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 Indiqo

y_Lq4i_e il Aniruddha Bose. I am twenty-nine years old and-a bachelor.

For the last eight years I've been workitrg in an advertising agency in
ggbgttg.With the salary I get I live in reasonable comfort in a flat in
Sardar Shankar Road. The flat has two south-facing rooms and is on
the ground floor. Tu'o years ago I bor.rght an Ambassador car which I
drive myself. I do a bit of writing in my spare time.Three of my stories
have been published in magazines artd have been well-appreciated by
my acqu.alntances, but I know I cannot make a living by writing alone'
For the last feu'months I haven't been writing at all' Instead' I have
read a lot abort indigo plantations in Bcngal and Bihar in the nineteenth
c-e.ltqry. I-1m something of an authority on the subject now: how the
British cxploited the Poor Peasants; how the Peasants rose in rcvolt;
a4d !oy, . nally, with the invention of synthetic indigo in Germany', th9
cultivation of indigo was wiped out from our country-all this I know
hearl. It is to describe the terrible experience which instilled in me-
-try
lhjrjnterec! irt-iUcllgq that I have taken up my pen today'
At this point I must tell you something about my Past'
My father was a well-known pirys.cian in Monghyr, a town in
Bihar. That is where I was born and that rs where I did my schooling in
amissionary schooi. I have a brother five years older than me. He studied
medicine in England and is now attached to a hospital in a suburb of
London called Golders Green. He has no plans to return to India'
OJ
86 Satyaj)t Ray

Ml father died ivhcn I r,vas sixtccn. Soon after his death, my moth('t'
and I lclt Monghyr and came to Calcutta rvhere rvc stayed r'vith my
matcrnal unclc I-r'vent to St. Xavicr's Collcgc ancl took my bachelor's
degree. Soon after that I got my job rvith the advcrtising agency. My
uncle's influcnce hclpcd, but I rvasn't an unworthy candidate mysell'.
I hacl been a good studcnt, I spoke English fluently, and most of all, I
had the abilitv to carry m-vsclf we ll in an rntcrvrcw
M-v carly ycars in Monghyr had instillcd ccrtain habits in me which
I havc not bccn able to give up. One of thcsc \,\'as an ovcrporvering
dcsirc to go far a\yay from the hcctic lilc of Calcutta liom timc to time'
I hacl done so scvcral timcs cver sincc I bought m)' car. C)n vr''cckends
I maclc trips to Diamond Harbour, Port Canning, and Hassanabad
along thc Dum Dum Road. Each timc I had gonc aLone bccausc, to bc
quitc honcst, I didn't rcally havc a closc tricnd in Calcutta.-Ihat is n'hy
Promodc's lcttcr nradc mc so happv. Promoc{c had bcen my classmate
in Monghvr After I camc awav to Calcutta, rl'c colrtinucd to keep in
touch fbr thrcc or fbur ycars I'hcn, perhaps it r'vas I r'vho stopped
rvriting -Suddcnll'thc othcr da,v whcn I <ramc lrack from rvork, I found
a_lcttcr from Pr-omoclc rvaiting for mc on my dosk. He hacl u'ritten
l'rom Dumka 'l have a jol> in thc Forcst Dcprrtment here. I havc my
o\\,n quartcrs.Whl'don't vou take a wcr:k's lcavc and contc ovcr . . .?'
Somc lcavc r'vas duc to me, so I spokc to tn1' boss, and on the
lwentv-scvcnth of April I shall rcmcmbcr thc datc as long as I live
I packcd mv bags and set off for Dumka.
l'romodc hadn't suggcstcd that I go bv car; it was my idea. Dumka
r'vas 200 nrilcs arvay, so it lvoulcl takc about fivc or six hours at the
most. I dccidr:d to havc a big lrrcakfast, sct off bv tcn and rcach there
bcforc clusk.
At lcast that rvas thc plan, but thcrc was a snag right at the start. I
had m-v meal ancl was about to put a paan into my mouth, rvhen m;'
fhthcr's old friend Unclc Mohit suddenly turned up. He is a grave old
man whom I u'as mccting attcr ten rcars. So thcrc rvas no question of
giving him short shrift I had to offcr him tca and listen to him chat for
over an hour.
I sarv Uncle Mohit ofi and shovcd m)' suitcrase and bedding into tbe
 lndigo 87

