TRANSLATIONS: ARUNAVA SINHA

Ashamanja babu fulfilled a long cherished dream when he went to a friend’s house in Hashimara for a holiday.

He lived in a one-and-a-half room flat on Mohinimohan Road in Bhabanipur, and worked in the registry department of the Lajpat Rai post-office. Since his workplace was a seven-minute walk from home, he didn’t have to endure trams or buses. His days passed happily enough, for Ashamanja babu was not one of those people who pulled long faces brooding over what they hadn’t achieved or hadn’t been granted. He was easily satisfied—a couple of entertaining Hindi films a month and a Bengali play, some fish two times a week, and four packs of Wills cigarettes were all he needed. But he was a solitary person, without any friends of family to speak of, which was why he often felt it would have been nice to have a dog. It didn’t have to be anything like the massive German Shepherd the Talukdars two houses down the road had; just an ordinary dog would do, one that would give him company mornings and evenings, lie on the floor next to his bed, express delight with a wagging tail on his return from work, and follow his orders as a demonstration of intelligence and loyalty. Ashamanja babu also had a desire to instruct his dog in English. It would be brilliant if the dog could obey commands like ‘stand up’, ‘sit down’, ‘shake hands’ and so on. Ashamanja babu liked to think of dogs as British, and he would be the lord of this particular Britisher—his master, as it were.

It was a cloudy day, with a slight drizzle since the morning. Ashamanja babu was on his way to the Hashimara market without an umbrella to buy oranges. At one end of the market he saw a Bhutanese man with a field hat of cane on his head, sitting on the ground beside a stunted Indian plum tree. Ashamanja babu went up to him out of curiosity, although he couldn’t make out why the man was smiling at him as he sat there with outstretched legs, holding a glowing twist of tobacco between his thumb and two fingers. Was he a beggar? It was not an unreasonable conclusion based on his attire; Ashamanja babu noticed at least five places where his trousers and shirt had been patched. But he didn’t have a begging bowl or anything; what he had instead was a shoebox, from which a brown puppy was peeping out.

‘Good morning!’ The Bhutanese man said with a smile, his eyes almost closing. Ashamanja babu could not but respond with a ‘good morning.’

‘Buy dog? Dog buy? Very good dog.’ The man was using English words. He had taken the puppy out of the box and put him on the ground. ‘Very cheap. Very good. Happy dog.’

The puppy shook his body, perhaps because of the raindrops falling on his back. Then, with his eyes on Ashamanja babu, he wagged his one-and-a-half inch long tail several times. What a fine dog!

Going up to the puppy, Ashamanja babu held out his right hand. Taking two steps forward, the puppy thrust his tongue out and gently licked the tip of Ashamanja babu’s thumb. A most good-tempered dog. What you might call friendly.

‘How much?’ Ashamanja babu asked in Hindi and then repeated the question in English.

‘Ten rupees.’

They settled for seven-and-a-half. Ashamanja babu left with the puppy, complete with the shoebox, under his arm. He had completely forgotten the oranges.

~|~

Hashimara State Bank of India employee Bijoy Raha had not been aware of this particular desire of his friend’s. Naturally he expressed his surprise on setting eyes on the shoebox and the puppy in it, but he was reassured to some extent on hearing the price. Chiding Ashamanja babu gently, he said, ‘If it was a mongrel you wanted why do you have to take it home all the way from here? Couldn’t you have got one in Bhabanipur?’

No, he wouldn’t have, and Ashamanja babu knew as much. He had often seen puppies on the road outside his house, but none of them had either wagged their tails or licked his thumb during the very first meeting. Bijoy could say what he liked, but there was something special about this dog. Still, when Ashamanja babu expressed minor regret on learning that it was a mongrel, Bijoy-babu explained to him that he wouldn’t have been able to manage a pedigreed dog. ‘Have you any idea how much trouble a pure-blooded dog is? You’d be spending half your salary on the vet every month. You have nothing to worry about with this dog. He doesn’t need a special diet either, he will eat whatever you eat. But don’t give him fish, that’s meant for cats. Dogs can’t cope with fish bones.’

