Sherlock Holmes In Japan

by Vasudev Murthy

  A couple of days passed and we were soon in the Central Provinces and then Mughal Sarai, which was developing as an important railway zone. There would certainly have been a physician here who could have examined me. However, I felt fit enough to continue and did not wish to break the journey. We passed by the holy river of the Hindoos, the Ganges. By this time, Holmes had become quite knowledgeable about the river and the culture and had processed every little scrap of information he had absorbed. He kept me enthralled with stories about the religious and cultural practices of the people, the significance of the river and the local food habits. He also picked up the accent, gait, affectations and colloquialisms of the people and with Rahman Khan’s help, acquired some local clothing – a kurta and dhoti, as they were called – and learned how to wear them. But I could see that his mind was actually in Tokyo all the while.

  Meanwhile, Rahman Khan confided that he had indeed belonged to a wealthy family which had fallen on bad times many years ago. A grim life full of debt and hardship had replaced one of extreme affluence. And sure enough, he enjoyed raising pigeons on the terrace of his home near the town of Patna. But Holmes’s gentle query about his injury unsettled him; his pupils dilated with fear and he shrank back, almost dropping his tray. The wound was obviously still raw. Holmes did not press him – everyone, he said, had a past they did not discuss – and reassured him that we meant no harm.

  At Mughal Sarai station, an incident occurred that convinced us that Holmes’s fears were not baseless. Holmes was always cautious at large stations. He conjectured that Professor Moriarty would not have been entirely convinced that we had taken the next ship from Bombay. ‘And if I thought of taking a train and crossing India to travel to Japan in an entirely different way, there is every likelihood that Professor Moriarty would have as well.’

  As the locomotive whistled to announce its departure from Mughal Sarai and slowly eased itself out, we heard a commotion at the entrance to the station from a distance of some two hundred yards. We saw three civilians, who appeared to be Englishmen, rush onto the platform and look up and down at the departing train, shouting directions to each other. One of the men ran towards the first-class coach. In one fluid movement, Holmes, who had been smoking his pipe and looking out of the window in a desultory manner, was completely transformed. He sprang from his seat, pushed me down on the berth and quickly shut the windows, leaving a crack open to observe the movements of the men. Fortuitously, the train was moving too quickly by then for any of the men to board, but there was no doubt – Professor Moriarty was searching for us. We would have to be on our guard. Someone else would certainly be waiting for us at the next major station, Patna.

  ‘Once again, Watson, we see the astonishing reach of Professor Moriarty. This is a game of chess, in a manner of speaking. He anticipates my move, I anticipate his. We were not seen, but he will not rule out anything unless he is sure. But my dear fellow, I do you an injustice. You are unwell and I must not cause you any alarm.’

  Ignoring my protests, he resumed puffing his pipe as the train picked up speed. He took out the map of India and looked at it carefully. He then called in Rahman Khan and asked him a few questions in broken Hindoostani. Rahman Khan’s responses elicited satisfied nods from Holmes, and I could see that he had thought of a possibility. He gave Rahman Khan some instructions and sent him away.

  ‘How are you now, my good fellow?’ he asked with gentle concern. On rare occasions such as this, my fine friend showed signs of being human.

  ‘Holmes, another night or so and you will have me at your service.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent! The ever-reliable Dr John H. Watson! Our attendant is most trustworthy and resourceful and is on a small mission on my directions. Sleep well tonight. Tomorrow will bring danger.’

  He then explained his plan in detail. I was amazed by the sheer audacity of his thinking.

  Professor Moriarty read the wire with mounting frustration:

  Search of Bombay–Calcutta Mail before Patna revealed no sign of Holmes and Watson. The attendant said two European men had alighted at Jubbulpore but neither fit the description. Searched the adjacent coach just to be sure. Hindoo sadhoos in ochre robes were singing religious hymns with the passengers. No Europeans were seen. Awaiting instructions.

  ‘Holmes, you are clever, very clever. But I am not done yet,’ hissed the Professor.