back seat of my car. Just then, _mI ground-floor neighbour Bhola Babu
walked up with his four-year-old son Pintu in tow.
'Where are you off to all by yourselP' Bhola Babu asked.
When I told him, he said with some concern,'But that's a long way.
Shouldn't you have arranged for a driver?'
I I was a very cautious driver myself, and that I had taken such
said
care of my car that it was still as good x5 ng\a'-'$e there's nothing to
worry about.'
Bhola Babu wished me luck and went into the house. I glanced at
my wristwatch before turning the ignition key' It was ten minutes Past
eleven.
Although I avoided Howrah and took the Bally Bridge road, it
took me an hour and a half to reach Chandernagore. Driving through
dingy towns, these first thirty miles were so dreary that the fun of a car
journey was quite lost. But from there on, as the car emerged into
open country, the elfect was magical.'Where in the city did one get to
see such a clear blue sky free from chimney smoke, and breathe air so
pure and so redolent of the smell of earth?
At about half-past twelve, as I was nearing Burdwan, I began to feel
the consequence of having eaten so early. Hungry, I pulled up by the
station which fell on the way, went into a restaurant and had a light
meal of toast, omelette and coffee. Then I resumed my journey. I still
had a 135 miles to go.
Twenty miles from Burdwan, there was a small town called
Panagarh.There t.!ad p leave the GrandTrunk Road and take the road
to Ilambazar. From Ilambazar the roacl went via Suti u"d tvturiunjot" to
Dumka.
Paqqgailt-hq{ just come into view when there
-Tlfe tailitSfy q?mp ?t
was a bang from^the rear of my car. I had a flat tyre.
I got down, I had a spare tpe and could easily fit it' The thbught
that other cars would go whizzing by, their occuPants laughing at my
predicament, was not a pleasant one. Nevertheless I brought out the
jack from the boot and set to work.
By the time I linished puttingJl,re new tJIe o!, ! wa,q,{4llpilg wl$
sweat, My watch showed half past two.. It had turned muggy in the
88 Sory,aiit Ray

meantime. Thc cool brcezc which r,vas blolving evcn an hour ago, and
making the bamboo trees swav. had stopped. Non'evervthing was
r.vas
still. As I got back into thc car I noticccl a blue-black patch in the w.est
abovc the trectops. Clouds. Was a storm brcu'ing up? A norrvestcr? It
was useless to spcculatc. I must drivc faster. I hclped myself to some
hot tca from thc flask an,lrcsumcd,'-ry tou.n"y.
But bcforc I could cross Ilambazar, I was caught in thc storm. I had
cnjoyed such norwcstcrs in thc past, sitting in my room, and hacl cven
recitedTigorc poems to my'sclfto blend with the mood. I had no idea
that drir.ing through open country, such a norwester coulcl strike tcrror
into thc hcart. Claps of thundcr alrvays makc mc uncromlortal)le.
Thel' sccn'r to shou' of naturc; a vicious assault on helplcss
a nastv side
humanitv. It sccmcd as if the shafts of lightn;ng wcrc all aimcd at my
O-'r"rr"dor, and onc of thcm \\'as surc to find its mark sooncr or
lr":::
ln this prccarious state I passcd Suri and r.vas r,vcll on mv r,r,'av to
Massanjore r'vhen therc w?s yet anothcr bang rvhich no onc could
mistakc for a thunder-clap. I rcalizcd that anothct' of' mv tyrt:s had
dccidcd to call it a dav.
Igavc up hopc. lt was now pouring with rain. M1 r,r'atch said half
past fivc. For thc last tlvcnty miles T had had to kccp thc spccclon-retcr
down to llftccn, or I lvould ha.",c bccn well past Massanjorc b1,now.
Whcrc r,r.'as I? Up ahcad nothing r,r,as visiblc through thc rainsr,vcpt
'fhc rvipcr was
windscr-ccn. on but its cffbrts wcrc morc frolic:some
than c{'f'cctivc. It bcingApril, thc sun sl'roulc] still bc up, but it sccmcd
more likc latc cvcning.
_l opcncd thc door on my light slightly and lookcd out. What I saw
clidn't suggcst thc prcscncc of a town, though I could make out a
couplc of lruildings through thc trccs. Thcre was no question of gctting
out of thc car ancl cxploring, but one thing u.as clcar cnough: there
\vcre no shops along thc road as thr as thc cyc could scc.
Ancl I had no more sparc tyres.
After u'aiting in thc car fbr a quartcr of an hour, it struck me that
no othcr vehicler had passccl by in all this time. Was I on thc right road?
Thcre had bccn no mistakc up to Suri, but supposc I had taken a
 Indigo 89