On his return to Calcutta, it occurred to Ashamanja babu that he hadn’t named the dog. Trying to pick a western name, he couldn’t think of anything but Tom at first, but it suddenly occurred to him as he gazed at the puppy that since the dog was brown, Brownie might not be inappropriate. One of his cousins used to have a British camera with that name, so there was no doubt it was a western name. Astonishingly, as soon as the name popped into his head and he called the puppy by it, the dog jumped on the floor from a low stool in the corner of the room and came up to him, wagging his tail. ‘Sit down,’ said Ashamanja babu in English, whereupon Brownie folded his hind legs at once, sat down, and yawned slightly. For a moment Ashamanja babu had a vision of Brownie winning the first prize for intelligence at a dog show.

Fortunately his man servant Bipin developed a liking for Brownie too, and he looked after the puppy cheerfully when Ashamanja babu went out to work in the daytime. Ashamanja babu had warned him repeatedly to be careful about what he fed Brownie. ‘And make sure he doesn’t go out on the streets. People drive blindfolded these days.’ Not that Ashamanja babu was relieved with giving Bipin his instructions—his anxiety was not dispelled until he got home every evening and saw Brownie wagging his tail.

~|~

The incident took place three months after returning from Hashimara. It was a Saturday, 22 November. Returning from work, Ashamanja babu took off his shirt to hang it on the clothes rack and sat down on the old wooden chair that was the sole piece of furniture in the room other than the bed, only for the weakest of the four legs to give way under his insubstantial weight and resign from its duties, depositing Ashamanja babu, along with the rest of the chair, on the floor with a clatter. Obviously he felt a twinge of pain, and even wondered briefly whether his right elbow would join the leg of the chair among the ranks of rejects, but an unexpected sound made him forget the pain in his arm.

The sound had come from his bed. The sound of someone laughing, possibly what’s called peals of laughter, and its source, beyond doubt, was his puppy Brownie, for it was Brownie who was sitting on the bed, and there were still traces of a smile on the corners of his lips.

Had Ashamanja babu’s general knowledge been even slightly wider, he would have known dogs never laugh. And had his imagination also been stronger alongside his general knowledge, this incident would have robbed him of all desire to eat or sleep. What he did in the absence of both was to pick up the copy of All About Dogs that he had bought three days ago from a second-hand bookshop on Free School Street for two-and-a-half rupees. Flipping through its pages for nearly an hour, he found no mention of dogs laughing.

Yet there was no doubt that Brownie had laughed. Moreover, he had laughed because there was reason to laugh. Ashamanja babu clearly remembered bursting into laughter, and then being slapped for it by his father, at the age of five when the doctor had come to see a patient at their house in Chandannagar and the chair had collapsed under him, sending him to the floor.

Shutting the book, Ashamanja babu looked at Brownie. As soon as their eyes met Brownie put his front paws on the pillow and wagged his tail, which had grown an inch and a half in the past three months. There was no sign of mirth on his face. Laughing without reason was a sign of madness—Ashamanja babu was relieved that Brownie was not a mad dog.

~|~

Over the next two days, Brownie laughed twice, with good reason. The first time was at night, around nine-thirty. Ashamanja babu had just spread a sheet on the floor next to his own bed for Brownie to sleep on when a cockroach flew in, flapping its wings noisily, and settled on a wall. Trying to target it with a slipper, Ashamanja babu ended up slapping the mirror hanging on the wall, which promptly slipped off the hook and was smashed to smithereens on the floors. This time it was Brownie’s peals of laughter that kept Ashamanja babu from regretting the breakage.

On the second occasion it wasn’t peals of laughter, however, it was more of a chuckle. This time Ashamanja babu was puzzled, for nothing had really happened. Why had Brownie laughed, then? Bipin provided the answer. Bringing the tea, he too chuckled when he saw Ashamanja babu. ‘You have soap near your ear, babu.’ In the absence of a mirror Ashamanja babu had had to shave with the help of the window pane—running his fingers over his sideburns, he discovered shaving soap clinging to both of them.

Ashamanja babu was surprised at Brownie laughing for such a trivial cause. At the post-office, he kept recalling Brownie’s amused glance and the sound of his chuckle. Although All About Dogs didn’t say anything about it, he felt he would certainly learn more on the subject if he could get hold of something like an encyclopaedia of dogs.

But when he couldn’t find any such book after scouring the four bookshops in Bhabanipur as well as each and every one of them in New Market, it occurred to him—why not call on Rajani Chatterjee? The retired professor lived in the same neighbourhood. Ashamanja babu didn’t know what Rajani babu used to be a professor of, but you only had to walk past his house to know his drawing room was stuffed with fat books.

