by Satyajit Ray
‘It sounds most barbaric! Like something straight out of the dark ages. How terrible!’
We caught a train to Marwar in the middle of the night. It did involve scrambling in the dark, but we found enough room for ourselves and slept well.
In the morning, when I woke up, I glanced out of the window and saw an old fort in the distance, on top of a hill. Only a minute later, the train pulled into a station called Kisangarh.
‘If you see the word “garh” attached to the name of a place, you may assume that somewhere in that area there is a fort on a hilltop,’ Feluda said.
We got down on the platform and had tea. The earthen pots in which the tea was served were much larger and stronger than the pots used in Bengal. Even the tea tasted different. Feluda thought camel’s milk had been used. Perhaps that was why Lalmohan Babu ordered a second pot when he finished the first.
When I’d finished mine, I found a tap on the platform and quickly brushed my teeth. Then I splashed cold water on my face and returned to our compartment.
There was a Rajasthani man sitting at one end of Lalmohan Babu’s bench. On his head was a huge turban. One leg was folded up on the bench, and he was resting his chin on his raised knee. He had wrapped a shawl around himself, hiding most of his face. But I could see the colour of his shirt through the shawl. It was bright red.
Lalmohan Babu saw the man and promptly abandoned his bench and moved to ours. He tried to huddle in one corner. Feluda said, ‘Why don’t you two sit more comfortably?’ He moved across to the other bench and sat down beside the Rajasthani.
I began to peer more closely at the man’s turban. Heaven knew how many twists and turns the fabric had made before it was finally wound so tightly round his head. Lalmohan Babu addressed Feluda and said softly, ‘Powerfully suspicious. He is dressed as an ordinary villager, but how come he is in a first-class compartment? Look at that bundle. God knows if it’s packed with diamonds and other precious stones.’
The bundle was placed next to the man. Lalmohan Babu’s comment made Feluda smile, but he said nothing.
The train started. Feluda took out the book on Rajasthan from his shoulder bag. I took out Newman’s Bradshaw timetable and began looking up the stations we would stop at. Each place had a strange name: Galota, Tilonia, Makrera, Vesana, Sendra. Where had these names come from? Feluda had told me once that a lot of local history was always hidden in the name given to a place. But who was going to look for the history behind these names?
The train continued to chug on its way. Suddenly, I could feel someone tugging at my shirt. I turned to find that Lalmohan Babu had gone visibly pale. When he caught my eye, he swallowed and whispered, ‘Blood!’
Blood? What was the man talking about?
Lalmohan Babu’s eyes turned to the Rajasthani. The latter was fast asleep. His head was flung back, his mouth slightly open. My eyes fell on the foot on the bench. The skin around the big toe was badly grazed. It had obviously been bleeding, but now the blood had dried. Then I realized something else. The dark stains on his clothes, which appeared to be mud stains, were, in fact, patches of dried blood.
I looked quickly at Feluda. He was reading his book, quite unconcerned. Lalmohan Babu found his nonchalance too much to bear. He spoke again, in the same choked voice, ‘Mr Mitter, suspicious blood marks on our new co-passenger!’
Feluda looked up, glanced once at the Rajasthani and said, ‘Probably caused by bugs.’
The thought that the blood was simply the result of bites from bed bugs made Lalmohan Babu look like a pricked balloon. Even so, he could not relax. He continued to sit stiffly and frown and cast the Rajasthani sidelong glances from time to time.
The train reached Marwar Junction at half past two. We had lunch in the refreshment room, and spent almost an hour walking about on the platform. When we climbed into another train at half past three to go to Jodhpur, there was no sign of that Rajasthani wearing a red shirt.
Our journey to Jodhpur lasted for two-and-a-half hours. On the way, we saw several groups of camels. Each time that happened, Lalmohan Babu grew most excited. By the time we reached Jodhpur, it was ten past six. Our train was delayed by twenty minutes. If we were still in Calcutta, the sun would have set by now, but as we were in the western part of the country, it was still shining brightly.
We had booked rooms at the Circuit House. Lalmohan Babu said he would stay at the New Bombay Lodge. ‘I’ll join you early tomorrow morning, we can all go together to see the fort,’ he said and went off towards the tongas that were standing in a row.