  We had shifted to the adjacent compartment and, when the train arrived in Patna, we alighted with the sadhoos and merged into their chaos. Rahman Khan had instructions to handle our luggage separately. We boarded the slow train to Gaya, a town due south of Patna, assisted by Khan, to whom we shall always be indebted. I was now almost completely fit, though tired and dehydrated to some extent. We sat in the fourth-class compartment with dozens of other passengers, all of whom were quite deferential to two holy men travelling to a place of pilgrimage. Holmes had already acquired a more than rudimentary grasp of the local dialect and had completely dissolved into India in a manner of speaking. He later made light of this superhuman effort, saying that the diction, lexicon and grammar of Hindoostani were entirely logical. His rectangular violin case and our other luggage was camouflaged or hidden in other ways. He took up the offer of smoking the local drug, charas, in a smoking pipe called chillum, and convinced our co-passengers that I was dumb and unwell, thus sparing me the possibility of any interaction. He was entirely at home. As far as I was concerned, his astonishing skill as a master of disguise was in evidence in the most profound way. The brown complexion, the long matted hair, the crushed and unwashed robes of the sadhoos, the local mannerisms – none in our circle of acquaintances would have ever believed that two upstanding men with rooms at 221B Baker Street and memberships in exclusive clubs in London might be seen in such garb, sitting on the floor of a filthy coach on the slow train from Patna to Gaya.

  On the Bombay-Calcutta Mail, the resourceful Rahman Khan had obtained the ochre robes, sacred ash and matted locks from his sources and, within a couple of hours, we had both been transformed. He understood that we were in danger and readily assisted us in moving our effects to the next coach, which happened to have several sadhoos. He even refused to accept any baksheesh, insisting that it was his duty.

  We reached Bodh Gaya, a Buddhist pilgrimage destination associated with the enlightenment of the Buddha. Holmes felt it would be wise to rest here for a few days for two reasons: to shake off our pursuers and to allow me to regain my energy. We walked the distance to the temple complex, hoping to find acceptable lodgings. Only a few years prior to our arrival, Sir Alexander Cunningham had made a serious attempt to rescue this temple from utter ruin. I found it quite splendid.

  The complex was full of Buddhist pilgrims from various countries. Most had shaved their heads and possessed oriental features. I gathered many were from Tibet, Burma, Siam, Ceylon and China, where the faith had taken deep root. I myself was quite unfamiliar with the precepts of this religion.

  As we passed two Buddhist monks, Holmes suddenly stiffened and gripped my wrist. ‘Look, Watson, did you notice anything? One of the monks had a missing digit! What do you infer?’

  I shook my head. ‘I am sorry, Holmes. I do recall the two Japanese on the North Star had missing digits too, but what that means, I cannot say. At best, I infer from their faces that they are possibly Japanese.’

  Holmes abruptly turned around and went back to the monks. I followed. He was attempting to converse with them in Hindoostani, enquiring if they knew of a place where we could stay the night. The monks were friendly and soon it became clear that they could speak English better than Hindoostani and I saw, with some surprise, Holmes laugh heartily, quite unlike the taciturn, sardonic detective I was so used to.

  Holmes introduced us as sadhoos from Delhi. ‘We have come to spend some time at the feet of Buddha,’ he said in accented and broken English. ‘Where we can stay?’

  In equally broken English, but with a distinctly Japanese accent, one of the monks respo
nded, ‘Please share our small room. It is honour for us.’

  They were delighted when Holmes spoke a few words of Japanese. I could not follow the conversation, which, subsequently became a delightful mixture of English, Japanese and broken Hindoostani.

  One of the monks, who introduced himself as Hiroshi Ota, explained that they were Japanese monks who had arrived at Bodh Gaya a few days ago as part of a pilgrimage and had taken rooms close by. The other, older monk introduced himself as Akira Fujimoto. Both were from the ancient Kinkaku-ji temple of Kyoto, they said. Holmes accepted their offer of hospitality and, in short order, we accompanied the monks to their dwelling, a small but comfortable facility for pilgrims operated by a Buddhist religious group.

  I asked Holmes to explain.