One Sunday morning Ashamanja babu muttered a prayer and turned up at Rajani Chatterjee’s house. He had seen the man from afar many times, but he had no idea that the retired professor’s voice was so heavy and eyebrows, so bushy. Although a bad-tempered person, Rajani babu hadn’t turned the visitor away at the door, so Ashamanja babu felt a modicum of reassurance as he sat down on the sofa facing the professor and cleared his throat. Rajani babu lifted his eyes from his English magazine to look at him.

‘I believe I’ve seen you before.’

‘I live down the street, sir.’

‘I see… Well, what is it?

‘I saw you have a dog, so…’

‘So, what? I do have dogs. Two, in fact.’

‘So do I.’

‘So do you?’

‘Yes sir. One.’

‘I see. Are you from the canine statistics department?’

Being a simple man, Ashamanja babu didn’t get the sarcasm. ‘No sir,’ he said, ‘I’ve come to you to find out more about something.’

‘About what?’

‘Do you have an encyclopaedia of dogs?’

‘No, I don’t… And why do you need one?’

‘It’s just that… my dog laughs. I want to know whether it’s normal for dogs to laugh. Do yours laugh too?’

Rajani babu stared at Ashamanja babu the entire length of the time that the wall clock took to strike eight. Then he said, ‘When does your dog laugh? Is it at night?’

‘Yes well, at night too…’

‘How many different types of drugs do you use at night? Marijuana alone cannot do this, do you take cannabis and opium too?’

Ashamanja babu humbly informed Rajani babu that he had no addictions besides smoking, and there too he had reduced his consumption from four packets to three since the arrival of his dog, for he couldn’t afford it.

‘Still you claim your dog laughs?’

‘I’ve seen him laugh. Heard him too. He laughs loudly.’

‘Look—’

Closing the magazine, Rajani babu sat up straight, glanced at Ashamanja babu, and said with the air of a professor, ‘There’s something you probably do not know, but should. Of all the creatures in this world created by god, nobody but humans laugh, or know how to laugh, or are capable of laughing. This is the primary difference between humans and all other creatures. Don’t ask me why this is so, for I do not know. I’ve been told dolphins have a sense of humour, there’s a possibility that they laugh, but no other creature does. There is no known reason why humans alone laugh. The most formidable among philosophers have tried to get to the bottom of this, but their views do not converge. Do you understand?’

Ashamanja babu realised he would have to leave now, for Rajani Chatterjee’s eyes had returned to the magazine.

~|~

Sukhamay Bhowmik, who was referred to as bow-wow doctor by some, was a renowned veterinarian. Convinced that a doctor who treated dogs would believe him even if everyone else laughed the idea away, Ashamanja babu made enquiries, followed by an appointment over the phone, and arrived at the vet’s home on Gokhale Road. Brownie had laughed seventeen times over the past four months. Ashamanja babu had noticed that he did not laugh when he heard funny things, but only when he saw them. For instance, listening to nonsense rhymes brought no change in him, but when a half-boiled potato shot out like a projectile under pressure from Ashamanja babu’s fingers and fell into the curd, which splashed on Ashamanja babu’s nose, Brownie was close to choking with laughter. It was all very well for Rajani Chatterjee to have lectured him extensively on god’s creations, but what about the fact that the professor was being proved wrong right in front of Ashamanja babu’s eyes?

Keeping all of this in his mind, Ashamanja babu visited the bow-wow doctor despite a fee of twenty rupees. Even before he heard about the laughter, the doctor was astonished at the sight of the puppy.

‘I’ve seen many mongrels in my life, you know, but never one like this.’

The doctor lifted Brownie on to his desk. The puppy sniffed at the brass paperweight near his feet.

‘What are you feeding him?’

‘Whatever I eat, sir. Since he’s not a pedigreed dog, I don’t particularly…’

Bhowmik frowned. He was looking at Brownie with great curiosity and attention.

‘We can tell pedigreed dogs when we see them, of course,’ said the doctor, ‘but we can’t possibly claim to know every pedigreed breed in the world. Still, the appearance of this one is making me think twice about considering him a mongrel. You’d better not give him your food, I’ll make a diet for him.’

Now Ashamanja babu tried to get to the point.

‘Er… there’s something special about my dog, which is why I’m here.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘This dog laughs.’

‘Laughs?’

‘Yes—laughs like humans.’

‘Really? Can you make him laugh?’

