Satyajit Ray was probably one of the greatest film directors that the world has seen. His grasp of humanity and emotions were extraordinary. Though outside India he is not known for his writing but he was a great children's story writer. Supposedly he was responsible for the movie story, which Steven Spielberg made the classic movie E.T.. He and his friend Arthur C Clark went to an agent who first registered the story in his and Ray's name even when he had not written a single word in it. Then he went on to sell it without sharing any money with Satyajit Ray.
This story was published in September of 1985 in the magazine called 'Target'. I used to subscribe to 'Target' in those days. It's out of publication now and I think that children these a days are missing a lot by not being able to read entertaining and yet excellent literature. I loved the magazine then. Last year in the summer while cleaning up my mom discovered almost all 5 to 6 years of worth again. I read them again and loved them again.
I had read this story and it had stayed with me for a long time. Though with the passage of time my memories of it had reduced. I read it again and thought of it as something unique.
I am publishing this story for my own sake. If I am violating any copyrights, please do let me know and I would immediately remove it.
Ashamanja Babu's Dog BY: Satyajit Ray
On a visit to a friend in Hashimara, Ashamanja Babu had one of his long cherished wishes fulfilled. Ashamanja Babu lives in a room and a half, in a flat on Mohani Mohan Road in Bhowanipora. As a clerk in the registry department of Lajpat Rai Post Office, Ashamanja Babu is able to avoid the hassle of riding in trams and buses, because it takes him only seven minutes to walk to work. Not being one of those who sit and brood about what they might have been or done, had Fate been kinder to them, Ashamanju Babu is quite content with his lot. Two Hindi films, dozen packets of cigarettes a month, a fish twice a week – these are enough to keep him happy. But being a bachelor and lacking friends, he had often wished to possess a pet dog. Not a large dog like the Talukdar's Alsatian, two houses away to the east, but a medium sized dog which would keep him company, wag his tail when he comes home from work and show his love and devotion by obeying his orders. One of Ashamanja Babu's pet conceits was to speak to his dog in English. 'Stand Up', 'Sit Down', 'Shake Hands' – how nice it would be if his dog obeyed such commands! Ashamanja Babu liked to believe that dogs belonged to the English race. Yes, an English Dog, and he would be the master. That would make him really happy.
On a cloudy daymarked by a steady drizzle, Ashamanja Babu had gone to the market in Hashimara to buy oranges. At one end of he market sat a Bhutanese by a stunted kul tree holding a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. As their eyes met, the man smiled. Was he a beggar? His clothes seem like one, for there were five patches on his jacket and trousers. But the man didn't have a begging bowl. Instead, by his side was a shoe box with a little pup sticking his head out of it.
"Good morning!" said the Bhutanese in English, his eyes reduced to slits to smile. Ashamanja Babu was obliged to return his greeting.
"Buy dog? Dog buy? Very good Dog." The man had taken the pup out of the box and put it down on the ground. "Very cheap. Very good. Happy Dog."
The pup shook itself free of raindrops, looked at Ashamanja Babu and wagged its two inch tail. Nice pup.
Ashamanja Babu moved closer to the pup, crouched on the ground and put his hands towards it. The pup gave his ring finger a lick with his pink tongue. Nice, friendly pup.
"How much? What price?"
"Ten rupees."
A little haggling, and the price came down seven-fifty. Ashamanja Babu paid the money, put the pup back in the show box, closed the lid to save it from drizzle, and turned homewards forgetting all about the oranges.
Biren Babu, who worked in the Hashimara State Bank, didn't know of his friend's wish to own a dog. He was naturally surprised and a bit alarmed to see what the shoe box contained. But when he heard the price. He heaved a sigh of relief. He said in a tone of mild reprimand, "Why come all the way to buy a mongrel? You could have easily bought one in Bhowanipore. "
That was not true. Ashamanja Babu knew it. He had often seen mongrel pups in the streets in his neighbourhood. None of them had ever wagged their tail at him or licked his fingers. Whatever Biren might say, this dog was something special. But the fact that the pup was a mongrel was something of a disappointment to Ashamanja Babu, and he said so. But Biren Babu's retort came sharp and quick. "But do you know what it means to keep a pedigreed dog as a pet? The vet's fee would cost you half a month's salary. With this dog you have no worries. You don't need a special diet for him. He will eat what you eat. But don't give him fish, fish is for cats, dogs have trouble with bones.