wrong turning after that? It was not impossible in the blinding rain.
But even if I had made a mistake, it was not as if I had strayed into
the jungles of Africa or South America. Wherever I was, there was no
doubt that I was still in the district of Birbhum, within fifty miles of
Santiniketan, and as soon as the rein stopped my troubles would be
over-l might even find a repair shop within a mile or so.
I pulled out a packet of Wiils from my pocket and lit
a cigarette. I
recalled Bhoia Babu's warning. He must have gone through the same
trying experience, or how could he have given me such sound advice?
In futurr-Honk! Honk! Honkl
I turned round and saw a truck standing behind. Why was it blowing
its horn? Was I standing right in the middle of the road?
The rain had let up a littie. I opened the door, got out and found
that it was no fault of the truck. When my tyre burst the car had
swcrved at an angle and was now blocking most of the road. There
was no room for the truck to pass. J

'Thke the car to one side, sir.'

The Sikh driver had by now come out ofthe truck.
'What's the matter?' he asked.'A puncturc?'
I shruggcd to convey my state of helplessness. 'If you could lend a
hand,' I said,'we could move the car to one side and let you pass.'
The Sikh driver's helper came out too. The three of us pushed the
car to one side of the road. Then I found out from the two men that I
was indeed on the wrong road lor Dumka. I had taken a wrong turning
and would have to drive back three miles to get back on the right
track. I also learnt that there were no repair shops nearby.
The truck went on its way. As its noise faded away, the truth struck
me like a hammer blow
I had reached a dead end.
There was no way I could reach Dumka that night, and I had no
idea how and where I would spend the night.
The roadside puddles were alive with the chorus of frogs. The rain
had now been reduced to a light drizzle.
I got back into the car and was about to light a second cigarette
when I gpotted a light through the window on my side.-I.opened the
 90 Satyoi;t Ro,v

doo-r agala,Through the branchcs ofa tree I saw a rectangle oforange

light. A window Just as smoke meant the presence of firc, a kerosene
lamp meant the presence of a human being. There was a housc nearby
and there were occupants in it.
I got out of the car with my torch. The window w.asn't too lar away.
I had to go and investigate. There was a narrol\. footpath branching off
from the main road which seemed to go in the direction of the house
with the window.
I locked the car and set off.
I
made my way avoiding puddles as far as possiblc. ,A.s I passcd_ a
. tlmarind tree, the house came into l-iew. Weil, hardly a housc It was a
small cottage with a corrugated tin roof. Through an open door I
could see.. a hurricane lantern and the leg of a bed
'ls anybody there?' I callcd out
A-.slqsky, middle-aged man rvith a thick moustache camc out of
the room and squinted at my toich. I turned the spot alva1, fiom his
lace .

'Wherc arc you from, sir?' thc man asked.

