The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I

by Satyajit Ray

  Five

  When we returned to the hotel from the place of the murder (I am not going to call it an accident any more), Feluda told me to wait in the hotel. He had to go out on some work. I didn’t ask him for details for I knew he wouldn’t tell me.

  On our way back, we had met Helmut near the big crossing. When he heard we were going to Rumtek later in the afternoon, he said he’d like to join us. Nobody had told him about the Lama dance. I wondered where Mr Sarkar was. Had he managed to find out what that Tibetan word meant?

  I found him in the dining hall, looking morose and depressed. However, my arrival seemed to cheer him up. ‘Where’s your cousin?’ he asked with his usual smile.

  ‘He’s gone out for a while. He should be back soon.’

  ‘Er . . . he’s very strong, isn’t he?’

  I looked up in surprise at this question, but Mr Sarkar continued, ‘You see, I am staying on in Gangtok only because he said he’d help me, if need be. Or else I’d have gone back to Darjeeling today.’

  ‘Why?’

  Mr Sarkar began looking nervous again. Then he slowly took out the same yellow paper from his pocket. ‘I’ve ne-never done anyone any harm. Why should anyone try to threaten me?’

  ‘Did you find out what that word means?’

  ‘Ye-es. I took it to the Tibetan Institute. And they said . . . they said it means “death”. Giangphung, or something like that. The Tibetan word for death. It’s got me really worried. I am thirty-seven now, you see, and once an astrologer had told me my stars were all going to fall into unfavourable positions after I turned thirty-seven . . .’

  This irritated me somewhat. ‘I think you are jumping to conclusions,’ I said a little sternly. ‘All it says is “death”. Does it say you have to die?’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re right. It could be anybody’s death, couldn’t it? Even so . . . I don’t know . . .’ I thought of the figure in red I had seen last night. But obviously it was better not to mention it to Mr Sarkar. He was upset enough as it was. After a few moments of silence, he seemed to pull himself together with an effort. ‘I mustn’t brood,’ he said. ‘Your cousin’s there to help me. The very sight of him inspires confidence. Is he a sportsman?’

  ‘He used to play cricket. Now he does yoga.’

  ‘I knew it! One doesn’t often get to see a man looking so fit. Anyway, would you like a cup of tea?’

  I was feeling quite tired after all that climbing. So I said yes, and Mr Sarkar ordered tea for both of us. Feluda arrived just as the waiter placed two steaming cups before us. Mr Sarkar told him of his problem at once. Feluda looked at the Tibetan word again and asked, ‘Can you figure out why anyone should want to do this to you?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve thought a great deal, but I can’t think of a reason at all.’

  ‘Very well. If you’re sure there’s no one to bear you a grudge, then there’s nothing to be worried about. I am sure that was dropped into your room by mistake. What is the point in threatening someone in a language he doesn’t know? That warning must have been meant for someone who can read Tibetan. You were not the real target.’

  ‘Yes, that makes a lot of sense. Besides, I can rely on you, can’t I, if there’s any trouble?’

  ‘Yes, but perhaps there’s something I should tell you here and now. Trouble follows me around wherever I go.’

  ‘R-really?’

  Feluda went up to our room without another word. I knew he couldn’t stand people who were given to frequent attacks of nerves. If Mr Sarkar wanted his support, he’d have to stop whining all the time.

  When I returned to our room after finishing my tea, Feluda was writing something in his blue notebook. ‘I knew most people in telegraph offices were illiterate, but this is too much!’ he exclaimed upon seeing me.

  ‘Why, what happened?’

  ‘I sent a telegram to Mr Bose. He will get it as soon as he reaches Bombay.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Have reason to suspect Shelvankar’s death not accidental. Am investigating.’

  ‘But why are you so cross with the telegraph office?’

  ‘That’s another matter. You see, I went to find out if Shelvankar had received any telegrams while he was here. It wasn’t easy to get this information, of course, but in the end they told me there had been two. One was from Mr Bose, saying, “Am arriving fourteenth.”’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Here, read this,’ Feluda offered me his notebook. I saw what was written in it: YOUR SON MAY BE IS A SICK MONSTER. PRITEX.