This was when Ashamanja babu got into trouble. Normally he was a reserved individual, who did not have the ability to gesticulate like a clown to make Brownie laugh. Nor could anything funny be expected to take place at this moment in the doctor’s chamber. So he had no choice but to tell Bhowmik that his dog did not laugh on demand, but only when he saw something funny.

After this the doctor didn’t entertain Ashamanja babu much longer. ‘Your dog is already special in terms of his looks,’ he said, ‘no need to add on laughter or something like that to make him appear even more extraordinary. After twenty-three years of treating dogs I can tell you dogs weep, they feel fear, they express anger, loathing, annoyance, jealousy—all of these things, they even dream. But they don’t laugh.’

After this Ashamanja babu decided never again to tell anyone that his dog laughed. Since there was no way to prove it, he would only end up embarrassing himself. After all, even if no one else came to know, he knew it, didn’t he. Brownie was his dog after all, his property. Why should the two of them drag outsiders into their world?

But as they say, man proposes, god disposes. And other people did find out that Brownie could laugh.

For some time now Ashamanja babu had made it a habit to take Brownie for a walk around Victoria Memorial after he got home from work. A violent storm sprang up one April evening when they were out for astroll. Looking at the sky, Ashamanja babu realised it would be difficult to get home since it would begin raining soon. He took shelter with Brownie beneath the marble pedestal with the black statue of a horse-rider on the southern side of Victoria Memorial.

Fat drops of rain had begun to fall, sending everyone scurrying for shelter, when a short, fair, middle-aged man in white trousers and a half-sleeved shirt opened his umbrella about fifteen yards away, only to have the powerful storm flip it inside out with a swooshing sound, rendering it absolutely useless. To tell the truth, Ashamanja babu himself was about to laugh at the sight, but before he could, Brownie’s guffaws became audible to the man over the sounds of the storm. After a futile effort to close his umbrella, the man stared at Brownie in utter astonishment. Meanwhile Brownie was in splits, and Ashamanja babu had given up his effort to stop him from laughing by clamping his hand on his mouth.

The bewildered man approached Ashamanja babu as though he had seen a ghost. Brownie’s mirth had abated a bit, but it was still enough for a person to stare.

‘Laughing dog.’

It was Ashamanja babu who offered the description in English, since the man seemed to have been robbed of speech.

‘La-ughing do-g.’ The words came back from the man like a distant mountain echo. ‘How extraordinary.’

Ashamanja babu had realised on first sight that the man was not a Bengali—a Gujarati or a Parsi, perhaps, If he asked a question it would be in English, and Ashamanja babu would have to answer in the same language.

The rain had intensified. The man took shelter next to Ashamanja babu beneath the equestrian statue, and extracted every bit of information about Brownie during the ten minutes it went on raining. Ashamanja babu had to part with his address. The man said his name was Piloo Pochkanwala, and that he was quite well-informed about dogs, apparently a Dalmatian of his had won prizes twice at dog shows, and he even wrote about dogs in the newspapers. Needless to say, he had never come across anything as astounding in his life, and never would either. He felt something had to be done about this, for it seemed Ashamanja babu himself had not realised what an exceptional asset he was in possession of.

Brownie could be held partially responsible for Pochkanwala’s being hit by a bus on his way back to his home in Edward Court and fracturing his hip, for he had been so engrossed in his thoughts about the laughing dog that he had not been sufficiently careful when crossing the street. Recovering after spending two and a half months in hospital, he went to Nainital for a change of air. Returning to Calcutta after a month, he went to Bengal Club the same evening and told his friends Mr Balapuria and Mr Biswas about the incident of the laughing dog. Within half an hour it had reached twenty-seven other club members and three bearers, and by the next afternoon, at least a thousand residents of Calcutta had come to know thanks to these thirty people.

Brownie had not laughed during these three months. One possible reason was that nothing funny had taken place. But Ashamanja babu experienced no anxiety about this, since it had never been his intention to cash in on his dog’s laughter. He had realised in this period that Brownie had completely dispelled his loneliness. To tell the truth, he had never felt such affection for a human.

One of those who had found out about the laughing dog thanks to Pochkanwala was a senior officer of The Statesman newspaper. He sent for Rajat Chowdhury, a journalist at the paper, and proposed an interview with Ashamanja babu. Pochkanwala’s testimony had included the information that Brownie’s owner was a clerk at the Lajpat Rai Post Office.

