaved a sigh of relief and returned the greeting. ‘Namaskar!’ he said, suddenly realizing that the invisible bonds that were holding him tightly had disappeared. He was free to run away, but he did not. Now his astounded eyes could see that a portion of the glass mound was sliding to one side, opening out like a door.

  Through that door emerged a head—like a plain, smooth ball—and then the body of a weird creature.

  Its arms and legs were amazingly thin. With the exception of its head, its whole body was covered by a shiny, pink outfit. Instead of ears, it had a tiny hole on each side of its head. On its face were two holes where it should have had a nose, and another gaping hole instead of a mouth. There was no sign of hair anywhere. Its eyes were round and bright yellow. They appeared to be glowing in the dark.

  The creature walked slowly towards Bonku Babu, and stopped only a few feet away. Then it gave him a steady, unblinking stare. Automatically, Bonku Babu found himself folding his hands. Having stared at him for nearly a minute, it spoke in the same voice that sounded more like a flute than anything else: ‘Are you human?’