3 Rays, page 13
Then all hell broke loose. The stethoscope flew out of his hand, his spectacles jumped off his nose and crashed on to the floor. One of the buttons of his jacket came off as he struggled to take it off, his tie wound tighter around his neck and made him gasp and sputter before at last he managed to pull it free, the hole in his vest showed as he yanked off his shirt, jumping around and yelling all the time. I was speechless.
The nurse said, ‘What is the matter, sir?’
The doctor continued to jump about and yelled, ‘Ant! Red ant! It crawled up my arm—ouch!’
Well, well, well! I knew this would happen, and it serves you right! Lal Bahadur had taken revenge on his friend’s behalf.
If they saw me now they would know how deliriously happy Sadananda could be.
PATOLBABU, FILM STAR
Originally published in Sandesh (August 1963) as Patolbabu Film Star. It was translated by the author himself to be part of the compilation titled Stories (Secker & Warburg, 1987). The illustrations in the story, including the Bengali calligraphy in the headpiece, are by Satyajit Ray.
Patolbabu had just hung his shopping bag on his shoulder when Nishikantobabu called from outside the main door. ‘Patol, are you in?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Patolbabu. ‘Just a minute.’
Nishikanto Ghosh lived three houses away from Patolbabu in Nepal Bhattacharji Lane. He was a genial person.
Patolbabu came out with the bag. ‘What brings you here so early in the morning?’
‘Listen, what time will you be back?’
‘In an hour or so. Why?’
‘I hope you’ll stay in after that—today being Tagore’s birthday. I met my youngest brother-in-law in Netaji Pharmacy yesterday. He is in the film business, in the production department. He said he was looking for an actor for a scene in a film they’re now shooting. The way he described the character—fiftyish, short, bald-headed—it reminded me of you. So I gave him your address and asked him to get in touch with you directly. I hope you won’t turn him away. They’ll pay you, of course.’
Patolbabu hadn’t expected such news at the start of the day. That an offer to act in a film could come to a fifty-two-year-old nonentity like him was beyond his wildest dreams.
‘Well, yes or no?’ asked Nishikantobabu. ‘I believe you did some acting on the stage at one time?’
‘That’s true,’ said Patolbabu. ‘I really don’t see why I should say no. But let’s talk to your brother-in-law first and find out some details. What’s his name?’
‘Naresh. Naresh Dutt. He’s about thirty. A strapping young fellow. He said he would be here around ten-thirty.’
Buying provisions in the market, Patolbabu mixed up his wife’s orders and bought red chillies instead of onion seeds. And he quite forgot about the aubergines. This was not surprising. At one time Patolbabu had a real passion for the stage; in fact, it verged on obsession. In Jatras, in amateur theatricals, in plays put up by the club in his neighbourhood, Patolbabu was always in demand. His name had appeared in handbills on countless occasions. Once it appeared in bold type near the top: ‘Sitalakanto Ray (Patolbabu) in the role of Parasar’. Indeed, there was a time when people bought tickets especially to see him.
That was when he used to live in Kanchrapara. He had a job in the railway factory there. In 1934, he was offered higher pay in a clerical post with Hudson and Kimberley, in Calcutta, and was also lucky to find a flat in Nepal Bhattacharji Lane. He gave up his factory job and came to Calcutta with his wife. It was quite smooth sailing for some years, and Patolbabu was in his boss’s good books. In 1943, when he was just toying with the idea of starting a club in his neighbourhood, sudden retrenchment in his office due to the war cost him his nine-year-old job. Ever since then Patolbabu had struggled to make a living. At first he opened a variety store which he had to wind up after five years. Then he had a job in a Bengali firm which he gave up in disgust when his boss began to treat him in too high-handed a fashion. Then, for ten long years, starting as an insurance salesman, Patolbabu tried every means of earning a livelihood without ever succeeding in improving his lot. Of late he has been paying regular visits to a small establishment dealing in scrap iron where a cousin of his has promised him a job.
