Shyamchand’s father held a remarkably senior position in some office under the British, and that obstinacy reflected in every possible angle of his son’s attire and the airs he flaunted.
His routine arrival at school was quite a spectacle! Sporting a stylish collar, a vibrantly colourful umbrella sheltering his precious head, and his supremacy sounding high and loud through the crisp thuds of brand-new leather shoes. Closely followed by a fully uniformed, turban-clad orderly staggering under the weight of his books and tiffin box, it was surely a ceremony!
Though the smaller boys remained awe-struck and dumbfounded by the effect, we had unanimously rechristened him as ‘The Charlatan.’ To compensate for his remarkably frail stature and to gain credibility, Shyamchand maintained a sombre personality. He carried a ‘know-it-all’ attitude and spiced it up with flamboyant statements of wisdom so subtly that everyone from the school security guard to the younger students had the impression, “This is quite a man!”
It created quite a ruckus when Shyamchand came to school brandishing a watch fob one day. Every five minutes, he would take it out of his pocket, put it to his ear to check if the watch was keeping time. He started pointing at every clock and watch on the school premises, desperate to prove each was malfunctioning.
He show-caused the school guard Pandeyji for his carelessness, “Hey you! Why don’t you regulate the school clock when you wind it up daily? It’s due for a service it’s constantly running late!” Even Pandeyji’s predecessors had never heard the terms ‘Regulate’ or ‘Service’! He had merely mastered the art of winding the clock daily, which was hailed as a matter of pride and esteem back in his ancestral village. In order to live up to that fame, he retorted, “Yes, of course, Babusahib, I am going to ‘renglit’ the clock just now!”
Vanquishing the confidence of the old man to smithereens, Shyamchand returned to class triumphant. He was instantly engulfed by a throng of younger boys—his blind fans! With the airs of a weathered horologist, Shyamchand gradually unleashed the wonders of “slow, fast, mainspring, regulate,” and every other mystery of how the clock ticks, to his ardent pupils.
Once, a new teacher who had recently joined our school came to our class and addressed Shyamchand as ‘Khoka’ (meaning ‘little boy’ or ‘lad’). It was, for sure, insult added to injury for the egoist Shyamchand, who, with a severely glum and reddened face tried to resurrect,
“Sir, my name is Shyamchand Ghatak.”
The teacher, not understanding the gravity of this innocent correction, responded,“Shyamchand? Very good. Please take your seat, Khoka.”
For the next few days, practically everyone in the school pestered his pride, chanting “Khoka, Khoka!” whenever he was in sight. But Shyamchand struck back in just a couple of days!
That day, he arrived in class in his impeccable style and pulled out a black, cone-shaped object from his pocket. The new teacher, quite a simpleton, asked, “Are you feverish, Khoka? Is that why you’re carrying a thermometer?” Shyamchand’s answer reverberated with sarcasm, “No way Sir, not a thermometer! It’s a fountain pen!”
A deafening silence prevailed. It was a jaw-dropping situation—a fountain pen? The whole class, including the teacher, thronged to check it out. Shyamchand was busy explaining, “This is a Vulcanite tube, which contains the ink.” A small boy fidgeted out, “Oh, this is a water gun for sure!” Shyamchand, not even caring to answer such stupidity, sidled the comment with an air of ignorance.
Uncapping the pen and displaying its golden nib, he declared, “This is iridium, much more expensive than gold.” The next moment, he caught hold of a notebook and began to write out his full name, smoothly, with the piece of wonder he had introduced to everyone.
All remained awe-struck by the impact, the teacher managing to maintain a sheepish grin!
When Shyamchand handed over the pen to him, he examined it from every possible angle, wrote out two lines, and exclaimed in an overwhelming tone, “What a pen—foreign manufacture, I suppose?” Shyamchand bludgeoned out in full flow, “American Stylo & Fountain Pen Co., Philadelphia.” He had, for sure, made up in style to repair his punctured aura.The Puja vacations were fast approaching. A colossal ‘Shamiyana’ had come up in the school playground to celebrate the festive season—the stage was all set for a show by a renowned magician hired from Kolkata by the school authorities.