  ‘Watson, it is a curious coincidence that we meet two Japanese monks in Bodh Gaya. What is even more curious is that one of them is almost definitely a former member of the Yakuza. I refer to Akira Fujimoto, the older monk. Observe his urbane and reserved manner. This is no ordinary person. His eyes are thoughtful and he speaks little, letting the younger monk handle matters. This is usually a sign of someone who has enjoyed authority in the past and is unused to executing actual tasks. I must get to know him better. We spend a week here, Watson. You must complete your convalescence and we must be ready to move on after. Today is the fifteenth, if I am not mistaken. I would like to be in Tokyo by the first or so. Let us make every attempt.’

  Holmes was soon on very friendly terms with the two Japanese monks. He did not feel it prudent to reveal just then that he was familiar with Japan and knew a great deal about the Yakuza. But within a couple of days, Akira Fujimoto opened up to Holmes on his own and revealed that he was on a journey of transformation, almost literally. Hiroshi Ota and I became friendly as well and we strolled through the temple complex together. I spoke no Japanese or even Hindoostani, and he spoke no English, so we managed, very effectively, through extravagant gestures and smiles.

  In the interests of brevity, I quote here from Holmes’s notes:

  Mr Fujimoto and I became fast friends very quickly. He was no fool. He guessed quickly that we were not really sadhoos but he had a gentle sense of humour and saw no harm in letting us keep our little secret; he was not curious and was quite at ease with himself and his past. He was not ambitious any longer and was on a spiritual quest of discovery. We warmed to each other and he also guessed that I had a greater interest in Japan than I was willing to reveal. I consider it an extraordinary quirk of destiny that I met Mr Fujimoto in such circumstances. It puts my perspective of Operation Kobe55 in a different light, something that I had not considered entirely seriously till that point.

  He was born on Kyushu Island, like many Yakuza members. His childhood had been ordinary and he had never really excelled in anything except mathematics. He could not get into a university and slowly drifted into crime. He said that he had once been part of a Yakuza clan, the Dojinkai, and had almost become the kumicho. His career in the Yakuza was fairly prosaic; he had been a gang leader and then responsible for certain activities in Fukuoka City (he did not specify the activities and I did not feel it was germane to press him). He had had only one digit cut off in an ubitsume ceremony, which presumably implied that he had made few mistakes for which an apology was thought necessary. He managed the finances of his clan for many years and was also responsible for money laundering. As he aged, he was given the task of liaising with the Japanese government’s Domestic Intelligence Department. This task was given only to the most diplomatic, suave, practical and patient (and I might add, intelligent).

  What did such a role mean, I asked. It was simple yet very important, said Mr Fujimoto. Generally, it was necessary to keep the Domestic Intelligence Department in good humour. ‘I would keep them informed of the general nature of our activities – what we were doing and where. As long as there was no subversion and there were no extreme social implications, the police would leave us alone.

  ‘Occasionally, I had to intercede when someone senior was actually charged with a grave crime. Then I would organize the legal team, arrange for the bail money and attend to related matters. You could call me a troubleshooter. I myself was never involved in any serious chargeable crime, so my role was legal and useful.

  ‘In exchange for looking the other way, we would also undertake missions on their behalf. For example, extremely covert operations overseas, perhaps in Korea or China, where some vital Japanese interest was threatened. I recall, for instance, handling the financing and logistics of an operation to assassinate an official in the Korean court who was actively working against Japanese interests. At another time, I provided the support needed to get a corrupt but influential government official out of Japan and to Hawaii, thus providing the government with the excuse that they could not act against the official. These are merely two instances.’

  About two years ago, Mr Fujimoto had had a change of heart. He had recently had a grandchild and felt that a personal spiritual quest was in order. He reflected on the matter of living a clean life a great deal and visited monasteries in Kyoto. He took to writing haikus and philosophical essays and spent time at Kinkaku-ji, an extremely revered Buddhist temple, learning how to meditate. He sought retirement from the Yakuza and was granted his wish. An interest in the teachings and the life of the Buddha spurred him on and he went through a spiritual renewal ceremony to become a lay monk. After that, he and the younger monk, Hiroshi Oto, decided to spend some time travelling to various spots of Buddhist significance. He had managed to travel to Calcutta via Hong Kong and Singapore and was delighted that he had achieved a major milestone in his life.