Ashamanja babu, of course, was not remotely prepared to be visited at home by a journalist. His surprise was mitigated to an extent when Rajat Chowdhury mentioned Pochkanwala. Ushering him into his room, Ashamanja babu gave the journalist the chair with the newly-repaired leg and sat down on the bed himself. This was his first interview since the one for his job back in 1957. Brownie was standing in a corner with his back to the room, inspecting the movements of rows of ants. Now he leapt on the bed to give his owner company.

As Rajat Chowdhury pressed the button of his tape-recorder, Ashamanja babu suddenly remembered there was something he should tell the journalist. ‘By the way, it’s true my dog used to laugh,’ he said, ‘but he hasn’t in the past few months, so you’ll be disappointed if you want to see him laugh for yourself.’

Like many journalists these days, Rajat Chowdhury had been eagerly expecting a scoop when he began the interview. Although he felt a little discouraged on hearing this, he concealed his feelings as best as he could and said, ‘Fine, but let me get some details. For instance, what’s your dog’s name?’

Stretching his neck towards the microphone extended at him, Ashamanja babu said, ‘Brownie.’

‘Brownie…’ Rajat Chowdhury noticed that the dog wagged his tail on hearing his name.

‘How old is he?’

‘A year and a month.’ 

‘Very well—where did you ge-ge-gettit?’

This had happened before too. This problem with his speech had embarrassed Rajat Chowdhury earlier when interviewing well-known people. It could also have happened here, but the outcome was just the opposite. His stuttering brought out Brownie’s speciality in an unexpected way. Rajat Chowdhury became the second person after Pochkanwala to hear a dog laughing like a human.

~|~

On reading the article about the laughing dog in The Statesman over a cup of coffee in the air-conditioned room number 267 of the Grand Hotel next Sunday morning, William P Moody of Cincinnati rang the operator and asked to be connected to Mr Nandy of the tourist department. Over the past two days Moody had discovered that this Nandy was thoroughly familiar with the streets and lanes of Calcutta. The Statesman had published the name and address of the owner of the laughing dog. Moody needed to meet him urgently.

Ashamanja babu didn’t read The Statesman. And besides, Rajat Chowdhury had not told him when the interview would be published. Had he known, he might have looked for the day’s paper. His neighbour Joydeb Dutta gave him the news in Jogubabur Bajar.

‘What a strange man you are, Ashamanja babu,’ Joydeb babu said. ‘You’ve had this amazing creature at home for a year and not breathed a word about it. I’m coming to your place today, I want to see your dog.’

Ashamanja babu sensed trouble. This was a palpable threat of invasion. The truth was that he did not care at all for human company except at work. He never had—and certainly not since Brownie’s arrival. But the people of Calcutta were susceptible to rumours—once they had read about the wonder dog they were unlikely to resist the temptation to see him.

Ashamanja babu went back home without hesitation and left again within ten minutes with Brownie. For the first time in his life he took a taxi and went directly to Ballygunge Station, where he took a train for Canning. The train stopped at a station named Talit, which looked so deserted and secluded that he got off. It was pleasant wandering around in the cool shade of bamboo groves and mango orchards all afternoon. Brownie looked like he was enjoying it too. The smile that Ashamanja babu saw on the corner of his lips today was an entirely new one. It was one of contentment, of pleasure, of bliss. Ashamanja babu had read in All About Dogs that one year in a dog’s life is equivalent to seven years of a human’s. But one-year-old Brownie’s behaviour gave the impression he was mentally much older than seven.

It was nearly seven in the evening by the time they returned. ‘Did anyone come?’ Ashamanja babu asked Bipin when he opened the door. Bipin said he had had to open the door at least forty times during the day. Ashamanja babu patted himself on his back for his sagacity.

He had barely asked Bipin to bring him some tea and taken his shirt off to hang on the clothes rack when there was a knock on the door. ‘Damn it,’ said Ashamanja babu and opened the door. When he saw a foreigner standing there he blurted out, ‘Wrong number.’ Then, spotting a bespectacled young Bengali man next to the visitor, he felt reassured and asked, ‘Who are you looking for?’

‘You, possibly,’ said Shyamal Nandi of the tourist department. ‘The dog behind you matches the description in this morning’s papers. May we come in?’

Ashamanja babu had no choice but to let them in. The foreigner sat on the chair, Nandy on the stool, and Ashamanja babu, on the bed. Brownie was looking tentative—instead of entering the room, he remained sitting just beyond the doorstep. Perhaps it was because he had never seen three men together in this room before.

‘Brownie! Brownie! Brownie!’