  I stared. What on earth did it mean? Were we now going to deal with demons and monsters?

  ‘Some words have clearly been misspelt. But what could they be?’ Feluda muttered.

  ‘What is Pritex?’

  ‘That probably refers to a private detective agency.’

  ‘You mean Shelvankar had appointed a detective to trace his son?’

  ‘Quite possibly. But “sick monster”? Dear God!’

  ‘This is getting increasingly complicated, Feluda. How many mysteries will you solve all at once?’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing. There is no end to the questions. In fact, it might not be a bad idea to write them down.’ He bent over his notebook, pen in hand.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he invited.

  ‘Number one—sick monster.’

  ‘Yes. Next?’

  ‘Who threw that boulder?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Number three—where did that statue disappear?’

  ‘Carry on. You’re doing quite well.’

  ‘Number four—who threw that piece of paper into Mr Sarkar’s room?’

  ‘And why? All right, next?’

  ‘Number five—whose shirt button did you find at the site of the murder?’

  ‘Yes, although that might well have dropped from the shirt of the murder victim.’

  ‘Number six—who, apart from ourselves, went to the Tibetan Institute to ask about Yamantak?’

  ‘Splendid. If you keep going like this, in about ten years you’ll become a full-fledged detective yourself!’

  I knew Feluda was joking, but I felt quite pleased to think I had passed the test.

  ‘There is only one person we haven’t yet met and I feel we ought to.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Dr Vaidya. If he can make predictions for the future, speak to departed souls, and perform other tricks, he’s got to be an interesting man.’

  Six

  We left for Rumtek as planned, taking the road to Siliguri. The same road turned right to join a new road that went straight up to Rumtek. Both roads passed through picturesque villages and green and gold maize fields. I found the ride thoroughly enjoyable, despite the fact that the sun had disappeared and the sky had started to turn grey.

  Our driver was driving very cautiously. Feluda and I sat with him in the front. Helmut and Mr Sarkar sat at the back, facing each other. Helmut’s foot, he said, was now a lot better. The pain had gone, thanks to a German pain balm he had used. Mr Sarkar seemed much more cheerful. I Could hear him humming a Hindi song. Only Feluda was totally silent and withdrawn. I knew he was trying very hard to find answers to those six questions. If we hadn’t already planned this trip, he would have spent the afternoon scribbling in his notebook.

  Our jeep turned right, bringing into view new houses and buildings, and rows of what looked like bunting. I learnt later that Tibetans hung square pieces of cloth from ropes outside their houses in the belief that they ward off evil spirits.

  A few minutes later, a faint noise that had already reached my ears grew louder. It was a mixture of the deep and sombre sound of a horn, clanking of cymbals and a shrill note from a flute. This must be the music for the Lama dance, I thought, as our jeep pulled up outside the huge gate of the monastery. ‘The Lamas are dan-dancing,’ informed Mr Sarkar, possibly for Helmut’s benefit. All of us climbed out.

  Passing through the gate, we found ourselves in a large open courtya
rd. A beautiful blue and white embroidered shamiana stood over it. The audience sat under the shamiana. About ten men, wearing bright costumes and rather grotesque masks, were dancing before this audience, jumping and swaying to the music. The musicians were all dressed in red. Small boys—barely ten years old—were blowing the horns, each one of which was several feet long. I had never seen anything like it.

  Helmut started taking photos. He was carrying three cameras today.

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’ asked Mr Sarkar.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Feluda said.

  ‘I have seen this kind of thing before, in Kalimpong. I’m going to have a look at the temple behind this courtyard. Its inside walls are supposed to be beautifully carved.’

  Mr Sarkar left. Feluda and I sat down on the floor. ‘Tradition is a strange thing,’ remarked Feluda. ‘A traditional dance like this can make you forget you’re living in the twentieth century. I don’t think this form of dance has changed at all in the last thousand years.’

  ‘Why is this place called a gumpha?’