Back in Calcutta, it occurred to Ashamanja Babu that he had to think of a name for the pup. He wanted to give it an English name, but only one he could think of was Tom. Then, looking at the pup one day, it struck him that since it was brown in colour, Brownie would be a good name for it. A cousin of his had a camera of English make called Brownie, so the name must be an English one. The moment he decided on the name and tried it on the pup, it jumped of the wicker stool and padded up to him wagging his tail. Ashamanja Babu said "Sit down". Right away the pup sat on it haunches and opened its mouth in a tiny yawn. Ashamanja Babu had a fleeting vision of Brownie winning the first prize for cleverness in a dog show.
It was lucky that his servant Bipin had also taken a fancy to the dog. While Ashamanja Babu was away at work, Bipin gladly took it upon himself to look after Brownie. Ashamanja Babu had warned Bipin against feeding the dog, rubbish. "And, see that he doesn't go into the streets. The car drivers, drive these a days with the blinkers on." But however much he might instruct his servant, his worry would linger until, after returning from work, he would be greeted by Brownie with wagging his tail.
The incident took place three months after returning from Hashimara. It was a Sunday, and the date was November the 23rd. Ashamanja babu had just returned from work and sat down on the old wooden chair – the only piece of furniture in the room besides the cot—when it suddenly gave under him and wet sprawling on the floor. He was naturally hurt and, in fact, like the rickety leg of the chair, his right elbow was also out of commission, when an unexpected sound made him forget all about his pain.
The sound had come from the bed. It was the sound of laughter or, more accurately, that of giggle, and the source of it was undoubtedly Brownie, who sat on the bed and whose lips were still curled up.
If Ashamanja Babu's general knowledge had been wider, he would surely have known that dogs never laughed. And if had a modicum of imagination, the incident would have robbed him of his sleep. In the absence of either, what Ashamanja Babu did was to sit down with the book 'All about dogs' which he had bought for two rupees from a second-hand book shop in Free School Street. He searched for an hour but found no mention in the book about laughing dogs.
And yet there wasn't the slightest doubt that Brownie had laughed. Not only that, he laughed because there was a cause for laughter. Ashamanja Babu could clearly recall an incident from his childhood. A doctor had come on a visit to their house in Chandernagore and had sat on a chair which had collapsed under him. Ashamanja Babu had burst out laughing, and his ears were twisted by his father for doing so.
Ashamanja Babu shut the book and looked at Brownie. As their eyes met, Brownie put his front paws on the pillow and wagged his tail, grown an inch and half longer in three months. There was no trace of smile on his face now. Why should there be? To laugh without reason was the sign of a madman. Ashamanja Babu felt relieved that Brownie was not a mad dog.
On two more occasions within a week of this incident, Brownie had occasion to laugh. The first took place at night, at nine-thirty. Ashamanja Babu had just spread a white sheet on the floor for Brownie to sleep on when a cockroach came fluttering into the room and settled on the wall. Ashamanja Babu picked up his slipper, and flung it at the insect. But it missed the target, landed on hanging mirror, and sent it crashing to the floor. This time Brownie's laughter prevented him from regretting the loss of his mirror.
The second time it was not laughter, but a brief snicker. Ashamanja Babu was puzzled, because nothing really had happened. So why the snicker? The answer was provided by servant Bipin. He came into the room and glanced at his master smiling, "There's shaving soap right by your ears. Sir." With his mirror broken, Ashamanja Babu had to use one of the window panes for shaving. He now felt with his fingers and found that Bipin was right.
That Brownie should laugh when the reason was so trifling surprised Ashamanja Babu a great deal. Sitting at his desk in the post office, he found his thought turning again and again to the smile on Brownie's face and sound of snickering. 'All about dogs' may say nothing about a dog's laughter, but he could get hold of something like and encyclopedia of dogs, there was sure to be a mention of laughter in it.
When four book shops in Bhowanipore, and all the ones in New Market failed to produce such an encyclopedia, Ashamanja Babu wondered whether he should call on Dr. Rajani Chatterji. The retired professor lived not far from his house on the same street. Ashamanja Babu didn't know what subject Rajani Babu had taught, but he had seen through the window of his house many fat books in a book case in what appeared to be the professor's study.