Lowering his head, narrowing his eyes, and pursing his lips, the American was calling his name out tenderly. On his part, Brownie was observing the American intently.

Naturally, Ashamanja babu wondered who these people were. Shyamal Nandy answered his unspoken question. The American was an eminent and wealthy man who was visiting India in search of old Rolls Royces. Reading about Brownie in the newspaper, he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of taking a look at the dog. Shyamal Nandy had accompanied him since he wouldn’t be able to find the address on his own.

Ashamanja babu noticed that the American had given up calling Brownie by his name and had left his chair to crouch on the floor, making faces and gesticulating wildly.  In other words, efforts to make the dog laugh were underway.

Giving up after three minutes or so of clowning around, the American turned to Ashamanja babu and asked in a nasal twang, ‘Is he sick?’

Ashamanja babu told him that to the best of his knowledge his dog was not suffering from an illness.

‘Does he really laugh?’

Just in case Ashamanja babu couldn’t decipher the American drawl, Shyamal Nandy translated the question quickly.

Ashamanja babu’s exasperation was trying to force itself out. Holding it back with sheer willpower, he said, ‘He doesn’t laugh all the time. Just like all humans don’t laugh whenever they’re asked to.’

The interpreter’s translation made the American go red in the face. He said he wasn’t prepared to spend money on the dog without proof, for he didn’t wish to be embarrassed on returning home. He added that there was no country from China to Peru from where he had not added something extraordinary to his personal collection. He had a parrot that spoke nothing but Latin. ‘I brought my cheque book to buy this laughing dog.’

He slid a blue booklet out of his pocket. From the corner of his eyes Ashamanja babu saw it said Citibank of New York.

‘Your life will be transformed,’ Shyamal Nandy said. ‘If you have a trick to make your dog laugh, now’s the time to pull it out. He’s ready to pay twenty thousand dollars for this dog. That’s a hundred and fifty thousand in rupees.’

The Bible says god created the world in seven days. But humans can use their imagination to perform this task in seven seconds. The world that appeared before Ashamanja babu’s eyes now was one in which he was in an enormous, tastefully decorated room, sitting comfortably like the chairman of Bird & Company in an easy chair with his feet up, with the fragrance of jasmines drifting in from the garden. Sadly the image collapsed like a bubble at a single sound.

Brownie was laughing.

This wasn’t like one his earlier laughs, this was completely new.

‘But he is laughing.’

Moody had sat down on the floor, trembling, taking in the scene with his eyes. Ashamanja babu had no doubt that his ears would have pricked up had he been an animal.

Moody brought his cheque book out again with quivering hands. And with it, a gold Parker pen.

But Brownie was still laughing. Ashamanja babu was plunged into doubt, for he could not decipher the meaning of this laughter. No one had stammered or tripped, nobody’s umbrella had turned inside out, no mirror had crashed on the floor on the impact of a slipper—why was Brownie laughing then?

‘You’re in luck,’ said Shyamal Nandi. ‘But I deserve a commission, don’t you think, heh heh…’

Moody rose from the floor, returned to his chair, and opened his cheque book. ‘Ask him how he spells his name.’

Shyamal Nandy relayed the question to Ashamanja babu in Bengali.

Ashamanja babu didn’t reply, for he had suddenly seen a ray of light, and it had instilled a deep wonder in him. Instead of spelling his name, he said, ‘Tell him he wouldn’t talk of money anymore if he knew why Brownie’s laughing.’

‘Why don’t you tell me,’ Shyamal Nandy said in a cold, harsh tone. He was not at all happy with the way things were going. He knew he was in for a tongue-lashing from the American if he mission failed.

Brownie’s laughter had finally died down. Putting him in his lap and wiping his eyes, Ashamanja babu said, ‘The American thinks anything can be bought if you have the money, which is why the dog is laughing.’

‘Is that so? Is your dog a philosopher?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘So you won’t sell your dog?’

‘No sir.’

Shyamal Nandy didn’t reveal anything about Brownie’s views in his translation, only telling Moody that the owner wasn’t willing to sell his dog. At this the American returned his cheque book and pen to his pocket, slapped the dust gathered from Ashamanja babu’s floor off his trousers, and said as he has leaving, ‘He must be crazy.’

After the sound of the car had vanished, Ashamanja babu lowered Brownie from his lap to the bed, looked at him, and said, ‘I got the reason for your laughter right, didn’t I, Brownie?’

Brownie chuckled.

Meaning, correct.