THE STORYTELLER

(Translation of 'Golpoboliye Tarini Khuro' by Satyajit Ray.)

"You only know me as a storyteller," quipped Tarini Khuro, "But do you know, at one point I had earned by storytelling?"

"How should we know if you don't tell us," complained Nyapla.

"That was twenty-two years ago," recalled Tarini Khuro.

"I was in Bombay, working as the editor of the Free Press Journal. One day I came across an advertisement – a rich businessman of Ahmedabad was looking for a storyteller. The advertisement was quite amusing. The headline read 'Wanted A Storyteller.' Below that was written – a cloth merchant of Ahmedabad, Balwant Parikh, wanted an individual who could narrate him original stories whenever needed. It would be better if that person was a Bengali, because Bengalis could write well. Just think of it – 'original' stories. It could not be someone else's published work. Those kinds of stories are abounding in this world. But this person was looking for such stories, which were unpublished. As it stands, it is not too difficult for me to cook up stories. I have had such varied experiences in life – I can embellish them a little and make a few adjustments – that they would make great stories. So, I took a chance and applied. I informed that I couldn't speak Gujarati; hence the stories would have to be narrated in either English or Hindi. I was proficient in Hindi and had English as a subject in college. The reply arrived in seven days. Mr. Parikh conveyed that he suffered from insomnia. He wouldn't go to bed before three-thirty to four o'clock in the night. He would like to listen to the stories at that hour, not every day, but whenever he pleased. The salary would be one thousand rupees per month."

"I quit my Bombay's job at the newspaper office.

I was working for a year and half and no longer enjoyed the position."The old man paused. He took a sip of the black tea and continued.

"Upon reaching Ahmedabad, I found out that Mr. Parikh owned cloth mills. He was enormously rich. His house was huge; it had at least twelve-to-fourteen rooms. He arranged for me to occupy one of those. He said, "You've no fixed duty hours. I'll summon you in the middle of the night – hence living elsewhere will not help. You better stay in my house." The gentleman was no more than forty-five years old, about my age. He had two nephews, Hiralal and Chunilal, who were engaged in their uncle's business. Hiralal was married; he was living in the same house with his wife and two children.

I had no problem with the food. Mr. Parikh inquired whether I would like any special culinary arrangement. I assured him that I was accustomed to Gujarati dishes.

I was happily settled within a few months. As it turned out, my storytelling stint did not extend for more than ten days in a month. During the remaining time, I was noting down various story plots. If I had attempted, I could have easily become a story writer, but that would not have fetched me a monthly thousand rupees. The man was primarily interested in paranormal stories, hunting stories and crime stories. You guys know that I have had several encounters with ghosts. Similarly, I had been on hunting trips with noblemen. The crime stories had to be fabricated, and I did a good job at that. Overall, the gentleman was quite happy with my work.

About six months had passed, when a gentleman arrived one morning to meet Mr. Parikh. Mr. Parikh had gone out on that day. So, I escorted him to the drawing room and inquired about his visit. He was Mahadev Dutia, the editor of a popular Gujarati monthly magazine named 'Lalita'. I had heard of 'Lalita.' It had a circulation of about one lakh. I said, "Mr. Parikh won't be back before half an hour. If you can tell me about your need, I can certainly pass that information over to him."

Mr. Dutia said, "I'm here to ask him for a story write up. He has been contributing regularly to the 'Sahitya' magazine for the past few months. I liked those stories very much, and was wondering if he can contribute to our magazine too. Our subscriber base is nearly one and half times greater."

"He is writing?" I was a bit puzzled.

"You don't know?" The man was surprised.

"No, not at all."

"Very good stories. His writings have generated a healthy demand. 'Sahitya' is adding new subscribers. Can you read Gujarati?"

"Only a little. It shares some similarities with Hindi."

"Here, take a look at this story."

Mr. Dutia pulled out a magazine from his satchel and opened up a page. I had no problem in deciphering the name of the author.

"Have you read the story?"

"Certainly. A great one."

"Can you give me a gist of the story?"

Mr. Dutia complied and I realized that it was one of my own narrations. That man, Mr. Parikh, wanted to be a story writer, but he lacked plots. So, he was passing original stories heard from others as his own. Now, I could realize why he was looking for a Bengali storyteller. If I were a Gujarati, I could have found out his plans a long ago. I need not had to come across Mr. Dutia to realize that.

I asked him, "Do you want to wait? Or you want to come back another day? Of course I can let Mr. Parikh know."

"I will be back. How about tomorrow morning?"

"Well, if you come around eleven o'clock, that should be ok. Mr. Parikh is a late riser."

Mr. Dutia left.

I tried to understand the whole situation. It was fairly straightforward. This guy was simply exploiting me without my knowledge just to build his reputation.No, this couldn't go on, I had to do something. This malfeasance could not be tolerated.

I didn't expect this man to stoop so low.

The next day, I saw from my window an old Ford pulling up in front of Mr. Parikh's house at eleven o'clock. Mr. Dutia got off the car. I thought I better keep an eye on the 'Lalita' magazine in case Mr. Parikh had published any story. But, then, what was the solution? I couldn't let this sham to continue.

That night, I got a call. I went. Mr. Parikh wanted to listen to a story. I was prepared. So, I narrated. After I was done, he applauded me and remarked, "This is one of your best!"

A month had passed. By then, I had narrated eight-to-ten stories. One morning I was sitting in my room while Mr. Parikh was out. Suddenly, Hiralal, Mr. Parikh's nephew, appeared. He announced that there was a phone call.
I went downstairs to Mr. Parikh's office. When I picked up the phone and said "hello," I realized that Mr. Dutia, the editor of 'Lalita', was on the other end. He asked, "Is it true that Mr. Parikh is not at home?"

"No, he has gone out for a while."

"I need him urgently. Can you kindly come to my office? You will find the address in the telephone directory."

I asked, "How far is your office from here?"

"It will take you ten minutes by taxi."

"Ok, I'll be there."

'Lalita's office was a testament of their financial well-being. Mr. Dutia was sitting behind a large table in a spacious room with several telephones in front of him. Seeing me, he quivered with excitement, "This is a serious situation!"
"What's the matter?"


"Mr. Parikh sent us a story – a fine one. We published it. Since then, we've received at least one hundred fifty letters – the readers claimed that the story has been plagiarized – ascertaining that the original author is none other than Bengal's own Saratchandra Chattopadhyay."

November 2, 2013

Princeton, NJ

(Original illustrations by Satyajit Roy.)