Unseen Prose Passage

Ashamanja Babu lived in a small flat in Bhowanipore. A clerk in the registry department of Lajpat Rai Post Office, Ashamanja Babu was fortunate as he could walk to his office in seven minutes flat without having to fight his way into the buses and trains of Calcutta. He lived a rather carefree life as he was not the kind of person to sit and brood about what might have been had fate been kinder to him. On the whole, he was quite content with his lot. Two Hindi films and fish twice a week — these were enough to keep him happy. The only thing that perturbed him at times was his lack of companionship. A bachelor with few friends and relatives, he often wished he had a dog to keep him company. It need not be a huge Alsatian like the one owned by the Talukdars, who lived two houses down the lane; it could be any ordinary little dog which would follow him. On a cloudy day marked by a steady drizzle, Ashamanja Babu went to the market in Hashimara to buy some oranges. At one end of the market, beside a stunted kul tree, sat a man. As their eyes met, the man smiled. Was he a beggar? His clothes made him look like one. Ashamanja Babu noticed at least five sewn-on patches on his trousers and jacket. But the man didn’t have a begging bowl. Instead, by his side was a shoe-box with a little pup sticking its head out of it. ‘Good morning!’ said the man in English. Ashamanja Babu was obliged to return the greeting. "Buy dog? Dog buy? Very good dog." The man had taken the pup out of the box and had put it down on the ground. ‘Very cheap. Very good. Happy dog.’ The pup shook the raindrops off its coat, looked at Ashamanja Babu and wagged its minuscule two-inch tail. Ashamanja Babu moved closer to the pup, crouched on the ground and stretched out his hand. The pup gave his ring finger a lick with its pink tongue. Nice, friendly dog. ‘How much? What price?’ ‘Ten rupees.’ A little haggling and the price came down to seven rupees. Ashamanja Babu paid the money, put the pup back in the shoe-box, closed the lid to save it from the drizzle, and turned homewards, forgetting all about the oranges. — Ashamanja Babu’s Dog by Satyajit Ray

Ashamanja Babu lived in a small flat in Bhowanipore. A clerk in the registry department of Lajpat Rai Post Office, Ashamanja Babu was fortunate as he could walk to his office in seven minutes flat without having to fight his way into the buses and trains of Calcutta. He lived a rather carefree life as he was not the kind of person to sit and brood about what might have been had fate been kinder to him. On the whole, he was quite content with his lot. Two Hindi films and fish twice a week — these were enough to keep him happy. The only thing that perturbed him at times was his lack of companionship. A bachelor with few friends and relatives, he often wished he had a dog to keep him company. It need not be a huge Alsatian like the one owned by the Talukdars, who lived two houses down the lane; it could be any ordinary little dog which would follow him. On a cloudy day marked by a steady drizzle, Ashamanja Babu went to the market in Hashimara to buy some oranges. At one end of the market, beside a stunted kul tree, sat a man. As their eyes met, the man smiled. Was he a beggar? His clothes made him look like one. Ashamanja Babu noticed at least five sewn-on patches on his trousers and jacket. But the man didn’t have a begging bowl. Instead, by his side was a shoe-box with a little pup sticking its head out of it. ‘Good morning!’ said the man in English. Ashamanja Babu was obliged to return the greeting. "Buy dog? Dog buy? Very good dog." The man had taken the pup out of the box and had put it down on the ground. ‘Very cheap. Very good. Happy dog.’ The pup shook the raindrops off its coat, looked at Ashamanja Babu and wagged its minuscule two-inch tail. Ashamanja Babu moved closer to the pup, crouched on the ground and stretched out his hand. The pup gave his ring finger a lick with its pink tongue. Nice, friendly dog. ‘How much? What price?’ ‘Ten rupees.’ A little haggling and the price came down to seven rupees. Ashamanja Babu paid the money, put the pup back in the shoe-box, closed the lid to save it from the drizzle, and turned homewards, forgetting all about the oranges. — Ashamanja Babu’s Dog by Satyajit Ray

