by Satyajit Ray
‘Has he been arrested?’ I asked anxiously.
‘No, not yet. The police are looking for him. He’s still in Darjeeling, so they’ll find him sooner or later, never fear.’
Dr Bhowmik left with Khastagir. My pulse started racing faster. It wasn’t just that Naskar had turned out to be a criminal. That was amazing enough. But what about Mr Eccentric? He did say that ring was worn by a murderer. Could it really be that he had some supernatural power, after all?
I had to go and see him. Had he heard the news about Naskar? I must find out.
When I knocked on the door of house number seventeen, no one opened it. I tried again, with the same result. I couldn’t really afford to wait outside, for the sky had become overcast again. So I left, and walked briskly back to my hotel. Within half an hour, it began raining very heavily. The bright, sunny morning had become a thing of the past. Where was Naskar hiding? Who had he killed? How had he killed?
At half past three, the manager of my hotel, Mr Sondhi, gave me the news. The police had found the house where Naskar was staying. Right behind it was a deep gorge. In that gorge, Naskar’s dead body had been discovered. His head was crushed. Various theories were being put forward, including suicide, momentary insanity, and falling to his death while trying to escape. Apparently, there had been some disagreement with his business partner. Naskar had murdered him, hid his body and run away to Darjeeling. The police had eventually found the body in Calcutta and begun looking for Naskar.
Now I absolutely had to see Mr Eccentric. I could no longer dismiss his words. Events in Switzerland and Waltair might have been made up, he might have heard about Bradley’s death in Darjeeling, but how did he know that Naskar was a murderer?
Around five o’clock, the heavy rain settled into a drizzle. I left my hotel and went to Mr Eccentric’s house again. This time, the door opened immediately. Mr Eccentric greeted me with a smile, and said, ‘Come in, my friend, come in. I was thinking of you.’
I stepped in. It was almost dark. A single candle flickered on the table.
‘There’s no electricity,’ Mr Eccentric explained with a wan smile. ‘They haven’t yet reconnected the supply.’ I took a cane chair, sat down and said, ‘Have you heard?’
‘About your Tusker? I don’t need to hear anything, I already know the whole story. But I am grateful to him.’
‘Grateful?’ I felt most taken aback.
‘He has given me the most important item in my collection.’
‘Given you?’ My throat suddenly felt dry.
‘There it is, on that table. Look!’
I glanced at the table again. Next to the candle was the notebook and, placed on an open page, was Mr Naskar’s ring.
‘I was recording all the details. Item number 173,’ Mr Eccentric said.
A question kept bothering me. ‘What do you mean, he gave it to you? When did he do that?’
‘Well, naturally he didn’t give it to me voluntarily. I had to use force,’ Mr Eccentric sighed.
This rendered me completely speechless. In the silence that followed, all I could hear was the clock ticking.
‘I am glad you are here. I want to give you something. Keep it with you.’
Mr Eccentric rose and disappeared into a dark corner. I heard a faint clatter, and then his voice: ‘This object is certainly worth keeping in my collection, but I cannot bear its effect on me. My temperature keeps shooting higher, and a most unpleasant scene rises before my eyes.’
He emerged from the dark and stood near the candle once more. His right hand was stretched towards me. His fingers were curled around the old, familiar, heavy walking stick.
Even in the faint light from the candle, I could tell that the red stains that covered the handle of that stick were nothing but marks left by dried blood.
Translated by Gopa Majumdar
First published in Bengali in 1972
Khagam
We were having dinner by the light of a petromax lamp. I had just helped myself to some curried egg when Lachhman, the cook and caretaker of the rest house, said, ‘Aren’t you going to pay a visit to Imli Baba?’
I had to tell him that since we were not familiar with the name of Imli Baba, the question of paying him a visit hadn’t arisen. Lachhman said that the driver of the forest department jeep, which had been engaged for our sightseeing, would take us to the Baba if we told him. Baba’s hut was in the forest and the surroundings were picturesque. As a holy man he was apparently held in very high regard; important people from all over India came to him to pay their respects and seek his blessings. What really aroused my curiosity was the information that the Baba kept a king cobra as a pet which lived in a hole near his hut and came to him every evening to drink goat’s milk.