In a f'ew u,ords I describecl my predicamcnt.'[s the:e a placc here
wher-c I can spend the night?' I asked.'l shall pay for it, of coursc.,
'b tbSdq\_b!"galow, vou mcan?'
Dak bungalow? I didn't see any dak bungalow.
But immediatell I realizcd my mistake. I had fo]lowed thc light of
thc lantern, and had thereforc lailed to look around. Now I turnccl thc
torch to my leit and jmmediatcly a large bungalow camc into view.
'You mean that one?' I asked.
'Yes sir, but there is no bedding. And you can't have meals there.'
'l'm carrying m) own bcdding,' I said. 'l hope there's a bcd there?,
'Yes sir. A charpoy.'
'And I scc there's a stove lit in your room. you must be cooking
your own meal?'
The man broke into a smile and askcd if I'would care for coarse
chapatis prepared b;, him and urad-ka-dal cooked by his wife. I said it
would do very nicely. I liked all kinds of chapatis, and urad was mv
fhvourite dal.
 Indigo 91

I don't know what the bungalow must have been like in its heyday,
but now it was hardly what one understood by a dak
Ur,lgulo#
Constructed during the time of the Raj, the bedroom
*"s 1".g"" ,.,d
the ceiling was high. The furniture consisted of a
charpoy, t"f,l" ,"t
against the wall on one side, and a chair with
a broken arm.
"
The chowkidar, or the caretaker, had in the meantime
lit a lantern
for me. He now put it on the table. ,What is your namc?,
I asked.
'sukhanram, sir.'
'.Has anybody ey91
I the- lirst one?,
!iv.g.d.!q !!UC_b!rnguiC* o-t 4ry
'oh, no sir, othershave come too. There was a qentleman who
stayed here for two nights last winter.,
T hope there are no ghosts hcre,, I said in a
iocular tone.
'God forbidl' he said. ,No one has ever complained
of ghosts.,
I mustsay-l.fqqad liq,yqqds 1e4qs,ur14g. (_qptqge tq sp-Jg\y,
_a1d o_ld
!:-urgelqys have a reputation for bein! so, it
-dgk wiil be so at ali times.
'Shen was this bungalow bu!\t,
| _aq\951.

-Sukhaa began to ulrlol] my t gd.liry sajcl, ,This used to be

T.i a
s ahib ! b g!g*a!oy-,-sir_ .
'Aiebi!,-?'_
sir. An indi&o planter. There usecl to be an indigo
.lY_es
. factory close
bj. Now only the chimney is standing.'
I knew indigo was cultivated ;n th"se parts at one tjme.
I had seen
ruins of indigo factories in Monghyr too in my
childhood.
It was ten-thirty when I wenr to bed aftcr dining on Sukhan,s
coarse chapatis and urad-ka-dal. I had sent a teleg.am'
to promode
from Calcutta saying that I woulcl arrive this afternoon.
He would
naturally wonder what had happened. But it was
useless to think of
that now All I could do no.r,v was congratulate
myself on having found
a shelter, and that too without much trouble.
In future I *ould do as
Bhola Babu had advisecl. I had learnt a lesson,
and lessons learnt the
hdrd way are not forgotten easily.
I
put the lantern in the adjoining bathroom. The littie
light that
seeped through the door which I had kept slightly ajar was lrough.
Usually I find it difficult to sleep with a light
on, and yet I dirl not
extinguish the light even though what I badiy
neecled now was sleep.
92 SatYajit RaY

I was worried about my car which I had left standing on the road, but
it was certainly safer to do so in a village than in the city'
The sound of drtzzi,e had stopped. The air was now filled with the
croaking of frogs and the shrill chirping of crickets' From my bed in
that ancient bungalow in this remote village, the city seemed to belong
to another planet. Indigo . . I thought of the play by Dinabandhu
Mitra, Nildarpan (The Mirror of Indigo). As a college student I had
watched a performance of it in a theatre on Cornwallis Street'