On a Sunday morning, Ashamanja Babu invoked the name of Goddess Durga for good luck and turned up at Prof. Chatterji's. He had seen Prof. Chatterji several times from a distance, and had no idea he had such a thick eyebrows and voice so grating. But since the professor hadn't turned him away, Ashamanja Babu took courage in occupying a seat on a sofa across the room from him. Then he gave a shot cough and waited. Professor Chatterji put aside the news paper and turned his attention to the visitor.
"Your face seems familiar."
"I live close by."
"I see. Well?"
"I have seen a dog in your house, that is why ….."
"So what? We have two dogs, not one."
"I see. I have one too."
"Are you employed to count the number of dogs in the city?"
Being a simple man, Ashamanja Babu missed the sarcasm in the question. He said, "I have come to ask you something I've been looking for."
"What is it?"
"I wonder of you have a dog encyclopedia."
"No I don't. Why do you need one?"
"You see, my dog laughs. So I wanted to find out if it was natural for dogs to laugh?"
Throughout the time it took the wall clock in the room to strike eight. Prof. Chatterji kept looking at Ashamanja Babu. Then he asked: "Does your dog laugh at night?"
"Well yes, even at night."
"And what are your preferences in drugs? Only ganja can't produce such symptoms. Perhaps you take Charas and Hashish as well."
Ashamanja Babu meekly answered that his only vice was smoking; and even that he had reduced from four packets a week to three ever since the arrival of his dog."
"And, yet you say your dog laughs?"
"I have seen and heard him laugh, with my own eyes and ears."
"Listen." Prof. Chatterji took off his spectacles, cleaned them with the handkerchief, put them on again and fixed Ashamanja Babu with a hard stare. Then he declaimed in the tones of a class room lecture: "I am amazed at your ignorance concerning a fundamental fact of nature. Of all creatures created by God, only human species is capable of laughter. This is one of prime difference between homo sapiens and other creatures. Don't ask me why it should be so, because I do not know. I have heard that a marine species called the dolphin has a sense of humour. Dolphin may be single exception. Besides them there are none. It is not clearly understood why human beings should laugh. Great philosophers have racked their brains to find out why; but have not succeeded. Do you understand?"
Ashamanja Babu understood, and he also understood that it was time for him to take his leave because the professor had once again taken up his paper.
Dr. Sukhomoy Bhowmick – some called him Dr. Bhow-wow-mick- was a well know vet, in the belief that if ordinary people didn't listen to him, a vet might, Ashamanja Babu made an appointment with him on the phone and turned up at his residence on Gokhale Road; Brownie had laughed seventeen times during last four months. One thing Ashamanja Babu has noticed is that brownie doesn't laugh at funny remarks only at funny incidents. Ashamanja Babu had recited Kings of Bombardia to Brownie, and it had produced no effect on him. And yet when a patato from a curry slipped from Ashamanja Babu's fingers and landed on a plate of curd, Brownie had almost chocked with laughter. Prof. Chaterji had said that none of God's creatures laughed except human beings, and yet here was proof that the learned gentleman was wrong.
So Ashamanja Babu went to the vet inspite of knowing that the latter changed twenty rupees per visit.
Even before he had heard of the dog's unique trait, its very appearance had the vet's eyebrows shooting up. "I've seen mongrels but never one like this."
The vet lifted the dog and placed him on the table. Brownie sniffed at the table. Brownie sniffed at the brass paper-weight at his feet.
"What do you feed him?"
"He eats what I eat, Sir. He has no pedigree you see …."
Dr. Bhowmick frowned. He was observing the dog with great interest. "We can tell a pedigreed dog when we see one. But sometimes we are not so sure. This one, call him a mongrel. I suggest that you stop feeding him rice and dal. I'll make a diet chart for him."
Ashamanja Babu now made an attempt to come out with the real reason for his visit. "I-er, my dog has a speciality-which is why I have brought him to you."
"What is it?"
"The dog laughs."
"Laughs---?"
"Yes, Laughs like you and me."
"You don't say! Well can you make him laugh now so I can see?"
