3 Rays, page 35
The dumbfounded gentleman now walked over to Ashamanjababu as if he had seen a ghost. Brownie’s paroxysm was now subsiding, but it was still enough to make the gentleman’s eyes pop out of his head.
‘A laughing dog!’
‘Yes, a laughing dog,’ said Ashamanjababu.
‘But how extraordinary!’
Ashamanjababu could make out that the man was not a Bengali. Perhaps he was a Gujarati or a Parsi. Ashamanjababu braced himself to answer in English the questions he knew he would soon be bombarded with.
The rain had turned into a heavy shower. The gentleman took shelter alongside Ashamanjababu, and in ten minutes had found out all there was to know about Brownie. He also took Ashamanjababu’s address. He said his name was Piloo Pochkanwalla, that he knew a lot about dogs and wrote about them occasionally, and that his experience today had surpassed everything that had ever happened to him, or was likely to happen in the future. He felt something had to be done about it, since Ashamanjababu himself was obviously unaware of what a priceless treasure he owned.
It wouldn’t be wrong to say that Brownie was responsible for Mr Pochkanwalla being knocked down by a minibus while crossing Chowringhee Road soon after the rain had stopped—it was the thought of the laughing dog running through his head which made him a little unmindful of the traffic. After spending two and a half months in hospital, Pochkanwalla had gone off to Nainital for a change. He had come back to Calcutta after a month in the hills, and the same evening had described the incident of the laughing dog to his friends Mr Balaporia and Mr Biswas at the Bengal Club. Within half an hour, the story had reached the ears of twenty-seven other members and three bearers of the Club. By next morning, the incident was known to at least a thousand citizens of Calcutta.
Brownie hadn’t laughed once during these three and a half months. One good reason was that he had seen no funny incidents. Ashamanjababu didn’t see it as cause for alarm; it had never crossed his mind to cash in on Brownie’s unique gift. He was happy with the way Brownie had filled a yawning gap in his life, and felt more drawn to him than he had to any human being.
Among those who got the news of the laughing dog was an executive in the office of The Statesman. He sent for the reporter Rajat Chowdhury and suggested that he should interview Ashamanjababu.
Ashamanjababu was greatly surprised that a reporter should think of calling on him. It was when Rajat Chowdhury mentioned Pochkanwalla that the reason for the visit became clear. Ashamanjababu asked the reporter into his bedroom. The wooden chair had been fitted with a new leg, and Ashamanjababu offered it to the reporter while he himself sat on the bed. Brownie had been observing a line of ants crawling up the wall; he now jumped up on the bed and sat beside Ashamanjababu.
Rajat Chowdhury was about to press the switch on his recorder when it suddenly occurred to Ashamanjababu that a word of warning was needed. ‘By the way, sir, my dog used to laugh quite frequently, but in the last few months he hasn’t laughed at all. So you may be disappointed if you are expecting to see him laugh.’
Like many a young, energetic reporter, Rajat Chowdhury exuded a cheerful confidence in the presence of a good story. Although he was slightly disappointed he was careful not to show it. He said, ‘That’s all right. I just want to get some details from you. To start with, his name. What do you call your dog?’
Ashamanjababu bent down to reach closer to the mike. ‘Brownie.’
‘Brownie . . .’ The watchful eye of the reporter had noted that the dog had wagged his tail at the mention of his name. ‘How old is he?’
‘A year and a month.’
‘Where did you f-f-find the dog?’
This had happened before. The impediment Rajat Chowdhury suffered often showed itself in the middle of interviews, causing him no end of embarrassment. Here too the same thing might have happened but for the fact that the stammer was unexpectedly helpful in drawing out Brownie’s unique trait. Thus Rajat Chowdhury was the second outsider after Pochkanwalla to see with his own eyes a dog laughing like a human being.
The morning of the following Sunday, sitting in his air-conditioned room in the Grand Hotel, Mr William P. Moody of Cincinnati, USA, read in the papers about the laughing dog and at once asked the hotel operator to put him through to Mr Nandy of the Indian Tourist Bureau. That Mr Nandy knew his way about the city had been made abundantly clear in the last couple of days when Mr Moody had occasion to use his services. The Statesman had printed the name and address of the owner of the laughing dog. Mr Moody was very anxious to meet this character.