Ididn-lLLno-w l-"tory lqng I ,]rqd s-lept, whqq a sound suddenly

awakened me. Something was scratchi.1g.11 the do-or' The door was
bolted. Must be a dog or a jackal, I thought, and in a minute or so the
noise stopped.
I shut my to sieep, but the barking of a dog put an
eyes in an effort
end to my efforts. This was not the bark of a stray viliage dog, but the
unmistakable bay of a hound. was familiar with it. Two houses away
I
from us in Monghyr lived Mr Martin. He had a hound which bayed
just iike this. Who on earth kept a pet hound here? I thought of
opening the door to find out as the sound seemed quite near' But then
I thought, why bother? It was better to get some more sleep' What
time was it now?
A faint moonlight camc in through the window' I raised my left
hancl to glance at the wristwatch, and gave a start' My wristwatch was

gone.
And yet, because it was an automatic watch, I always wore it to bed'
Where did it disappear? And how? Were there thieves around? What
would happen to my car then?
I felt beside my pillow for my torch and lound it gone too'
I jumped out of bed, knelt on the floor and looked underneath it'
My suitcase too had disaPPeared.
My head started spinning, Something had to be done about it' I
cailed out:' Chowkidar!'
There was no answer.
I went to the door and found that it was stili bolted The window
had bars. So how did the thiefenter?
As I was about tb unfasten the bolt, I glanced at my hand and
 Indigo 9 i
experienced an odd feeiing.
Had whitewash from the wall got on to
my hand? Or was it white
powder?Why did it look so pale?
I had gonc to bed wearing a vest; why then
was I now wearing a
long-sleeved sirk shirt? l felt a throbbing
in my head. I openecr thc
door and went out into the veranda.
'Chowkidarl,
The word that came out was spoken
with the unmistakable accent
of an Englishman. And *h"." *u, the chowkjclar,
and where was his
little cottage?There was now a wide open
field in front of ,l" fru.rg"to*
In the distance was a building with a high
chimney. Th" ,r..oridi,rg,
were unusually quiet.
They had changed.
And so had I.
I came back into the bedroom ln a sweat.
My eyes had got used to
the darkness. I could now clearly make
out the details.
The bed was there, but it was covered
with a mosquito nct. I
hadn't been using one. The pillow roo
w_as unlike the or" I hud
U-"glra
with me' This one had a border rvitir fri's;
mine didn't. The tabre and
the chair stood wherc they did, but
they had lost their aged look. The
varnished wood shone even in the
soft iigt,. O., the table stood
lantern but a kerosene lamp with urr u.r.[
not a
,h.d".
There were other objects in the room
which graduaily came into
view: a pair of steel trunks in a corner,
a folding bracket on the wall
from w-hich hung a coat, an unlani
crop. Below the bracket, standjng ag
I turned away from the objects
Till now I had only noticed the
trousers and the socks. I didn't have
shoes on, but saw a pair of.black
boots on the floor by the becl.
I passed my right hand over my face
and reajized that not only my
complexion but my features too had
changed. I didn,t porr.rr rrr.h.
sharp nose, nor such thn lips or narrow""Hirl.
t f.lt th" h"i, on mf
n""1 found that it was wavy and that there were sideburns
T1
reached below mv ears_
which
 94 Satyaj it Ray

spite of my surprise and terror, I suddenly

^ ,Inout what I looked felt a great
find like. But where to find a mirror?
I strode towards the bathroom, opened the door with a il
push and went in.
There had been nothing there but a bucket.
Now I saw a
bath tub and a mug kept on a stool beside
it. The thing I was I
for was right in front of me: an oval mirror fixed
to a jressing_t
looked into it, but the person reflected in
it was not me. By
devilish trick I had turned into a nineteenth-century
Englishman
a sallow complexion, blond hair and light eyes
from which sh<
strange mixture of hardness and suffering.
How old would
Englishman be? Not more than thirty, but
it'iooked as if either il
or hard work, or both, had aged him prematurely.
I went closer and had a good look at ,my, f*". A,
I looked, a
sigh rose from the depths ofmy heart.
The voice was not mine. The sigh, too,
expressed not my fl
hut those of thc Englishman.
What followedLacte it clear th
own voljtion. And yet it was surprr
perfectly aware of the change in
change was permanent, or if there
I came back to the bedroom.
Now I glanced at the table. Below the lamp
was a notebook bound
in leather. It was open at a blank page. Beside it
I

was an inkwell with r ,

quiil pen dipped in it.