And now Ashamanja Babu was in a quandary. As it is he was a very shy person, so he was quite unable to make faces at Brownie to make him laugh. Nor was it likely that something funny should happen here at this very moment. So Ashamanja Babu had to tell the doctor that Brownie didn't laugh when asked to, but only when he saw something funny happening.
After this Dr. Bhowmick didn't have much time left for Ashamanja Babu. He said, " Your dog looks distinctive enough; don't try to make him more so by claiming that he laughs. I can tell you from my twenty-two years' experience that dogs cry, dogs feel afraid, dogs sow anger, hatred, distrust and jealousy. Dogs even dream but dogs don't laugh."
After this encounter, Ashamanja Babu decided that he would never tell anyone about Brownie's laughter. When immediate proof was not forthcoming, to talk about it matter if others never knew? He himself knew, Brownie was his own dog, his own property. Why drag outsiders into their own private world?
But man proposes, God disposes. Even Brownie's laughter was one day revealed to an outsider.
For some time now, Ashamanja Babu had developed the habit of taking Brownie for a walk in the afternoon near the Victoria Memorial. One April day, in the middle of their walk, a big storm came up suddenly. Ashamanja Babu glanced at the sky and decided that it wasn't safe to try to get back home now, as it might start raining any moment. So he ran with Brownie and took shelter below the marble arch with the black equestrian statue on it.
Meanwhile, huge drops of rain had started to fall and people were running this way and that for shelter. A stout man in white bush shirt and trousers, twenty paces away from the arch, opened his umbrella and held it over his head when a sudden strong gust of wind turned the umbrella inside out with a loud snap.
To tell the truth, Ashamanja Babu was himself about to burst out laughing, but Brownie beat him by neck with a canine guffaw which rose above the sound of the storm and reached the year of the hapless gentleman. He stopped trying to bring the umbrella back to its original shape and stared at Brownie in utter amazement. Brownie was now quite helpless with laughter; Ashamanja Babu had given up trying to suppress it by clapping his hand over his mouth.
The dumbfounded gentleman now walked over to Ashamanja Babu as if he had seen a ghost. Brownie's paroxysm was now subsiding, but it was still enough to make the gentleman's eye pop out of his head.
"A laughing dog."
"Yes, a laughing dog," said Ashamanja Babu.
"But how extraordinary."
Ashamanja Babu could make out that the man was not a Bengali. Perhaps he was Guajarati or a Parsi. Ashamanja Babu braced himself to answer in English the questions he knew he would soon be flooded with.
The rain had turned into heavy shower. The gentleman took shelter alongside Ashamanja Babu, and in ten minutes had found out all that there was to know about Brownie. He also took Ashamanja Babu's address. He said his name was Pillo Pochkanwalla that he knew a lot about dogs and wrote about them occasionally, and that is his experience today has surpassed everything that had ever happened to him, or was likely to happen in the future. He felt something had to be done about it, since Ashamanja babu himself was obviously unaware of what a priceless treasure he owned.
It wouldn't be wrong to say that Brownie was partly responsible for Mr. Pochkanwalla being knocked down by a mini bus while crossing Chowringee Road soon after the rain had stopped; it was the thought of the laughing dog running through his head which made him a little mindful of the traffic. After spending two and half months in the hospital, Pochkanwalla had gone to Nainital for a change. He had come back to Calcutta after a month in the hills; the same evening had described the incident of the laughing dog to his friends Mr. Balporia and Mr. Biswas at the Bengal Club. Within half an hour, the story had reached the ears of twenty seven other members and three office bearers of the Club. By next morning, the incident was known to at least a thousand citizens of Calcutta.
Brownie hadn't laughed once during these three and half months. One good reason was that no funny incidents had occurred in his presence. Ashamanja Babu didn't see it as a cause of alarm; the thought had never crossed his mind to cash in on Brownie's unique gift. He was happy in the way Brownie had filled a yawning gap in his life. T o tell the truth, he had never felt so drawn to any human being.
Among those who got the news of the laughing dog was an executive in the office of The Statesman. He sent for the reporter Rajat Chowdhury and suggested that he should interview Ashamanja Babu. That Ashamanja Babu was a clerk in the Lajpat Rai post office had been mentioned by Pochkanwalla.