Ashamanjababu didn’t read The Statesman. Besides, Rajat Chowdhury hadn’t told him when the interview would come out, or he might have bought a copy. It was in the fish market that his neighbour Kalikrishna Dutt told him about it.
‘You’re a fine man,’ said Mr Dutt. ‘You’ve been guarding such a treasure in your house for over a year, and you haven’t breathed a word to anybody about it? I must drop in at your place sometime this evening and say hello to your dog.’
Ashamanjababu’s heart sank. He could see there was trouble ahead. There were many more like Mr Dutt in and around his neighbourhood who read the Statesman and who would want ‘to drop in and say hello’ to his dog. A most unnerving prospect.
Ashamanjababu made up his mind. He decided to spend the day away from home. Taking Brownie with him, he took a taxi for the first time, went straight to the Ballygunge station and boarded a train to Port Canning. Halfway through, the train pulled up at a station called Palsit. Ashamanjababu liked the look of the place and got off. He spent the whole day in quiet bamboo groves and mango orchards and felt greatly refreshed. Brownie, too, seemed to enjoy himself. The gentle smile that played around his lips was something Ashamanjababu had never noticed before. This was a benign smile, a smile of peace and contentment, a smile of inner happiness. Ashamanjababu had read somewhere that a year in the life of a dog equalled seven years in the life of a human being. And yet he could scarcely imagine such tranquil behaviour in such sylvan surroundings from a seven-year-old human child.
It was past seven in the evening when Ashamanjababu got back home. He asked Bipin if anyone had called. Bipin said he had to open the door to callers at least forty times. Ashamanjababu couldn’t help congratulating himself on his foresight. He had just taken off his shoes and asked Bipin for a cup of tea when there was a knock on the front door. ‘Oh, hell!’ swore Ashamanjababu. He went to the door and opened it, and found himself facing a foreigner. ‘Wrong number’ he was at the point of saying, when he caught sight of a young Bengali standing behind the foreigner. ‘Whom do you want?’
‘You,’ said Shyamol Nandy of the Indian Tourist Bureau, ‘in case the dog standing behind you belongs to you. He certainly looks like the one described in the papers today. May we come in?’
Ashamanjababu was obliged to ask them into his bedroom. The foreigner sat in the chair, Mr Nandy on the wicker stool, and Ashamanjababu on his bed. Brownie, who seemed a bit ill at ease, chose to stay outside the threshold; probably because he had never seen two strangers in the room before.
‘Brownie! Brownie! Brownie!’ The foreigner had leaned forward towards the dog and called him repeatedly by name to entice him into the room. Brownie, who didn’t move, had his eyes fixed on the stranger.
Who were these people? The question had naturally occurred to Ashamanjababu when Mr Nandy provided the answer. The foreigner was a wealthy and distinguished citizen of the United States whose main purpose in coming to India was to look for old Rolls-Royce cars.
The American had now got off the chair and, sitting on his haunches, was making faces at the dog. After three minutes of abortive clowning, the man gave up, turned to Ashamanjababu and said, ‘Is he sick?’
Ashamanjababu shook his head.
‘Does he really laugh?’ asked the American.
In case Ashamanjababu was unable to follow the American’s speech, Mr Nandy translated it for him.
‘Brownie laughs,’ said Ashamanjababu, ‘but only when he feels amused.’
A tinge of red spread over the American’s face when Nandy translated Ashamanjababu’s answer to him. Next, he let it be known that he wasn’t willing to squander any money on the dog unless he had proof that the dog really laughed. He refused to be saddled with something which might later cause embarrassment. He further let it be known that in his house he had precious objects from China to Peru, and that he had a parrot which spoke only Latin. ‘I have brought my chequebook with me to pay for the laughing dog, but only if it laughed.’
The American now pulled out a blue cheque book from his pocket to prove his statement. Ashamanjababu glanced at it out of the corner of his eyes. Citi Bank of New York—it said on the cover.