We found ourselves a taxi and left the station. The Circuit House wasn’t far, we were told. As we drove through the streets, I noticed a huge wall—visible through the gaps between houses—that seemed as high as a two-storeyed house. There was a time, Feluda told me, when the whole of Jodhpur was surrounded by that wall. There were gates in seven different places. If they heard of anyone coming to attack Jodhpur, all seven gates were closed.
Our car went round a bend. Feluda said at once, ‘Look, on your left!’
In the far distance, high above all the buildings in the city, stood a sprawling, sombre-looking fort—the famous fort of Jodhpur. Its rulers had once fought for the Mughals.
I was still wondering how soon I’d get to see the fort at close quarters, when we reached the Circuit House. Our taxi passed through the gate, drove up the driveway, past a garden, and stopped under a portico. We got out, collected our luggage and paid the driver.
A gentleman emerged from the building and asked us if we were from Calcutta, and whether Feluda was called Pradosh Mitter.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Feluda acknowledged.
‘There is a double room booked in your name on the ground floor,’ the man replied.
We were handed the Visitors’ Book to sign. Only a few lines above our own names, we saw two entries: Dr H.B. Hajra and Master M. Dhar.
The Circuit House was built on a simple plan. There was a large open space as one entered. To its left were the reception and the manager’s room. In front of it was a staircase going up to the first floor, and on both sides, there were wide corridors along which stood rows of rooms. There were wicker chairs in the corridors.
A bearer came and picked up our luggage, and we followed him down the right-hand corridor to find room number 3. A middle-aged man, sporting an impressive moustache, was seated on one of the wicker chairs, chatting with a man in a Rajasthani cap. As we walked past them, the first man said, ‘Are you Bengalis?’ Feluda smiled and said, ‘Yes.’ We were then shown into our room.
It was quite spacious. There were twin beds, each with a mosquito net. Set apart, at one end, was a two-seater sofa, a pair of easy chairs, and a round table with an ashtray on it. There was also a dressing table, wardrobes and bedside tables. Lamps, glasses and flasks of water were placed upon the tables. The door to the attached bathroom was to the left.
Feluda asked the bearer to bring us some tea and switched the fan on. ‘Did you see those two names?’ he asked, sitting down on the sofa.
‘Yes, but I hope that man with the thick moustache isn’t Dr Hajra!’ I replied.
‘Why? What if he is? Why should it matter?’
I couldn’t immediately think of a good reason. Feluda saw me hesitate and said, ‘You didn’t like the man, did you? You want Dr Hajra to be a pleasant, cheerful and friendly man. Right?’
Yes, Feluda was absolutely right. The man we just met appeared kind of crafty. Besides, he was probably quite tall and hefty. That was not how I would picture a doctor.
The tea arrived just as Feluda finished a cigarette. The bearer placed the tray on the table and left. Someone knocked on our door almost at once. ‘Come in!’ said Feluda in a grand manner, sounding like an Englishman. The man with the moustache moved aside the curtain and came in.
‘I am not disturbing you, am I?’ he said.
‘No, not at all. Please sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks. I’ve
just had some. Frankly speaking, the tea here isn’t all that good. But then, that’s true of most places. India is the land of tea, yet how many hotels, or dak bungalows, or circuit houses serve good quality tea, tell me? But if you go abroad, it’s a different story. Even in a place like Albania, I have had very good tea—would you believe it? First-class Darjeeling tea, it was. And if you went to Europe? Every major city would give you good tea. The only thing I don’t like is the business of tea bags. Your cup is filled with hot water, and you’re handed a little bag packed with tea leaves. A piece of string is tied to this bag. You have to hold it by this string and dip it in the water to make your own tea. Then you might add milk to it, or squeeze a lemon, as you wish. Personally, I prefer lemon tea. But you need really good tea for that. The kind of tea they have here is very ordinary.’
‘You have travelled a lot, have you?’ Feluda asked.
‘Yes, that’s all I’ve done in life,’ our visitor replied ‘I am what you might call a globetrotter. And I’m fond of hunting. I got interested when I was in Africa. My name is Mandar Bose.’