I walked over to the tabie. Some unseen force
made me sit in the ,

chair and pick up the pen with my right hand.

The hancl now movcd
the left-hand page of the notebook, and the
::y"]dr silent room wal
filled with the noise of a quill scratching the blank page. This is what I
wrote:

27 April 1868
Those fiendish mosquitoe s are singing in
my ears again. So
that's how the son of a mighty empire has
to meet his g1d-a1
the hands of a tiny insect. What strange will
of God is this? Eric
 Indigo 95
has made his escape. percy and Tony too
left earlier. perhaps I
was greedier than them. So in spite of
repeated attacks of _"1..i.
I couldn't resist the lure of indigo. No, not only that.
One
mustn't lie in one,s diary My countrymen
know me only too
well. I didn,t lead a blameless life at home either;
and they
surely have not forgotten that. So I do
not dare go back home.
I know I will have to stay here and lay down my life on
this alien
soil. My place will be beside the graves of
my wife Mary and
my dear ljttle son Toby. I have treated the natives
here so baclly
that there is no one to shed a tear at my
passing awav. perhaps
Mirian would miss me-my fajthful trusted
b"".", tr,li.lurr.
And Rcx? My real worry is about Rcx. Alas,
t.aithful RexJ When
I die, these people will not spare you. They will either stone
you or club you to death. If only I could do somethr.ng about
youl

write no more. The hands were shaking. Not

,. I :.rtd
dlarlsts.
mine, the

I put down the pen.

Then my right hand dropped and moved
to the right and made for
the handle ofthe drawer.
I opened it.
Inside there was a pin cushion, a brass
paperweight, a pipe and
some PaPers.
The drawer opened a little more. A metal object glinted in the
half-light.
It was a pistol, its butt inlaid with rvory.
The hand pulled out the pistol. It had
stopped shaking.
A group of jackals cried out. Itwas as if in
answer to the jackals,cry
that the hound bayed again.
I left the chair and advanced towards the door.
I went out into the
veranda.
The field in front was bathed in moonlight.
About ten yards from the verancla stood
a large greyhouncl. He
wagged his tail as he saw me.
 Satyajit Ra,v

'Rexl'
It vvas the same deep English voice. The echo of the call camc
floating back from thc fararvay factory and bamboo grovc-- Rex! Rexl
Rex camc up towards thc veranda.
As hc stcppcd from thc grass onto the cemcnt, my right hand ros..
to m], waist, the pistol l)ointing tou'ards thc hound. Rex stopped in his
tracks, his ey'e on thc pistol. He gavc a low gror,r,l.
Mv right foretingcr prcsscd thc tligger.
As the gun throbbed with a blinding flash, smoke ancl the smell ol'
gr,rnpolr.der filled the air.
Rex's lifelcss, bloocl spattcrcd body lay partly on thc vcranda anrl
partly on tbc grass.
The sound of thc pistol had wakcnc:d the crorvs in thc nearby
trccs A hubbub now rosc from thc djrcction ofthc factorl'.
I came back into the bedroom, boltcd thc door and sat on the bed.
Thc shouting clrcw ncar.
I placed the still hot muzzle of thc pistol b;, my'right car.
That is all I rcmcml>cr.

I wokc u;r at thc sound ofknocking.

'l'vr: brought vour tca, sir'
Daylight tlooclcd in through thc rvinclou'. Out of shccr habit my
clcs streycd to mv lcft u rist.
Thirtccn minutcs past six. I brought the rvatch closcr to my eves
to rcacl thc datc, April thc tu'entv-eighth.
I now opcncd thc door and lct Sukhanram in.
'There's a car repair shop hali an hour down the road, sir,' hc said.
'lt'llopcn at sevcn.'
'Vcry good,' I said, and prorccdcd to drink my tca
Would an-vonc t>clicve mc whcn thcy hcarcl of my. expcricncc on
the night of the hundrcdth annivcrsarv of thc clcath of an English
indigo plantcr in Birbhum?

(1 e68) Tronslated b,v Sotv'a11t Rav