And acting? That has become a thing of the remote past; something which he recalls at times with a sigh. Having a good memory, Patolbabu still remembers lines from some of his better parts. ‘Listen, O listen to the thunderous twang of the mighty bow Gandiva engaged in gory conflict, and to the angry roar of the mountainous club whizzing through the air in the hands of the great Brikodara!’ It sent a shiver down his spine just to think of such lines.
Naresh Dutt turned up at half past twelve. Patolbabu had given up hope and was about to go for his bath when there was a knock on the front door.
‘Come in, come in, sir!’ Patolbabu almost dragged the young man in and pushed the broken-armed chair towards him. ‘Do sit down.’
‘No, thanks. I—er—I expect Nishikantobabu told you about me?’
‘Oh yes. I must say I was quite taken aback. After so many years . . .’
‘I hope you have no objection?’
‘You think I’ll be all right for the part?’ Patolbabu asked with great diffidence.
Naresh Dutt cast an appraising look at Patolbabu and gave a nod. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘There is no doubt about that. By the way, the shooting takes place tomorrow morning.’
‘Tomorrow? Sunday?’
‘Yes, and not in the studio. I’ll tell you where you have to go. You know Faraday House near the crossing of Bentinck Street and Mission Row? It’s a seven-storey office building. The shooting takes place outside the office in front of the entrance. We’ll expect you there at eight-thirty sharp. You’ll be through by midday.’
Naresh Dutt prepared to leave. ‘But you haven’t told me about the part,’ said Patol babu anxiously.
‘Oh yes, sorry. The part is that of a—a pedestrian. An absent-minded, short-tempered pedestrian. By the way, do you have a jacket which buttons up to the neck?’
‘I think I do. You mean the old-fashioned kind?’
‘Yes. That’s what you’ll wear. What colour is it?’
‘Sort of nut-brown. But woollen.’
‘That’s okay. The story is supposed to take place in winter, so that would be just right. Tomorrow at 8.30 a.m. sharp. Faraday House.’
Patolbabu suddenly thought of a crucial question.
‘I hope the part calls for some dialogue?’
‘Certainly. It’s a speaking part. You have acted before, haven’t you?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, yes . . .’
‘Fine. I wouldn’t have come to you for just a walk-on part. For that we pick people from the street. Of course, there’s dialogue and you’ll be given your lines as soon as you show up tomorrow.’
After Naresh Dutt left, Patolbabu broke the news to his wife.
‘As far as I can see, the part isn’t a big one. I’ll be paid, of course, but that’s not the main thing. The thing is—remember how I started on the stage? Remember my first part? I played a dead soldier! All I had to do was lie still on the stage with my arms and legs spread. And remember how I rose from that position? Remember Mr Watts shaking me by the hand? And the silver medal which the chairman of our municipality gave me? Remember? This is only the first step on the ladder, my dear better-half! Yes—the first step that would—God willing—mark the rise to fame and fortune of your beloved husband!’
‘Counting your chickens again before they’re hatched, are you? No wonder you could never make a go of it.’
‘But it’s the real thing this time! Go and make me a cup of tea, will you? And remind me to take some ginger juice tonight. It’s very good for the throat.’
The clock in the Metropolitan building showed seven minutes past eight when Patolbabu reached Esplanade. It took him another ten minutes to walk to Faraday House.
There was a big crowd outside the building. Three or four cars stood on the road. There was also a bus which carried equipment on its roof. On the edge of the pavement there was an instrument on three legs around which there was a group of busy people. Near the entrance stood—also on three legs—a pole which had a long arm extending from its top at the end of which was suspended what looked like a small oblong beehive. Surrounding these instruments was a crowd of people among which Patolbabu noticed some non-Bengalis. What they were supposed to do he couldn’t tell.
But where was Naresh Dutt? He was the only one who knew him.
With a slight tremor in his heart, Patolbabu advanced towards the entrance. It was the middle of summer, and the warm jacket buttoned up to his neck felt heavy. Patolbabu could feel beads of perspiration forming around the high collar.
‘This way, Atulbabu!’