I had heard of the globetrotter Umesh Bhattacharya, but not of Mandar Bose.
He probably guessed what I was thinking. ‘I don’t suppose my name will mean anything to you,’ he said. ‘When I first left home, my name appeared in the press. But that was thirty-six years ago. I’ve been back in India for only three months.’
‘Really? I must say your Bengali has remained pretty good, considering you’ve been out of the country for so long.’
‘Well, that’s something entirely up to the person who’s travelling abroad. If you want to forget your own language, you can do so in just three months. And if you don’t, you’ll not forget it even in thirty years. But I was lucky in that I came across other Bengalis frequently. When I was in Kenya, I ran a business trading in ivory. My partner there was a Bengali. We worked together for almost seven years.’
‘Is there any other Bengali here in the Circuit House?’ asked Feluda. I had noticed earlier that he seldom wasted time on idle chit-chat.
‘Yes! That’s what I find so surprising. But one thing’s become clear to me. People in Calcutta are fed up. So they get out whenever they can. This man here, though, has come with a purpose. He’s a psychologist. It’s all a bit complicated. There’s a little boy with him, about eight years old. He’s supposed to be able to recall his previous life. Says he was born in some fort in Rajasthan, once upon a time. This man is roaming around everywhere with the boy, looking for that fort. What I can’t tell is whether this psychologist is a fraud, or the boy is simply telling a pack of lies. His behaviour is certainly odd. He doesn’t talk properly with anyone, doesn’t answer questions. Very fishy. I’ve seen a lot of cheats and frauds all over the world— never thought I’d come across something like this back in my own country!’
‘Was it your globetrotting that brought you here?’
Mr Bose smiled and stood up. ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t yet seen much of this country . . . . By the way, I didn’t catch your names!’
Feluda made the introductions. ‘And I have never stepped out of this country,’ he added.
‘I see. Well, if you come to the dining hall at around half past eight, we’ll meet again. I believe in early-to-bed and early-to-rise, you see.’
We left our room with Mr Bose and emerged into the corridor outside. A taxi was coming in through the gate. It stopped under the portico, and a man of about forty got out of it, accompanied by a thin little boy. I did not have to be told that they were Dr Hemanga Hajra and Mukul Dhar.
Five
Mr Bose said ‘good evening’ to Dr Hajra as he passed him, and went towards his own room. Dr Hajra began walking down the corridor, holding the boy by the hand. Then he saw us and stopped, looking a little confused. Perhaps the sight of two strangers had startled him. Feluda smiled and greeted him. ‘Namaskar. Dr Hajra, I presume?’ he asked.
‘Yes. But I don’t think I. . .?’
Feluda took out one of his cards from his pocket and handed it to Dr Hajra. ‘I need to talk to you. To tell you the truth, we are here at Mr Dhar’s request. He has written you a letter.’
‘Oh, I see. Mukul, why don’t you go to your room? I’ll have a chat with these people, then I’ll join you. All right?’
‘I’ll go to the garden,’ said Mukul.
His voice sounded as sweet as a flute, but his tone was flat and lifeless, almost as if the words had been spoken by a robot. Dr Hajra said, ‘Very well, you may go to the garden, but be a good boy and don’t go out of the gate, okay?’
Mukul jumped from the corridor straight on to the gravel path, without saying another word. Then he stepped over a row of flowers and stood quietly on the lawn. Dr Hajra turned back to us, gave a somewhat embarrassed smile and asked, ‘Where should we sit?’
‘Let’s go to our room.’
The hair around Dr Hajra’s ears had started to grey, I noticed. His eyes held a sharp, intelligent look. Now that I could see him more closely, he appeared older—probably in his late forties.
When we were seated, Feluda handed him Mr Dhar’s letter and offered him a Charminar. Dr Hajra smiled, said, ‘No, thanks’, and began reading the letter. When he’d finished, he folded it and put it back in its envelope.
Feluda explained quickly about Neelu being kidnapped. ‘Mr Dhar was afraid,’ he said, ‘that those men might have followed Mukul and arrived here. That is why he came to see me. In fact, I am here really because he wanted me to join you. But, even if nothing untoward happens and you do not require my protection, I can see that my visit will not go to waste as I’ve always wanted to see Rajasthan.’
