ON THE RUN WITH FOTIKCHAND by Satyajit Ray & Gopa Majumdar

Author:Satyajit Ray & Gopa Majumdar [Ray, Satyajit & Majumdar, Gopa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9788184752885
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2017-02-17T00:00:00+00:00

8

Harun arrived at the shop at about four o’clock the same day. He was going to take Fotik with him and show him where he lived. Upen Babu had agreed to let Fotik go at four. Keshto’s son, Shotu, was going to work in the shop in Fotik’s absence. Shotu was familiar with the job but could not work regularly as he had fever almost thrice a month.

Harun said, as they stepped out, ‘I’ll show you something new today—a new act I have been practising. I bet you’ll be surprised.’ At this, Fotik’s heart began to dance with joy and excitement, so much so that he failed to notice two men standing outside a paan shop on the opposite pavement. They were the same men who had asked him all those questions earlier.

Harun, it turned out, did not like travelling in crowded buses. ‘If I had to clutch a rod and hang from it like a bat, it would damage my hands,’ he said. ‘And if my hands were damaged, I could never perform and then I’d starve. So let’s just walk.’

They went through a number of alleyways and several other broad and narrow roads, before reaching a bridge, under which electric trains ran. Stairs went down from one end of the bridge, leading to a slum. That was where Harun lived. In the distance, Fotik could see chimneys of factories, rising above tall coconut trees. The slum looked as if it had wrapped a blanket of smoke around itself. ‘All that smoke has come from the coal stoves people have lit,’ Harun explained. ‘It’s time to start cooking dinner, you see.’

He explained something else. ‘In this slum,’ he said, climbing down the stairs, ‘you will find Hindus and Muslims and Christians, all living together. Some of them are such talented artistes that it takes my breath away. There’s a carpenter called Jamal. He sings so well that, listening to him, I often forget where I am. His voice can wipe out all sorrow, all pain. He comes to my room sometimes and sings, and I play the tabla on my wooden cot.’

A small path wound its way through small huts with straw roofs towards Harun’s room. Fotik kept close to Harun, and walked by his side. Each time they were spotted by a child, Harun was greeted by a big smile. Some called out to him, others jumped joyfully, or clapped. Harun waved at them, and got them to join him. ‘Come on!’ he said. ‘You’ll see something new today!’

‘Something new? Really? What fun!’ cried the children. Fotik had no idea Harun had so many friends.

His room turned out to be small and a little dark. Perhaps that was why he had filled it with colourful objects. There were fabrics, coloured paper, puppets, pictures and kites. Some were hanging on the walls, some were spread on the floor, or simply displayed in quiet corners. Yet, the room did not look cluttered. Not a single piece seemed out of place. Perhaps this was a special kind of art.

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