  ‘No, this isn’t a gumpha. A gumpha is a cave. This is a monastery. See those little rooms on the other side? That’s where the monks stay. All these little boys with shaved heads, wearing long Tibetan robes are being trained to become monks. In a monas—’ Feluda broke off. I looked at him quickly to find him frowning, his mouth hanging open. Now what was the matter? What had he suddenly thought of? ‘It’s this mountain air,’ he said finally, shaking his head. ‘It’s affecting my brain. I’ve stopped thinking. Why did it take me so long to work out what that telegram meant? It’s so simple!’

  ‘How is it simple? I still can’t—’

  ‘Look, it said “sick”. That means Sikkim. And “monster” is monastery.’

  ‘Hey, that makes sense! What does the whole thing say?’

  ‘YOUR SON MAY BE IS A SICK MONSTER. If you read “IN” for “IS”, it says YOUR SON MAY BE IN A SIKKIM MONASTERY.’

  ‘Does that mean Mr Shelvankar’s son, who left home fifteen years ago, is here right now?’

  ‘That’s what Pritex said. If Shelvankar had managed to figure out the meaning of this telegram, he might well have started to feel hopeful. From what I’ve heard, he loved his son and wanted him back.’

  ‘Perhaps he was going to that gumpha the day he died only to look for his son.’

  ‘That’s entirely possible. And if his son was really somewhere in Sikkim, the chances of . . .’ Feluda broke off again. Then I heard him mutter under his breath, ‘Will . . . will . . . if Shelvankar made a will leaving everything to his son, he stood to gain a lot.’ Feluda rose and made his way out of the crowd. I followed quickly. He was obviously feeling restless, having just discovered what the telegram had really meant. I saw him look around. Was he looking for an Indian among the Tibetans?

  We began walking in the direction of the temple, where Mr Sarkar had disappeared a few minutes ago. There were fewer people on the other side of the courtyard. As we passed the rooms in which the monks lived, we saw a couple of very old monks sitting outside in the corridor, turning a prayer wheel silently, their eyes closed. If their heavily wrinkled faces were anything to go by, they must have been a hundred years old.

  Behind the rooms was a long veranda. Its walls were covered with pictures depicting scenes from the Buddha’s life. The veranda led to a dark hall. Inside it, flickering oil lamps stood in rows. A huge wooden door, painted red, had been thrown open, but there was no one at the door. Feluda and I stepped in quietly.

  The dark, damp hall was filled with a strange scent of incense. Incredibly long lengths of bright silk, heavily embroidered, hung from the high ceiling. Benches, draped in colourful fabrics, stood in corners, as did what looked like very large drums. These were supported by bamboo rods. Behind these, in the darkest corner of the hall, were a number of tall statues, chiefly of the Buddha. Flowers had been arranged in a number of vases, and the oil lamps I had seen from outside were placed under the statues.

  I was totally engrossed in looking at these things when suddenly Feluda placed a hand on my shoulder. I looked up swiftly and found him staring at a side entrance to the hall. A much smaller door on one side was open.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said, speaking through clenched teeth, and started to move towards the door.

  We emerged from the hall to find a flight of stairs going up. ‘I can’t tell where he went, but let’s go upstairs, anyway,’ Feluda said.

  ‘Where who went?’ I whispered, running up the stairs.

  ‘A man in red. He was peeping into the hall. Ran away the moment he realized I had seen him.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘No, it was too dark.’

  We found a room on the first floor, but its door was closed. Perhaps this was the senior Lama’s room, who had recently returned from Tibet. On the left was an open terrace. Here again, pieces of cloth hung from ropes. Strains of the music from the courtyard down below reached my ears. A dance like this could go on for seven or eight hours.

  We walked across the terrace and stood by a railing, overlooking a green valley. A mist had started to rise, slowly engulfing everything that was visible. ‘If Shelvankar’s son was here—’ Feluda began, but was interrupted by a loud scream.

  ‘Help me! Oh God . . . save! . . . help . . . help!’

  It was Mr Sarkar’s voice.

  We ran back to the stairs. It took us less than a minute to get down and find the rear exit from the monastery. We rushed out to find that the shrieks for help were coming from the bottom of a hill. The area was uneven, dotted with bushes and shrubs, one end leading to a steep drop of about a hundred feet. It was here that Mr Sarkar was hanging from a bush, right at the edge of the hill. Our appearance made him shout even louder. ‘I am d-d-dying . . . save me, please save me!’