Dr Hajra remained thoughtful for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Fortunately, nothing has happened as yet that might be seen as untoward. But honestly, there was no need to talk to a press reporter and say so much. I told Mr Dhar to wait until I finished my investigation, and then he could get Mukul to speak to as many reporters as he liked, especially about the hidden treasure. I might think the story is possibly quite baseless, but there might well be people who’d be easily tempted to go and look for it!’
‘What do you think of this whole business of recalling previous lives? Do you really believe in jatismars?’
‘What I think amounts to shooting arrows in the dark or simply making guesses. Yet I cannot dismiss the idea as pure nonsense. After all, there have been similar cases in the past. What those people could recall turned out to be accurate, to the last detail. That is why, when I heard about Mukul, I decided to do a thorough investigation. If it turned out that everything Mukul could recall was true, then I would treat his case as a starting point and base my future research on it.’
‘Have you made any progress?’
‘One thing has become clear. I was right to think about Rajasthan and bring him here. Mukul’s entire demeanour has changed from the moment we set foot in Rajasthan. Just think. For the first time in his life, he is away from his parents and others in his family and travelling with a virtual stranger. Yet he hasn’t mentioned his own people even once in the last few days.’
‘How is his relationship with you?’
‘We’ve had no problems. He sees me as someone who’s taking him to his dreamland. All he can think of is his golden fortress. So he jumps with joy each time he sees a fort.’
‘Any sign of the golden fortress?’
Dr Hajra shook his head. ‘No, I am afraid not. On our way here, I took him to the fort in Kisangarh. Yesterday evening, he saw the Jodhpur fort from outside. Today, we went to Barmer. Every time, he says, “No, not this one. Let’s find another.” One really needs patience in a case like this. I know there’s no point in taking him to Chittor or Udaipur because there’s no sand near those places. Mukul keeps talking of sand, and that’s to be found only in these parts. So I’m thinking of going to Bikaner tomorrow.’
‘Would you mind if we came along?’
‘No, of course not. In fact, I’d feel quite rea
ssured if you were with us because . . . something happened . . .’
Dr Hajra stopped. Feluda had taken out his packet of cigarettes, but did not open it.
‘Yesterday evening,’ Dr Hajra spoke slowly, ‘there was a phone call.’
‘Where?’
‘Here in the Circuit House. I wasn’t here; Mukul and I were out looking at the fort. In our absence, someone rang to ask if a man had arrived from Calcutta with a small boy. Naturally, the manager said yes.’
‘But,’ Feluda suggested, ‘it could be that some of the locals know about the press report that appeared in Calcutta and simply wanted to verify it? After all, there are plenty of Bengalis in Jodhpur, aren’t there? Surely a little curiosity in a matter like this is natural?’
‘Yes, I can see that. But the question is, why didn’t that man come here and meet me, or get in touch, even when he heard that I was here?’
‘Hmm. Perhaps it’s best that you and I stay together. And don’t let Mukul go out on his own.’
‘Are you mad? Of course I won’t.’ Dr Hajra rose. ‘I have booked a taxi for tomorrow. As there are just two of you, we’ll manage quite easily in one taxi.’
He began moving towards the door. Suddenly, Feluda asked a question rather unexpectedly: ‘By the way, weren’t you involved in a case in Chicago, about four years ago?’
Dr Hajra frowned. ‘A case? Yes, I’ve been to Chicago, but. . .’
‘Something to do with a spiritual healing centre?’
Dr Hajra burst out laughing. ‘Ah, are you talking about Swami Bhavananda? The Americans used to call him Byavanyanda. Yes, there was a case, but what was reported in the press was grossly exaggerated. The man was certainly a cheat, but you’ll find similar cheats among quacks of all kinds. It was small-time stuff, no more. In fact, his patients caught him out, and the news spread. Reporters from the press came to me for my opinion. I said very little, and tried to play things down. But those reporters blew everything out of proportion. Afterwards, I happened to meet Bhavananda. I explained the whole matter to him myself and we parted as friends.’