‘You would be walking on air,’ said Mr Nandy temptingly. ‘If you know a way to make the dog laugh, then out with it. This gentleman is ready to pay up to twenty thousand dollars. That’s two lakhs of rupees.’
The Bible says that God created the universe in six days. A human being, using his imagination, can do the same thing in six seconds. The image that Mr Nandy’s words conjured up in Ashamanjababu’s mind was of himself in a spacious air-conditioned office, sitting in a swivel chair with his legs up on the table, with the heady smell of hasu-no-hana wafting in through the window. But the image vanished like a pricked balloon at a sudden sound.
Brownie was laughing,
This was like no laugh he had ever laughed before.
‘But he is laughing!’
Mr Moody had gone down on his knees, tense with excitement, watching the extraordinary spectacle. The cheque book came out again and, along with that, his gold Parker pen.
Brownie was still laughing. Ashamanjababu was puzzled because he couldn’t make out the reason for the laughter. Nobody had stammered, nobody had stumbled, nobody’s umbrella had turned inside out, and no mirror on the wall had been hit with a slipper. Why then was Brownie laughing?
‘You’re very lucky,’ commented Mr Nandy. ‘I think I ought to get a percentage on the sale—wouldn’t you say so?’
Mr Moody had now risen from the floor and sat down on the chair. He said, ‘Ask him how he spells his name.’
Although Mr Nandy had relayed the question in Bengali, Ashamanjababu didn’t answer, because he had just seen the light, and the light filled his heart with a great sense of wonder. Instead of spelling his name, he said, ‘Please tell the foreign gentleman that if he only knew why the dog was laughing, he wouldn’t have opened his cheque book,’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ Mr Nandy snapped in a dry voice. He certainly didn’t like the way events were shaping. If the mission failed, he knew the American’s wrath would fall on him.
Brownie had at last stopped laughing. Ashamanjababu lifted him up on his lap, wiped his tears and said, ‘My dog’s laughing because the gentleman thinks money can buy everything.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Nandy. ‘So your dog’s a philosopher, is he?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That means you won’t sell him?’
‘No, sir.’
To Mr Moody, Shyamol Nandy only said that the owner had no intention of selling the dog. Mr Moody put the cheque book back in his pocket, slapped the dust off his knees and, on his way out of the room, said with a shake of his head, ‘The guy must be crazy!’
When the sound of the American's car had faded away, Ashamanjababu looked into Brownie’s eyes and said, ‘I was right about why you laughed, wasn’t I?’
Brownie chuckled in assent.
BIG BILL
Originally published in Sandesh (March 1980) as Brihachchanchu. 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.
By Tulsibabu’s desk in his office on the ninth floor of a building in Old Court House Street there is a window which opens on to a vast expanse of the western sky. Tulsibabu’s neighbour Jaganmoy Dutta had just gone to spit betel juice out of the window one morning in the rainy season when he noticed a double rainbow in the sky. He uttered an exclamation of surprise and turned to Tulsibabu. ‘Come here, sir. You won’t see the like of it every day.’
Tulsibabu left his desk, went to the window, and looked out.
‘What are you referring to?’ he asked.
‘Why, the double rainbow!’ said Jaganmoy Dutta. ‘Are you colour-blind?’
Tulsibabu went back to his desk. ‘I can’t see what is so special about a double rainbow. Even if there were twenty rainbows in the sky, there would be nothing surprising about that. Why, one can just as well go and stare at the double-spired church in Lower Circular Road!’
Not everyone is endowed with the same sense of wonder, but there is good reason to doubt whether Tulsibabu possesses any at all. There is only one thing that never ceases to surprise him, and that is the excellence of the mutton kebab at Mansur’s. The only person who is aware of this is Tulsibabu’s friend and colleague, Prodyot Chanda.
Being of such a sceptical temperament, Tulsibabu was not particularly surprised to find an unusually large egg while looking for medicinal plants in the forests of Dandakaranya.