On the day of the show, every chair along with the basement, terrace, railings, staircases, and every other spot was filled with dignitaries, invitees, teachers, school staff, and students. It was a full house!
The magic show unfurled before amazed eyes—a spotless white handkerchief instantly transformed into a rainbow of colours with a mere wave of the magic wand. The magician pulled out eleven raw eggs from his mouth, completely intact, after swallowing only a hard-boiled egg! He extracted fifty rupees in total after wringing the long, shabby beard of the Deputy Secretary’s chauffeur!
Then came the moment. The magician asked, “Does anyone have a watch?” Shyamchand bolted out in utter ecstasy, “Here, I do have one!” The magician, after collecting his watch fob, inspected it closely with a serious expression. Then he called out, impressed, “It’s a fantastic watch!” The next moment, he wrapped it up in a sheet of paper and began striking it with full force using a hammer.
After this ruthless act, he unwrapped the paper—now it contained only a few shards of glass and pieces of iron. He turned to Shyamchand and asked, “Is this the same watch you gave me?”
Shyamchand’s expression was far from enviable. Horror was written all over his pitiable face. He tried to speak, again and again, but eventually choked into silence. Finally, with a herculean effort, he managed to pull out a strained smile, wiped his face, and slid back into his chair.
Moments later, when his watch fob was excavated in an unscathed condition from a bread loaf, The Charlatan laughed his heart out, as if he was aware of the trick from the very start!
The show continued with more impressive stunts by the magician and gradually neared completion.
At last, he began asking for various everyday items from the huge audience—pairs of spectacles, rings, wallets, purses, silver pens, expensive pencils, and so on.
When ten to twelve items had accumulated, he placed them on a sheet of cloth and tied them into a neat bundle, all under the stringent vigil of the audience. Then, once again, he called upon Shyamchand and handed the bundle to him, perhaps having developed a special interest in the antics of The Charlatan.
Shyamchand, who had by then regained his composure, seemed elated and overconfident as he struck a gallant pose, playing the role of custodian of the public property entrusted to him.
The magician was however, engrossed in his bizarre lines of action—waving his wand, exaggerated facial expressions, and the typical histrionics practiced by his contingent—was chanting his magic hymns.
Suddenly he stopped, raised his eyebrows, and inquired in a pensive tone, “Where are the items?” Shyamchand replied smartly, pointing at the bundle he was holding, “Why, of course, here they are!”
The magician exclaimed with joy, “Great job, son! Now, can you please unfasten the bundle and hand the items back to their respective owners?”
Shyamchand followed suit, only to open the bundle and reveal... pieces of coal and gravel!
The magician burst out hysterically, striking his forehead in mock disappointment and distress, “Alas! What will I do now? I had collected all the items from the respectable members of the audience, and they trusted me! Why did I let you hold the bundle? What will I do now? Hey boy, enough of jokes! Give me back the things I had put in your custody! I don’t know anything!”
Shyamchand was completely at a loss for words. His face was drained of colour and devoid of expression; he cast blank looks all around him.
Then the magician began extracting the lost items, one by one, from Shyamchand himself—the ring from his ear, the pencil from his hair, the pair of spectacles from his sleeve, and so on!
The audience roared with laughter, and we joined in, jeering, as the magic show reached its climax.
Even Shyamchand, sensing the intended joke, started to pull up a smart smile, trying to appear unperturbed by the whole affair.
After all the items were recovered and returned to the satisfied members of the audience, the magician clasped his hands together and asked with sudden seriousness, “What else have you taken?”
After all these tense moments, which had nearly shattered his superlative personality, Shyamchand could no longer contain his anger. He blurted out, “You are a great liar! I never took or hid a single item!”
The magician calmly made him turn around, and with an impish grin, pulled a live white pigeon from under Shyamchand’s coat. “And what do you call this... just nothing?”
Shyamchand could take no more. He burst into tears in public! Wailing loudly, punching and kicking the thin air hysterically, he ran out of the shamiyana like a possessed man.
Delighted by his ultimate humiliation and downfall, we lived the moment shouting our hearts out, “The Charlatan! The Charlatan!!”