  He wrote a Haiku for me in the Japanese Kanji script as a gift, which I later had translated.

  Let the winter’s snow

  Fall on your memories

  The Buddha’s blessings

  We discussed his work further in liaising with the government. His chance remark – ‘Life will soon change in Japan and perhaps in the world’ – piqued my interest. He was completely candid; though he had retired a couple of years earlier, he had kept in touch with his old friends, he said. He said that the Yakuza had infiltrated and completely compromised the Japanese Diplomatic Service – he spoke of the Korean assassination, which while technically a mere ‘facilitation’, was in fact executed by a junior diplomat. He said that various ministries were also riddled with Yakuza sympathizers who were often extreme nationalists too and not entirely pleased with the winds of transformation being ushered in by the Emperor Meiji. He gave me the names of many influential persons in the government who either ignored the Yakuza because they sympathized with them or were actually part of the organization. He was fairly sure that ‘something would happen soon’. He was quite aware that the Yakuza was working closely with the Shanghai Triads and that the goal was quite complex.

  He then lapsed into a long and rambling soliloquy about life being a complete illusion and referred to the Buddhist concepts of Maya, Dharma and Nirvana. These matters, while interesting in their own way, were not relevant to my objective and I have not written them down. Nevertheless, from a purely philosophical perspective, I found them intriguing and worth additional research at the British Library, should I ever return to London.

  Do not get the impression that Mr Fujimoto was an indiscreet, garrulous person. He had simply reached a peculiar inflection point in his thinking which made him wish to unburden his soul of any information unnecessary to his new quest. Moreover, my notes above are not the result of any one long conversation, but the collation of several brief ones.

  I expressed my desire to visit Japan one day. Mr Fujimoto gave me a long and searching look and finally smiled. He said he hoped such a thing would happen and wondered if it had already taken place. At that point, I revealed our real identities and explained our circumstances, though I did not go into unnecessary details. He then insisted on writing a letter of introduction, which he said I could use gainfully at the Kinkaku-ji templ
e in Kyoto should an occasion arise; I would be afforded hospitality and protection. I do not anticipate such an eventuality, but I nevertheless accepted the letter politely.

  We spent a fine week at Bodh Gaya. The bracing air and physical activity helped my recovery. Holmes did not consider it advisable for us to abandon our disguise till we reached Calcutta, though. We looked at the map again and concluded that travelling back to Patna was hazardous. We decided to take the road to Calcutta through the towns of Dhanbad and Asansol and then plan our next move towards Japan.

  And so we did, after bidding goodbye to Hiroshi Ota and Akira Fujimoto, who proposed to continue their pilgrimage. They were planning to travel to Lumbini, near Nepal, where the Buddha was born, they said, and to other places on the pilgrimage circuit. We wished each other well and said our goodbyes.

  The journey to Calcutta was arduous; we completed it in about two days without incident. We travelled by road to Dhanbad and took a train to Howrah, the railway station serving Calcutta. We were extremely tired, but quite aware that perhaps our journey had barely begun.

  Calcutta

  You often argued with me, when we were young fools

  in Kobe, that logic is less important than passion. No.

  There is logic and music in a blade of grass, in the song of

  a hummingbird, in the sigh of a lover.

  We reached Howrah Station, the main railway access point of Calcutta, around noon. The Hooghly river, over which we passed, is an offshoot of the Ganges that retains the mystique of its source. The July heat and the humidity of Calcutta affected us greatly, but my first impressions of the city were favourable – even if my description of it won’t be. It was different from Bombay and even more crowded. The air hung heavy with a concoction of smells, mostly offensive, but interesting on the whole. The teeming mass of humanity belied description; poverty and deprivation seemed rife. The area was, I was told, in the midst of an extended drought of extreme severity and thousands from the hinterland were travelling to Calcutta to find a means of survival. I was moved by the plight of the hopeless and starving and the deep, silent stares of the emaciated children. But there was little I could do, being on a different mission that could not afford the slightest digression.