Ashamanja Babu was greatly surprised that a reporter should think of calling on him. It was when Rajat Chowdhury mentioned Poochkanwalla that the reason for the visit became clear. Ashamanja Babu asked the reporter into the bedroom. The wooden chair had been fitted with a new leg, and Ashamanaja Babu offered it to the reporter while he himself sat on the bed. Brownie had been observing a line of ants crawling up the wall; he now jumped up on the bed and sat beside Ashamanja Babu.
Rajat Chowdhury was about to press the switch of his recorder when it suddenly occurred to Ashamanja Babu that a word of warning is needed. "By the way, sir, my dog used to laugh quite frequently, but in the last few months he hasn't laughed at all. So you may be disappointed if you are expecting to see him laughing."
Like many young energetic reporters, Rajat Chowdhury exuded a cheerful confidence in the presence of a good story. Although the information caused a slight disappointment, he was careful not to show it. He said, "That's all right, I just want to get some details from you. To start with, his name. What do you call your dog?"
Ashamanja Babu craned his neck to reach closer to the mike. "Brownie."
"Brownie….." The watchful eye of the reporter had noted that the dog wagged his tail at the mention of his name. "How old is he?"
"A year and a month."
"Where did you find the dog?"
This had happened before. The impediment Rajat Chowdhury suffered from often showed itself in the middle of interviews, causing him no end of embarrassment. Here too the same thing might have happened but for the fact that the stammer was unexpectedly helpful in drawing out Brownie's unique trait. Thus Rajat Chowdhury was second outsider after Pochkanwalla to see with his own eyes a dog laughing like human being.
The morning of the following Sunday, sitting in the air-conditioned room in the Grand Hotel. Mr. William. P. Moody of Cincinnati, USA, read in the newspapers about the laughing dog and at once asked the hotel operator to put him through to Mr. Nandy of the Indian Tourist Bureau. That Mr. Nandy knew his way about the city had been made abundantly clear in the last couple of days that Mr. Moody had occasion to use his services. The Statesman had printed the name and the address of the owner of the laughing dog. Mr. Moody was very anxious to meet this character.
Ashamanja Babu didn't read The Statesman. Besides, Rajat Chowdhury hadn't told him when the interview would come out, or he might have bought a copy. It was in the fish market that his neighbour Kalikrishna Dutt told him about it.
"You are a fine man," said Mr. Dutt. "You have been guarding such a treasure in your house for over a year, and you haven't breathed a word to anybody about it? I must drop into your place sometime this evening and say hello to your dog."
Ashamanja Babu's heart sank. He could see there was trouble ahead. There were many more like Mr. Dutt in and around his neighbourhood who read The Statesman and who would want to drop in and say hello to his dog. A most unnerving prospect.
Ashamanja Babu made up his mind. He decided to spend the day away from home. Taking Brownie with him, he took a taxi for the first time, went straight to Ballygunge station and boarded a train to Port Canning. Half way through, the train pulled up at a station called Talit. Ashamanja Babu liked the look of the place and got off. He spent the whole day in quite bamboo groves and mango orchards and felt greatly refreshed. Brownie, too, seemed to enjoy himself. The gentle smile that played around his lips was something Ashamanja Babu had never noticed before. This was benign smile, a smile of peace and contentment, a smile of inner happiness. Ashamanja Babu had read somewhere that a year in life of a dog equaled seven years in life of a human being. And yet he could scarcely imagine such tranquil behaviour in such sylvan surroundings from a seven year old human child.
It was past seven in the evening when Ashamanja Babu got back home. He asked Bipin if anyone had called. Bipin said he had to open the door to callers at least forty times. Ashamanja Babu couldn't help congratulating himself on his foresight. He had just taken off his shoes and asked Bipin for a cup of tea when there was a knock on the front door. "Oh, hell!" swore Ashamanja Babu. He went to the door and opened it, and found himself facing a foreigner. "Wrong number." He was at the point of saying, when he caught sight of a Bengali standing behind the foreigner. "Whom do you want?"
"You," said Shyamol Nandy of the Indian Tourist Bureau, "in case of the dog standing behind you belongs to you, He certainly looks like the one described in the papers today. May we come in?"