That huge bell never stopped ringing. It got us out of bed, it summoned us for meals, it rang between class periods, it sent us unwillingly to bed. One morning it failed to ring, or rather, there was no bell to ring. Someone had removed it, and it wasn’t found till late in the afternoon. What a glorious day! As there was no bell to rouse us, everyone got up late, and there was no morning PT. Some of us missed breakfast too. The teachers got confused and mixed up their classes. How could the school manage without it? Confusion reigned. Of course, no one owned up. It could have meant expulsion. Some suspicion fell on the Sports Captain because of our aversion to morning PT, but nothing could be proved. No one was very anxious to find the bell — we were quite happy without it — but it was finally discovered hanging from a branch of one of the trees. ‘It may have been Mr. Sharma,’ surmised Brian. Mr. Sharma, our Maths teacher, was known to walk in his sleep. And sleepwalkers did funny things sometimes. "It could be Mool Chand himself," suggested Cyrus Satralkar. Mool Chand was the school chowkidar, who also had the job of banging the brass bell at appointed times. "Why would he throw it away?" "He must be as fed up with ringing it as we are of hearing it." This was my theory. "Perhaps he wants a rise in salary." The identity of the culprit remained a mystery. Happily, the senior Hockey team went on a winning spree against all corners, and our month-end exits were restored. But soon there was another sensation. A girl was admitted to our class! The boys were scandalized. No girl had ever studied in our school before. We protested. "What’s the problem?" asked Mr. Knight, our class master. "Haven’t you seen a girl before?" "But — but. Sir..." Tata was our spokesman. "How will we concentrate on our studies?" "When did you ever concentrate on your studies, Tata?" "Are we going co-ed, sir?" Adams wanted to know. "Not at all," said Mr. Knight. "This is a special case. She is the school accounts manager’s daughter, and he can’t afford the Girls school fees. So, I’m sure you’ll make her feel very welcome." The accountant was a popular man who also ran the school’s tuck shop and allowed most of us a certain amount of credit. All our objections faded away. At first, Sunita, our new entrant, was a bit of a distraction because, although she was very shy and demure, she had lovely curly hair, bright eyes, pink cheeks and a smile for everyone. All the boys were very polite and attentive to her and Brian in particular was always ready to help her. — Collection of Stories, Ruskin Bond

That huge bell never stopped ringing. It got us out of bed, it summoned us for meals, it rang between class periods, it sent us unwillingly to bed. One morning it failed to ring, or rather, there was no bell to ring. Someone had removed it, and it wasn’t found till late in the afternoon. What a glorious day! As there was no bell to rouse us, everyone got up late, and there was no morning PT. Some of us missed breakfast too. The teachers got confused and mixed up their classes. How could the school manage without it? Confusion reigned. Of course, no one owned up. It could have meant expulsion. Some suspicion fell on the Sports Captain because of our aversion to morning PT, but nothing could be proved. No one was very anxious to find the bell — we were quite happy without it — but it was finally discovered hanging from a branch of one of the trees. ‘It may have been Mr. Sharma,’ surmised Brian. Mr. Sharma, our Maths teacher, was known to walk in his sleep. And sleepwalkers did funny things sometimes. "It could be Mool Chand himself," suggested Cyrus Satralkar. Mool Chand was the school chowkidar, who also had the job of banging the brass bell at appointed times. "Why would he throw it away?" "He must be as fed up with ringing it as we are of hearing it." This was my theory. "Perhaps he wants a rise in salary." The identity of the culprit remained a mystery. Happily, the senior Hockey team went on a winning spree against all corners, and our month-end exits were restored. But soon there was another sensation. A girl was admitted to our class! The boys were scandalized. No girl had ever studied in our school before. We protested. "What’s the problem?" asked Mr. Knight, our class master. "Haven’t you seen a girl before?" "But — but. Sir..." Tata was our spokesman. "How will we concentrate on our studies?" "When did you ever concentrate on your studies, Tata?" "Are we going co-ed, sir?" Adams wanted to know. "Not at all," said Mr. Knight. "This is a special case. She is the school accounts manager’s daughter, and he can’t afford the Girls school fees. So, I’m sure you’ll make her feel very welcome." The accountant was a popular man who also ran the school’s tuck shop and allowed most of us a certain amount of credit. All our objections faded away. At first, Sunita, our new entrant, was a bit of a distraction because, although she was very shy and demure, she had lovely curly hair, bright eyes, pink cheeks and a smile for everyone. All the boys were very polite and attentive to her and Brian in particular was always ready to help her. — Collection of Stories, Ruskin Bond

That huge bell never stopped ringing. It got us out of bed, it summoned us for meals, it rang between class periods, it sent us unwillingly to bed. One morning it failed to ring, or rather, there was no bell to ring. Someone had removed it, and it wasn’t found till late in the afternoon. What a glorious day! As there was no bell to rouse us, everyone got up late, and there was no morning PT. Some of us missed breakfast too. The teachers got confused and mixed up their classes. How could the school manage without it? Confusion reigned. Of course, no one owned up. It could have meant expulsion. Some suspicion fell on the Sports Captain because of our aversion to morning PT, but nothing could be proved. No one was very anxious to find the bell — we were quite happy without it — but it was finally discovered hanging from a branch of one of the trees. ‘It may have been Mr. Sharma,’ surmised Brian. Mr. Sharma, our Maths teacher, was known to walk in his sleep. And sleepwalkers did funny things sometimes. "It could be Mool Chand himself," suggested Cyrus Satralkar. Mool Chand was the school chowkidar, who also had the job of banging the brass bell at appointed times. "Why would he throw it away?" "He must be as fed up with ringing it as we are of hearing it." This was my theory. "Perhaps he wants a rise in salary." The identity of the culprit remained a mystery. Happily, the senior Hockey team went on a winning spree against all corners, and our month-end exits were restored. But soon there was another sensation. A girl was admitted to our class! The boys were scandalized. No girl had ever studied in our school before. We protested. "What’s the problem?" asked Mr. Knight, our class master. "Haven’t you seen a girl before?" "But — but. Sir..." Tata was our spokesman. "How will we concentrate on our studies?" "When did you ever concentrate on your studies, Tata?" "Are we going co-ed, sir?" Adams wanted to know. "Not at all," said Mr. Knight. "This is a special case. She is the school accounts manager’s daughter, and he can’t afford the Girls school fees. So, I’m sure you’ll make her feel very welcome." The accountant was a popular man who also ran the school’s tuck shop and allowed most of us a certain amount of credit. All our objections faded away. At first, Sunita, our new entrant, was a bit of a distraction because, although she was very shy and demure, she had lovely curly hair, bright eyes, pink cheeks and a smile for everyone. All the boys were very polite and attentive to her and Brian in particular was always ready to help her. — Collection of Stories, Ruskin Bond

