14 Stories That Inspired Satyajit Ray by BHASKAR CHATTOPADHYAY

Author:BHASKAR CHATTOPADHYAY
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers India
Published: 2014-11-13T05:00:00+00:00

Manimalika

RABINDRANATH TAGORE

My boat was tied to the dilapidated quay. The sun had set.

The boatman was in the middle of his namaz on the top deck of the boat, the silhouette of his silent worship imprinted on the burning canvas of the westward sky. The shimmering reflections on the mirror-still water of the river changed from moment to moment—from a golden colour to a greyish hue, from a faint stroke to a bold one, from one shade to another.

A huge tree had mercilessly pierced its roots through the brick and mortar of the quay. The palatial house behind me was in utter ruins, with broken window frames and collapsed balconies. Sitting there amidst the decay, with darkness swooping in, I felt the first drops of tears stealing to the corners of my eyes, when suddenly, a voice burst into the silence, startling me to the hilt: ‘Where are you from, sir?’

The man was scrawny, evidently neglected by Lady Luck. He looked like one of those Bengali middle-aged men who had had to leave their villages in search of jobs—unfed, uncared for and unkempt. Along with a dhoti, he wore a faded, buttonless kurta made of coarse Assamese silk. He had probably just returned from work, and at a time when he should have been at home savouring his evening tea, he had come to the banks of the river to enjoy the breeze instead.

The stranger sat down on a step of the quay. I answered his question: ‘I’m from Ranchi.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I am a businessman.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘Myrobalan, silkworm and timber.’

‘And your name?’

I paused for a moment and gave him a name. It wasn’t mine.

The stranger’s curiosity seemed unquenched. He asked again, ‘What’s the purpose of your visit?’

I said, ‘A change of air.’

The man looked surprised. He said, ‘My dear sir, it’s been almost six years that I have been breathing this air and having fifteen grains of quinine daily—but I don’t have anything good to say about the air.’

I said, ‘That may be so, but it’s definitely a change from what I’ve experienced in Ranchi.’

He said, ‘Perhaps, perhaps. Where do you plan to live here?’

I pointed to the dilapidated house. ‘There.’

The stranger seemed to be under the impression that I had heard of some treasure hidden in the house, but he didn’t dwell on it. What he went on to describe were the incidents that had occurred in the cursed house fifteen years ago.

The man was a schoolmaster in the village. A large, extremely bright pair of eyes stared at me from his wrinkled face. He reminded me of the Ancient Mariner in Coleridge’s poem.

The boatman had finished his namaz and was now busy cooking the evening’s meal. The last rays of light had disappeared from the sky, and in that darkness, the ancient house stood all alone, a ghostly shell of its former magnificence.

The schoolmaster told me the tale.

‘Ten years before I came to this village, a man named Phanibhushan Saha lived in this house. He had inherited his childless uncle’s vast wealth and businesses.

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