  It wasn’t too difficult to pull him up to safety. But the instant his feet touched solid ground, he rolled his eyes and fainted. Then we had to carry him back to the jeep and splash cold water on his face. He came round in a few moments and sat up slowly.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Feluda.

  ‘D-don’t remind me!’ Mr Sarkar whimpered. ‘After that long journey, I n-n-needed to . . . I mean . . . relieve myself, you see . . . so I thought I’d better go out of the monastery, and I found this place that seemed quite suitable, but . . . but who knew I had been followed?’

  ‘Did someone give you a push from the back?’

  ‘Absolutely. It was h-horrible! If I hadn’t found that bush to hang on to, that Tibetan warning would have come t-true, in no t-time!’

  ‘Did you see the man?’

  ‘No, of course not! He stole up behind me, didn’t he?’

  There was no point in staying on in Rumtek after an incident like this. We decided to go back to Gangtok immediately. Helmut, who had seen us coming back to the jeep, agreed to return with us, although I suspect he was disappointed at not being able to take more photos.

  Feluda had sunk into silence once more. But he spoke suddenly as our driver started the jeep. ‘Mr Sarkar,’ he said, ‘surely you realize you have a certain responsibility in this whole business?’

  ‘Res-responsibility?’ croaked Mr Sarkar.

  ‘There’s no way we can figure out who’s trying to frighten you unless you tell us what—or who—you are after.’

  Mr Sarkar sat up, looking profoundly distressed. ‘I swear, sir—I promise—I’ve never caused anyone any harm. Not knowingly, anyway.’

  ‘You don’t happen to have an identical twin, do you?’

  ‘No, no. I am the only child of my parents.’

  ‘Hm. I assume you’re telling the truth. Mind you, it you tell me a lie, it is you who is going to be in trouble.’

  The rest of the journey was made in total silence. Feluda spoke again only when our jeep stopped at the dak bungalow and Helmut tried to pay his share.

  ‘No, no,’ Feluda said, ‘we invited you, didn’t we? Besides, you ar
e a guest in our country. We cannot allow you to pay a single paisa.’

  ‘All right.’ Helmut smiled. ‘Will you at least allow me to offer you a cup of tea?’

  This seemed like a very good idea, so all of us got out. Feluda and Mr Sarkar paid the driver. Helmut then took us to his room.

  We had just found three chairs for ourselves, and Helmut had placed his cameras on the table, when a strange man walked into the room and greeted Helmut with a smile. A thick beard—flecked with grey—covered most of his face. Long hair came down to his shoulders. He was clad in loose flannel trousers and a shapeless orange jacket with a high neck. In his hand was a stout walking-stick.

  Helmut smiled back, and turned to us. ‘Allow me to introduce you,’ he said. ‘This is Dr Vaidya.’

  Seven

  ‘Are you from Bengal?’ Dr Vaidya asked. He spoke with a funny accent.

  ‘Yes,’ Feluda replied. ‘Helmut has told us about you.’

  ‘Helmut is a nice boy,’ Dr Vaidya nodded, ‘but I’ve had to warn him about one thing. People here don’t normally like being photographed. You see, it is their belief that if a part of a person is represented somewhere else in a different form, it reduces the vital force—the ability to live—of that person.’

  ‘Do you believe this yourself?’

  ‘What I believe is of no consequence, at least not to Helmut. He hasn’t stopped taking pictures, has he? Why, I have been captured in his camera, too! What I say is this: one cannot disregard anything in life without studying it, or examining it thoroughly. I still have a lot to learn.’

  ‘But there’s such a lot you know already! I’ve heard you can see the future and even speak to the dead.’

  ‘No, not always.’ Dr Vaidya gave a slight smile. ‘A lot depends on the immediate surroundings. But there are certain things that are fairly easy to tell. For instance, I can tell that this gentleman here is under a lot of stress,’ he pointed at Mr Sarkar, who licked his lips nervously.