Atulbabu? Patolbabu spotted Naresh Dutt standing at the entrance and gesturing towards him. He had got his name wrong. No wonder, since they had only had a brief meeting. Patolbabu walked up, put his palms together in a namaskar and said, ‘I suppose you haven’t yet noted down my name. Sitalakanto Ray—although people know me better by my nickname Patol. I used it on the stage too.’
‘Good, good. I must say you’re quite punctual.’
Patolbabu rose to his full height.
‘I was with Hudson and Kimberley for nine years and wasn’t late for a single day.’
‘Is that so? Well, I suggest you go and wait in the shade there. We have a few things to attend to before we get going.’
‘Naresh!’
Somebody standing by the three-legged instrument called out.
‘Sir?’
‘Is he one of our men?’
‘Yes, sir. He is—er—in that shot where they bump into each other.’
‘Okay. Now, clear the entrance, will you? We’re about to start.’
Patolbabu withdrew and stood in the shade of a paan shop.
He had never watched a film shoot before. How hard these people worked! A youngster of twenty or so was carrying that three-legged instrument on his shoulder. Must weigh at least sixty pounds.
But what about his dialogue? There wasn’t much time left, and he still didn’t know what he was supposed to do or say.
Patolbabu suddenly felt a little nervous. Should he ask somebody? There was Naresh Dutt there; should he go and remind him? It didn’t matter if the part was small, but, if he had to make the most of it, he had to learn his lines beforehand. How small he would feel if he muffed in the presence of so many people! The last time he acted on stage was twenty years ago.
Patolbabu was about to step forward when he was pulled up short by a voice shouting ‘Silence!’
This was followed by Naresh Dutt loudly announcing with hands cupped over his mouth: ‘We’re about to start shooting. Everybody please stop talking. Don’t move from your positions and don’t crowd around the camera, please!’
Once again the voice was heard shouting ‘Silence! Taking!’ Now Patolbabu could see the owner of the voice. He was a stout man of medium height, and he stood by the camera. Around his neck hung something which looked like a small telescope. Was he the director? How strange!—he hadn’t even bothered to find out the name of the director!
Now a series of shouts followed in quick succession—‘Start sound!’ ‘Running!’ ‘Camera!’ ‘Rolling!’ ‘Action!’
Patolbabu noticed that as soon as the word ‘Action’ was said, a car came up from the crossing and pulled up in front of the office entrance. Then a young man in a grey suit and pink make-up shot out of the back of the car, took a few hurried steps towards the entrance and stopped abruptly. The next moment Patolbabu heard the shout ‘Cut!’ and immediately the hubbub from the crowd resumed.
A man standing next to Patolbabu now turned to him. ‘I hope you recognized the young fellow?’ he asked.
‘Why, no,’ said Patolbabu.
‘Chanchal Kumar,’ said the man. ‘He’s coming up fast. Playing the lead in four films at the moment.’
Patolbabu saw very few films, but he seemed to have heard the name Chanchal Kumar. It was probably the same boy Kotibabu was praising the other day. Nice make-up the fellow had on. If he had been wearing a Bengali dhoti and panjabi instead of a suit, and given a peacock to ride on, he would make a perfect God Kartik. Monotosh of Kanchrapara—who was better known by his nickname Chinu—had the same kind of looks. He was very good at playing female parts, recalled Patolbabu.
Patolbabu now turned to his neighbour and asked in a whisper, ‘Who is the director?’
The man raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Why, don’t you know? He’s Baren Mullick. He’s had three smash hits in a row.’
Well, at least he had gathered some useful information. It wouldn’t have done for him to say he didn’t know if his wife had asked in whose film he had acted and with which actor.
Naresh Dutt now came up to him with tea in a small clay cup. ‘Here you are, sir — the hot tea will help your throat. Your turn will come shortly.’
Patolbabu now had to come out with it. ‘If you let me have my lines now . . .
‘Your lines? Come with me.’
Naresh Dutt went towards the three-legged instrument with Patolbabu at his heels. ‘I say, Sosanko.’
A young fellow in a short-sleeved shirt turned towards Naresh Dutt. ‘This gentleman wants his lines. Why don’t you write them down on a piece of paper and give it to him? He’s the one who—’
‘I know, I know.’
Sosanko now turned to Patolbabu.