Dhurjati Babu’s comment on this was that the country was being overrun by fake holy men. The more scientific knowledge was spreading in the West, he said, the more our people were heading towards superstition. ‘It’s a hopeless situation. It puts my back up just to think of it.’
As he finished talking, he picked up the fly swatter and brought it down with unerring aim on a mosquito which had settled on the dining table. Dhurjati Babu was a short, pale-looking man in his late forties, with sharp features and grey eyes. We had met in the rest house in Bharatpur; I was there on my way to Agra from where I was going to my elder brother in Jaipur, with whom I had planned to spend a fortnight’s holiday. Both the tourist bungalow and the circuit house being full, I had to fall back on the forest rest house. Not that I regretted it; living in the heart of the forest offers a special kind of thrill along with quiet comfort.
Dhurjati Babu had preceded me by a day. We had shared the forest department jeep for our sightseeing. The previous day we had been to Deeg, twenty-two miles to the east from here, to see the fortress and the palace. That morning we saw the fortress in Bharatpur, and in the afternoon we saw the bird sanctuary at Keoladeo which was something very special. It was a seven-mile stretch of marshland dotted with tiny islands where strange birds from far corners of the globe came and made their homes. I was absorbed in watching the birds, but Dhurjati Babu grumbled and made vain efforts to wave away the tiny insects buzzing around us. These unkis have a tendency to settle on your face, but they are so small that most people can ignore them. Not Dhurjati Babu.
By half-past eight we had finished dinner and were sitting on cane chairs on the terrace and admiring the beauty of the forest in moonlight. ‘The holy man the servant mentioned,’ I remarked, ‘what about going and taking a look at him?’
Flicking his cigarette towards a eucalyptus tree, Dhurjati Babu said, ‘King cobras can never be tamed. I know a lot about snakes. I spent my boyhood in Jalpaiguri, and killed many snakes with my own hands. The king cobra is the deadliest, most vicious snake there is. The story of the holy man feeding it goat’s milk should be taken with a pinch of salt.’
I said, ‘We are going to see the fortress at Bayan tomorrow morning. In the afternoon we have nothing to do.’
‘I take it you have a lot of faith in holy men?’
I could see the question was a barbed one. However, I answered calmly.
‘The question of faith doesn’t arise because I’ve never had anything to do with holy men. But I can’t deny that I am a bit curious about this one.’
‘I too was curious at one time, but after an experience I had with one . . .’
It turned out that Dhurjati Babu suffered from high blood pressure. An uncle of his had persuaded him to try a medicine prescribed by a holy man. Dhurjati Babu had done so, and as a result had suffered intense stomach pains. This had caused his blood pressure to shoot up even more. Ever since, he had looked upon ninety per cent of India’s holy men as fakes.
I found this allergy quite amusing, and just to provoke him said, ‘You said it wasn’t possible to tame king cobras; I’m sure ordinary people like us couldn’t do it, but I’ve heard of sadhus up in the Himalayas living in caves with tigers.’
‘You ma
y have heard about it, but have you seen it with your own eyes?’
I had to admit that I hadn’t.
‘You never will,’ said Dhurjati Babu. ‘This is the land of tall stories. You’ll hear of strange happenings all the time, but never see one yourself. Look at our Ramayana and Mahabharata. It is said they’re history, but actually they’re no more than a bundle of nonsense. The ten-headed Ravana, the monkey-god Hanuman with a flame at the end of his tail setting fire to a whole city, Bhima’s appetite, Ghatotkacha, Hidimba, the flying chariot Pushpak, Kumbhakarna—can you imagine anything more absurd than these? And the epics are full of fake holy men as well. That’s where it all started. Yet everyone—even the educated—swallows these stories.’
Despite Dhurjati Babu’s reservations, the following day we lunched in the rest house after visiting the fortress at Bayan and, after a couple of hours’ rest, reached the holy man’s hermitage a little after four. Dhurjati Babu didn’t object to the trip. Perhaps he too was a little curious about the Baba. The hermitage was in a clearing in the forest below a huge tamarind tree, which is why he was called Imli Baba by the local people, imli being the Hindi word for tamarind. His real name was not known.