Tulsibabu had been dabbling in herbal medicine for the last fifteen years; his father was a well-known herbalist. Tulsibabu’s main source of income is as an upper division clerk in Arbuthnot & Co. but he has not been able to discard the family profession altogether. Of late he has been devoting a little more time to it because two fairly distinguished citizens of Calcutta have benefitted from his prescriptions, thus giving a boost to his reputation as a part-time herbalist.
It was herbs again which had brought him to Dandakaranya. He had heard that thirty miles to the north of Jagdalpur there lived a holy man in a mountain cave who had access to some medicinal plants including one for high blood pressure which was even more efficacious than rauwolfia serpentina. Tulsibabu suffered from hypertension; serpentina hadn’t worked too well in his case, and he had no faith in homeopathy or allopathy.
Tulsibabu had taken his friend Prodyotbabu with him on this trip to Jagdalpur. Tulsibabu’s inability to feel surprise had often bothered Prodyotbabu. One day he was forced to comment, ‘All one needs to feel a sense of wonder is a little imagination. You are so devoid of it that even if a full-fledged ghost were to appear before you, you wouldn’t be surprised.’ Tulsibabu had replied calmly, ‘To feign surprise when one doesn’t actually feel it, is an affectation. I do not approve of it.’ But this didn’t get in the way of their friendship. The two checked into a hotel in Jagdalpur during the autumn vacation. On the way, in the Madras Mail, two foreign youngsters had got into their compartment. They turned out to be Swedes. One of them was so tall that his head nearly touched the ceiling. Prodyotbabu had asked him how tall he was and the young man had replied, ‘Two metres and seven centimetres.’ Which is nearly seven feet. Prodyotbabu couldn’t take his eyes away from this young giant during the rest of the journey; and yet Tulsibabu was not surprised. He said such extraordinary height was simply the result of the diet of the Swedish people, and therefore nothing to be surprised at.
They reached the cave of the holy man Dhumai Baba after walking through the forest for a mile or so then climbing up about five hundred feet. The cave was a large one, but since no sun ever reached it, they only had to take ten steps to be engulfed in darkness, thickened by the ever-present smoke from the Baba’s brazier. Prodyotbabu was absorbed in watching, by the light of his torch, the profusion of stalactites and stalagmites while Tulsibabu enquired after his herbal medicine. The tree that Dhumai Baba referred to was known as chakrapama, which is the Sanskrit for ‘round leaves’. Tulsibabu had never heard of it, nor was it mentioned in any of the half-dozen books he had read on herbal medicine. It was not a tree, but a shrub. It was found only in one part of the forest of Dandakaranya, and nowhere else. Baba gave adequate directions which Tulsibabu noted down carefully.
Coming out of the cave, Tulsibabu lost no time in setting off in quest of the herb. Prodyotbabu was happy to keep his friend company; he had hunted big game at one time—conservation had put an end to that, but the lure of the jungle persisted.
The holy man’s directions proved accurate. Half an hour’s walk brought them to a ravine which they crossed and in three minutes they found the shrub seven steps to the south of a neem tree scorched by lightning—a waist-high shrub with round green leaves, each with a pink dot in the centre.
‘What kind of a place is this?’ asked Prodyotbabu, looking around.
‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’
‘But for the neem, there isn’t a single tree here that I know. And see how damp it is. Quite unlike the places we’ve passed through.’
It was moist underfoot, but Tulsibabu saw nothing strange in that. Why, in Calcutta itself, the temperature varied between one neighbourhood and another. Tollygunge in the south was much cooler than Shambazar in the north. What was so strange about one part of a forest being different from another? It was nothing but a quirk of nature.
Tulsibabu had just put the bag down on the ground and stooped towards the shrub when a sharp query from Prodyotbabu interrupted him. ‘What on earth is that?’
Tulsibabu had seen the thing too, but was not bothered by it. ‘Must be some sort of egg,’ he said.
Prodyotbabu had thought it was a piece of egg-shaped rock, but on getting closer he realized that it was a genuine egg, yellow, with brown stripes flecked with blue. What could such a large egg belong to? A python?
Meanwhile, Tulsibabu had already plucked some leafy branches off the shrub and put them in his bag. He wanted to take some more but something happened then which made him stop.