Ashamanja Babu was obliged to ask them into his bedroom. The foreigner sat in the chair, Mr. Nandy on a wicker stool, and Ashamanja Babu on his bed. Brownie, who seemed a bit it'll at ease, chose to stay outside the threshold; probably because he had never seen two strangers in the room before.
"Brownie! Brownie! Brownie! Brownie!" The foreigner had leaned forward towards the dog and called him repeatedly by name to entice him into the room. Brownie, who didn't move, had his eyes fixed on the stranger.
Who are these people? The question had naturally occurred to Ashamanja Babu when Mr. Nandy provided the answer. The foreigner was a wealthy and distinguished citizen of the United States whose main purpose in coming to India was to look for old Rolls Royce cars.
The American had now got off the chair and, sitting on his haunches, was making faces at the dog.
After three minutes of abortive clowning, the man gave up, turned to Ashamanja Babu and said, "Is he sick?"
Ashamanja Babu shook his head.
"Does he really laugh?" asked the American.
In case Ashamanja Babu was unable to follow the American's speech, Mr. Nandy translated it for him.
"Brownie laughs," said Ashamanja Babu, "but only when he feels amused."
A tinge of red spread over the American's face when Nandy translated Ashamanja Babu's answer to him. Next, he let be known that he wasn't willing to squander any money on the dog unless he had proof that the dog really laughed. He refused to be saddled with something which might later cause embarrassment. He further let it be known that in his house he had precious objects from China to Peru, and had parrot which spoke only Latin. "I had brought my cheque book with me to pay for the laughing dog but only if he laughed."
The American now pulled out a blue cheque book from his pocket to prove his statement. Ashamanja babu glanced at it from the corner of his eyes. City Bank of New York, it said on the cover.
"You would be walking on air," said Mr. Nandy temptingly. "If you know a way to make the dog laugh then out with it. This gentleman is ready to pay up to 20,000 dollars. That's two lakh rupees. "
The Bible says that the God created the universe in seven days. A human being, using his imagination, can do the same in seven seconds. The image that Mr. Nandy's word conjured up in Ashamanja babu's mind was himself in a spacious air conditioned room, sitting in a swivel chair with the heady smell of hasu-no-hana wafting in through the window. But the image vanished like a pricked balloon at a sudden sound.
Brownie was laughing.
This was like no laugh he had ever laughed before.
"But he is laughing."
Mr. Moody had gone down on his knees, tense with excitement, watching the extraordinary spectacle. The cheque book came out again and, along with that, his gold Parker pen.
Brownie was still laughing. Ashamanja Babu was puzzled because he couldn't make out the reason for the laughter, nobody had stammered, nobody had stumbled, nobody's umbrella had turned inside out, no mirror on the wall had been hit with a slipper. Why then was Brownie laughing?
"You are very lucky," commented Mr. Nandy. "I think I ought to get a percentage on the sale – wouldn't you say so?"
Mr. Moody had now risen from the floor and had sat down on the chair. He said, "Ask him how he spells his name."
Although Mr. Nandy had relayed the question in Bengali, Ashamanja Babu didn't answer, because he had just seen the light and filled his heart with great sense of wonder. Instead of spelling his name, he said, "Please tell the foreign gentleman that if he only knew why the dog was laughing, he wouldn't have opened his cheque book."
"Why don't you tell me?" Mr. Nandy snapped in a dry voice. He certainly didn't like the way events were shaping. If the mission failed, he knew the American's wrath will fall on him.
Brownie had at last stopped laughing. Ashamanja Babu lifted him up in his lap, wiped his tears and said, "My dog is laughing because the gentleman thinks money can buy everything."
"I see," said Mr. Nandy. "So your dog's a philosopher, is he?"
"Yes, sir."
"That means you won't sell him?" Nandy's face sat tightly.
"No sir."
To Mr. Moody Shyamol Nandy only said that the owner had no intention of selling the dog. Mr. Moody put the cheque book back in his pocket, slapped the dust of his knees and, on his way out of the room, said with the shake of his head, "This guy must be crazy."
When the sound of the American car faded away, Ashamanja Babu looked into Brownie's eyes and said, "I was right about why you laughed, wasn't I?"
Brownie chuckled in assent.
