Once with Satyajit Ray

I cannot recollect the day or date. It was in the eighties. I was young. I was in Kolkata on a short tour. During attending to many things in the metropolis I thought to meet Satyajit Ray, the great writer and filmmaker. It was indeed a matter of pride to get a chance to meet the great man in person. I could, for reasons. My office in Delhi, decided to publish a collection of Bengali short stories for children to translate the collection into 12 Indian languages including English, and obviously no such collection can be without one written by him. We selected one, ‘Khagam’, the fantasy story, one of his bests.

I took the opportunity being the boss of the Bengali language publications of our office. We had to pay him Rs. 100/- for the story, and we needed his signature on a claim form for the amount as a pre-receipt. I considered this an embarrassment to both of us, a national publishing house and him, a man of such a great stature, to send him first the form from Delhi and getting it back with his signature on a 10 paise revenue stamp, and then send the payment by cheque. Instead I decided to take the form to him; I was carrying them in bunch for other payments.

At the Albert House Coffee House (famous College Street Coffee House), among the friends, I declared, ‘I am going to meet Satyajit babu, anybody to be with me?’ True, it was more to show them my exclusive proximity to the mighty man. The trick clicked. Everyone wanted to know if I had any prior appointment for the visit. Obviously there was none. I boasted, ‘I can fix it now. No problem’, since the going came to my mind that moment only.

‘Impossible! He never allow anyone at latter’s will’, said a university lecturer friend (Sabyasachi Dev of Presidency College? )

I shirked and said, ‘I know that. Even so I will get one. And now. He will let me in once he knows it was me.’ Friends present took no time to boo at me. But I knew, no writer of any stature can ignore a publisher, come what may.

C.D. Kumar, one my friends, a State Bank officer then, now a famous small screen actor (’Judge Saheb’ in today’s popular Bengali serial, ‘Maa’), trusted my boasting, and agreed to accompany me. We went out and rang up Satyajit’s residence, talked to his wife, Bijaya Devi, and, after consulting the genius cupping the phone, she asked me to reach within an hour or so.

We took a taxi and knocked the door of famous 7, Bishop Lefroy Road apartment near now known Exide crossing. To our delight and amazement, the tall Palm tree opened the wide and huge Victorian door, and bended (he is too tall) to welcome us.
Oh, what a place! I had seen that room in several books and magazines. Now the room was in 360 angle before me .He showed us our place to sit (now I don’t recollect if it were wooden three seater) and stepped for his famous chair, sat on it, lifted and bended his knees to rest tows on a low height square footrest-- his worldwide well-known ‘when-in- work’ position. Tea took no time to reach us.

Kumar, my friend, had a paperback book in his hand. Ray was looking at it, but did not let Kumar feel better asking for it from him. Kumar could follow the signal and felt great in offering him the book for a look. He flipped its pages, and we could know from his face and eyes, he had already gone through it.

I placed the form before him with the stamp already pasted on it to get his signature. He signed. I looked on. It streaked through me, should I ask him to put his signature on by back? My official position held me back. I was an honorable publisher of a great hand and mind of the time then.

Before he could hand over the form, his phone rang up. We could make, it was from one film actors/directors organization, to which he held an important position. There might have been some problem, for which they were soliciting his advice. But Ray was a different man. That moment I had my life’s one of the most useful teaching from his stern voice to them: ‘I have lots of problems of mine to solve, I am not interested for more.’ (The exact words I fail to record here).

He hanged the phone and asked about our organization’s working in various related fields. We were also translating his Shanku stories through his illustrious aunt, Leela Majumdar. But he was not happy with the translation it seemed. He expressed his strong disapproval for the quality of translation we have received. He said to me, ‘I will ask Pishi (aunt) about it’. I got the chance to tighten my belt in time.

Now we were to leave, though I wanted to continue with whatever discussion to benefit myself with the longest possible stay with him that too in his room, but he signaled well clear. We raised ourselves. He stepped to the door first, held one of its planks wide open to let us out. Kumar was to step out first.

I was about to, one step on the door mat, the other yet to pull out, the palm tree bended over me and asked softly, ‘Arunbabu, when the payment would reach me?’ I was stunned for a moment, looked at the carefully rolled 100 rupee value  pre-receipt I was still holding, and looked up to assure the mighty, ‘It will be soon. As soon as I reach Delhi.’ He smiled. I do not know for what. Did he find me a nice guy? Did he discover my office an inefficient work house? Or did he felt assured of Rs. 100/-?

On my face the door closed slowly and elegantly.