In a hut made of date-palm leaves, the Baba sat on a bearskin with a young disciple by his side. It was impossible to guess the Baba’s age. There was still an hour or so until sunset, but the dense covering of foliage made the place quite dark. A fire burnt before the Baba, who had a ganja pipe in his hand. We could see by the light of the fire a clothesline stretched across the wall of the hut from which hung a towel, a loincloth, and about a dozen sloughed-off snakeskins.
Dhurjati Babu whispered in my ear: ‘Let’s not beat about the bush; ask him about the snake’s feeding time.’
‘So you want to see Balkishen?’ asked the Baba, reading our minds and smiling from behind his pipe. The driver of the jeep, Dindayal, had told us a little while ago that the snake was called Balkishen. We told Baba that we had heard of his pet snake and were most anxious to see it drink milk. Was there any likelihood of our wish being fulfilled?
Imli Baba shook his head sadly. He said that as a rule Balkishen came every day in the evening in answer to Baba’s call, and had come even two days ago. But since the day before he had not been feeling well. ‘Today is the day of the full moon,’ said the Baba, ‘so he will not come. But he will surely come again tomorrow evening.’
That snakes too could feel indisposed was news to me. And yet, why not? After all, it was a tame snake. Weren’t there hospitals for dogs, horses and cows?
The Baba’s disciple gave us another piece of news: red ants had got into the snake’s hole while it lay ill, and had been pestering it. Baba had exterminated them all with a curse. Dhurjati Babu threw a sidelong glance at me at this point. I turned my eyes towards Baba. With his saffron robe, his long, matted hair, his iron earrings, rudraksha necklaces and copper amulets, there was nothing to distinguish him from a host of other holy men. And yet in the dim light of dusk, I couldn’t take my eyes away from the man.
Seeing us standing, the disciple produced a pair of reed mats and spread them on the floor in front of the Baba. But what was the point of sitting down when there was no hope of seeing the pet snake? A delay would mean driving through the forest in the dark, and we knew there were wild animals about; we had seen herds of deer while coming. So we decided to leave. We bowed to the Baba who responded by nodding without taking the pipe away from his mouth. Then we set off for the jeep parked about 200 yards away on the road. Only a little while ago, the place had been alive with the calls of birds coming home to roost. Now all was quiet.
We had gone a few steps when Dhurjati Babu suddenly said, ‘We could at least have asked to see the hole where the snake lives.’
I said, ‘For that we don’t have to ask the Baba; our driver Dindayal said he had seen the hole.’
‘That’s right.’
We fetched Dindayal from the car and he showed us the way. Instead of going towards the hut, we took a narrow path by an almond tree and arrived at a bush. The stone rubble which surrounded the bush suggested that there had been some sort of an edifice here in the past. Dindayal said the hole was right behind the bush. It was barely visible in the failing light, so Dhurjati Babu produced a small electric torch from his pocket. As the light from it hit the bush we saw the hole. But what about the snake? Was it likely to crawl out just to show its face to a couple of curious visitors? To be quite honest, while I was ready to watch it being fed by the Baba, I had no wish to see it come out of the hole now. But my companion seemed consumed with curiosity. When the beam from the torch had no effect, he started to pelt the bush with clods of dirt.
I felt this was taking things too far, and said, ‘What’s the matter? You seem determined to drag the snake out, and you didn’t even believe in its existence at first.’
Dhurjati Babu now picked up a large clod and said, ‘I still don’t. If this one doesn’t drag him out, I’ll know that a cock-and-bull story about the Baba has been spread. The more such false notions are destroyed the better.’
The clod landed with a thud on the bush and destroyed a part of the thorny cluster. Dhurjati Babu had his torch trained on the hole. For a few seconds there was silence but for a lone cricket which had just started to chirp. Now there was another sound added to it; a dry, soft whistle of indeterminate pitch. Then there was a rustle of leaves and the light of the torch revealed something black and shiny slowly slipping out of the hole.
