![]() ![]() They were men happily reconciled to their ordinary prosaic lives in a world deeply rooted in Bengali middle-class ethos and traditions. There were men like Ratan Babu, scouring railway timetables to quench their modest but irresistible wanderlust at the first hint of vacation, and men like Patol Babu, confusing chilli pepper for black cumin at the bazaar, euphoric and befuddled at the slightest possibility of satisfying their undying passion for acting. There were men like Badan Babu, who spent their evenings in a desolate corner of Curzon Park, weaving a new story for an invalid son at home, and Bonku Babu, who from their small nest in mofussil towns dreamed of the Aurora Borealis. ![]() An android grew a conscience and then outgrew it to commit murder, and a giant orchid knew malice and cunning, and had blood for sap in its veins.Ĭommenting on his literary works in an interview, Satyajit Ray said, “Actually, I’ve written all types of stories, but I usually like to write about lonely people and things happening to them.” A ventriloquist’s puppet turned grey and died of a heart attack. A dog chuckled when its master fell off a broken chair.
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