No one had ever seen Bonku Babu get cross. To tell the truth, it was difficult to imagine what he might say or do, if one day he did get angry. It was not as if there was never any reason for him to lose his temper. For the last twenty-two years, Bonku Babu had taught Geography and Bengali at the Primary School. Every year, a new batch of students replaced the old one, but old or new, the tradition of teasing poor Bonku Babu continued among all the students. Some drew his picture on the blackboard, others put glue on his chair or, on the night of Kali Puja, they lit a ‘chasing rocket’ and set it off to chase him. Bonku Babu did not get upset by any of this. Only sometimes, he cleared his throat and said, "Shame on you, boys!" One of the reasons for maintaining his calm was simply that he could not afford to do otherwise. If he did lose his temper and left his job in a fit of pique, he knew how difficult it would then be to find another, at his age. Another reason was that in every class, there were always a few good students, even if the rest of the class was full of pranksters. Teaching his handful of good boys was so rewarding to Bonku Babu, that alone made life as a teacher worth living. At times, he invited those boys to his house, offered them snacks and told them tales of foreign lands and exciting adventures. He told them about life in Africa, the discovery of the North Pole, the fish in Brazil that ate human flesh, and about Atlantis, the continent submerged under the sea. He was a good storyteller, and he had his audience enthralled. During the weekend, Bonku Babu went to the lawyer, Sripati Majumdar’s house, to spend the evenings with other regulars. On a number of occasions, he had come back thinking, "Enough, never again!" The reason was simply that he could put up with the pranks played by the boys in his school, but when grown, even middle-aged men started making fun of him, it became too much to bear. At these meetings that Sripati Babu hosted in the evenings, nearly everyone poked fun at Bonku Babu, sometimes bringing his endurance to breaking point. Only the other day, less than two months ago, they were talking about ghosts. Usually, Bonku Babu kept his mouth shut. That day, for some unknown reason, he opened it and declared that he was not afraid of ghosts. That was all. — From ‘Bonku Babu’s Friend’ by Satyajit Ray

No one had ever seen Bonku Babu get cross. To tell the truth, it was difficult to imagine what he might say or do, if one day he did get angry. It was not as if there was never any reason for him to lose his temper. For the last twenty-two years, Bonku Babu had taught Geography and Bengali at the Primary School. Every year, a new batch of students replaced the old one, but old or new, the tradition of teasing poor Bonku Babu continued among all the students. Some drew his picture on the blackboard, others put glue on his chair or, on the night of Kali Puja, they lit a ‘chasing rocket’ and set it off to chase him. Bonku Babu did not get upset by any of this. Only sometimes, he cleared his throat and said, "Shame on you, boys!" One of the reasons for maintaining his calm was simply that he could not afford to do otherwise. If he did lose his temper and left his job in a fit of pique, he knew how difficult it would then be to find another, at his age. Another reason was that in every class, there were always a few good students, even if the rest of the class was full of pranksters. Teaching his handful of good boys was so rewarding to Bonku Babu, that alone made life as a teacher worth living. At times, he invited those boys to his house, offered them snacks and told them tales of foreign lands and exciting adventures. He told them about life in Africa, the discovery of the North Pole, the fish in Brazil that ate human flesh, and about Atlantis, the continent submerged under the sea. He was a good storyteller, and he had his audience enthralled. During the weekend, Bonku Babu went to the lawyer, Sripati Majumdar’s house, to spend the evenings with other regulars. On a number of occasions, he had come back thinking, "Enough, never again!" The reason was simply that he could put up with the pranks played by the boys in his school, but when grown, even middle-aged men started making fun of him, it became too much to bear. At these meetings that Sripati Babu hosted in the evenings, nearly everyone poked fun at Bonku Babu, sometimes bringing his endurance to breaking point. Only the other day, less than two months ago, they were talking about ghosts. Usually, Bonku Babu kept his mouth shut. That day, for some unknown reason, he opened it and declared that he was not afraid of ghosts. That was all. — From ‘Bonku Babu’s Friend’ by Satyajit Ray