The leaves of the bush stirred, and the next moment, through a parting in them, emerged the head of a snake. The light showed its glinting eyes and its forked tongue flicking in and out of its mouth. Dindayal had been pleading with us to go back to the jeep for some time; he now said, ‘Let it be, sir. You have seen it, now let us go back.’
The snake’s eyes were fixed on us, perhaps because of the light shining on it. I have seen many snakes, but never a king cobra at such close quarters. And I have never heard of a king cobra making no attempt to attack intruders.
Suddenly the light of the torch trembled and was whisked away from the snake. What happened next was something I was not prepared for at all. Dhurjati Babu swiftly picked up a stone and hurled it with all his strength at the snake. Then he followed it in quick succession with two more such missiles. I was suddenly gripped by a horrible premonition and cried out, ‘Why on earth did you have to do that, Dhurjati Babu?’
The man shouted in triumph, panting, ‘That’s the end of at least one vicious reptile!’
Dindayal was staring open-mouthed at the bush. I took the torch from Dhurjati Babu’s hand and flashed it on the hole. I could see a part of the lifeless form of the snake. The leaves around were splattered with blood.
I had no idea that Imli Baba and his disciple had arrived to take their place right behind us. Dhurjati Babu was the first to turn round, and then I too turned and saw the Baba standing with a staff in his hand, a dozen feet behind us. He had his eyes fixed on Dhurjati Babu. It is beyond me to describe the look in them. I can only say that I have never seen such a mixture of surprise, anger and hatred in anyone’s eyes.
Then Baba lifted his right arm towards Dhurjati Babu. The index finger shot out towards him. I noticed for the first time that Baba’s fingernails were over an inch long. Who did he remind me of? Yes, of a figure in a painting by Ravi Varma which I had seen as a child in a framed reproduction in my uncle’s house. It was the sage Durbasha cursing the hapless Sakuntala. He too had his arm raised like that, and the same look in his eyes.
But Imli Baba said nothing about a curse. All he said in Hindi in his deep voice was: ‘One Balkishen is gone; another will come to take his place. Balkishen is deathless . . .’
Dhurjati Babu wiped his hands with his handkerchief, turned to me and said, ‘Let’s go.’ Baba’s disciple lifted the lifeless snake from the ground and went off, probably to arrange for its cremation. The length of the snake made me gasp; I had no idea king cobras could be that
long. Imli Baba slowly made his way towards the hut. The three of us went back to the jeep.
On the way back, Dhurjati Babu was gloomy and silent. I asked him why he had to kill the snake when it was doing him no harm. I thought he would burst out once more and fulminate against snakes and Babas. Instead he put a question which seemed to have no bearing on the incident.
‘Do you know who Khagam was?’
Khagam? The name seemed to ring a bell, but I couldn’t remember where I had heard it. Dhurjati Babu muttered the name two or three times, then lapsed into silence.
It was half-past six when we reached the guest house. My mind went back again and again to Imli Baba glowering at Dhurjati Babu with his finger pointing at him. I didn’t know why my companion had behaved in such a fashion. However, I felt that we had seen the end of the incident, so there was no point in worrying about it. Baba himself had said Balkishen was deathless. There must be other king cobras in the jungles of Bharatpur. I was sure another one would be caught soon by the disciples of the Baba.
Lachhman had prepared chicken curry, daal and chapatis for dinner. A whole day’s sightseeing can leave one famished and I found I ate twice as much here as I ate at home. Dhurjati Babu, although a small man, was a hearty eater; but today he seemed to have no appetite. I asked him if he felt unwell. He made no reply. I now enquired of him, ‘Do you feel remorse for having killed the snake?’
Dhurjati Babu was staring at the petromax. What he said was not an answer to my question. ‘The snake was whistling,’ he said in a soft, thin voice. ‘The snake was whistling . . .’
I said, smiling, ‘Whistling, or hissing?’
Dhurjati Babu didn’t turn away from the light. ‘Yes, hissing,’ he said. ‘Snakes speak when snakes hiss . . . yes,