‘Come along, Grandpa. I say, Jyoti, can I borrow your pen for a sec? Grandpa wants his lines written down.’
The youngster Jyoti produced a red dot pen from his pocket and gave it to Sosanko. Sosanko tore off a page from the notebook he was carrying, scribbled something on it and handed it to Patolbabu.
Patolbabu glanced at the paper and found that a single word had been scrawled on it—‘Oh!’
Patolbabu felt a sudden throbbing in his head. He wished he could take off his jacket. The heat was unbearable.
Sosanko said, ‘What’s the matter, Grandpa? You don’t seem too pleased.’
Were these people pulling his leg? Was the whole thing a gigantic hoax? A meek, harmless man like him, and they had to drag him into the middle of the city to make a laughing stock of him. How could anyone be so cruel?
Patolbabu said in a hardly audible voice, ‘I find it rather strange.’
‘Why, Grandpa?’
‘Just “Oh”? Is that all I have to say?’
Sosanko’s eyebrows shot up.
‘What are you saying, Grandpa? You think that’s nothing? Why, this is a regular speaking part! A speaking part in a Baren Mullick film—do you realize what that means? Why, you’re the luckiest of actors. Do you know that till now more than a hundred persons have appeared in this film who have had nothing to say? They just walked past the camera. Some didn’t even walk; they just stood in one spot. There were others whose faces didn’t register at all. Even today—look at all those people standing by the lamp post; they all appear in today’s scene but have nothing to say. Even our hero Chanchal Kumar has no lines to speak today. You are the only one who has—see?’
Now the young man called Jyoti came up, put his hand on Patolbabu’s shoulder and said, ‘Listen, Grandpa. I’ll tell you what you have to do. Chanchal Kumar is a rising young executive. He is informed that an embezzlement has taken place in his office, and he comes to find out what has happened. He gets out of his car and charges across the pavement towards the entrance. Just then he collides with an absent-minded pedestrian. That’s you. You’re hurt in the head and say ‘Oh!’, but Chanchal Kumar pays no attention to you and goes into the office. The fact that he ignores you reflects his extreme preoccupation—see? Just think how crucial the shot is.’
‘I hope everything is clear now,’ said Sosanko. ‘Now, if you just move over to where you were standing . . . the fewer people crowd around here, the better. There’s one more shot left before your turn comes.’
Patolbabu went slowly back to the paan shop. Standing in the shade, he glanced down at the paper in his hand, cast a quick look around to see if anyone was watching, crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it into the roadside drain.
Oh . . .
A sigh came out of the depths of his heart.
Just one word—no, not even a word; a sound—‘Oh!’
The heat was stifling. The jacket seemed to weigh a ton. Patolbabu couldn’t keep standing in one spot anymore; his legs felt heavy.
He moved up to the office beyond the paan shop and sat down on the steps. It was nearly half past nine. On Sunday mornings, songs in praise of the Goddess Kali were sung in Karalibabu’s house. Patolbabu went there every week and enjoyed it. What if he were to go there now? What harm would there be? Why waste a Sunday morning in the company of these useless people, and be made to look foolish on top of that? ‘Silence!’
Stuff and nonsense! To hell with your ‘silence’! They had to put up this pompous show for something so trivial! Things were much better on the stage. The stage . . . the stage . . .
A faint memory was stirred up in Patolbabu’s mind. Some priceless words of advice given in a deep, mellow voice: ‘Remember one thing, Patol; however small a part you’re offered, never consider it beneath your dignity to accept it. As an artist your aim should be to make the most of your opportunity, and squeeze the last drop of meaning out of your lines. A play involves the work of many and it is the combined effort of many that makes a success of the play.’
It was Mr Pakrashi who gave the advice. Gogon Pakrashi, Patolbabu’s mentor. A wonderful actor, without a trace of vanity in him; a saintly person, and an actor in a million.
There was something else which Mr Pakrashi used to say. ‘Each word spoken in a play is like a fruit in a tree. Not everyone in the audience has access to it. But you, the actor, must know how to pluck it, get at its essence, and serve it up to the audience for their edification.’
