by Satyajit Ray
Srinath came in with the tea. Uncle Sidhu picked up a cup, took a sip, and said, ‘This has to be stopped, Felu. I am now too old to do anything myself, but you are an investigator, it is your job to find criminals. What could be worse than destroying and disfiguring our ancient art, tell me? Shouldn’t these criminals be caught? I could, of course, write to newspapers and try to attract the attention of the police, but do you know what the problem is? Not everyone understands the true value of art. I mean, an old statue on a temple wall isn’t the same as gold or diamonds, is it? You cannot put a market price on it.’
Feluda was quiet all this while. Now he said, ‘Did you manage to learn the name of that American?’
‘Yes. I did speak to him very briefly. He gave me his card. Here it is.’ Uncle Sidhu took out a small white card from his pocket and gave it to Feluda. Saul Silverstein, it said. His address was printed below his name.
‘A Jew,’ Uncle Sidhu remarked. ‘Most undoubtedly very wealthy. The watch he was wearing was probably worth a thousand dollars. I had never seen such an expensive watch before.’
‘Did he tell you how long he’s going to stay here?’
‘He’s going to Kathmandu tomorrow morning. But if you ring him now, you might get him.’ Feluda got up and began dialling. The telephone number of the Grand Hotel was one of the many important numbers he had memorized.
The receptionist said Mr Silverstein was not in his room. No one knew when he might be back. Feluda replaced the receiver, looking disappointed. ‘If we could get even a description of the man who sold that statue to him, we might do something about it.’
‘I know. That’s what I should have asked him,’ Uncle Sidhu sighed, ‘but I simply couldn’t think straight. He was looking at my paintings. He said he was interested in Tantric art, so if I had anything to sell I should contact him. Then he gave me that card. But I honestly don’t see how you’ll proceed in this matter.’
‘Well, let’s just wait and see. The press may report the theft. After all, Raja-Rani is a very famous temple in Bhubaneshwar.’
Uncle Sidhu finished his tea and rose. ‘This has been going on for years,’ he said, collecting his umbrella. ‘So far, the target seems to have been smaller and lesser known temples. But now, whoever’s involved has become much bolder. Perhaps a group of reckless and very powerful people are behind this. Felu, if you can do something about it, the entire nation is going to appreciate it. I am positive about that.’
Uncle Sidhu left. Feluda then spent all day trying to get hold of Saul Silverstein, but he did not return to his room. At 11 p.m., Feluda gave up. ‘If what Uncle Sidhu said is true,’ he said, frowning, ‘whoever is responsible is a criminal of the first order. What is most frustrating is that there’s no way I can track him down. No way at all.’
A way opened the very next day, in such a totally unexpected manner that, even now, my head reels when I think about it.
Two
What happened was a terrible accident. But, before I speak about it, there’s something else I must mention. There was a small report in the newspaper the next day, which confirmed Uncle Sidhu’s suspicions:
The Headless Yakshi
The head from the statue of a yakshi has been stolen from the wall of the Raja-Rani temple in Bhubaneshwar. This temple serves as one of the best examples of old Indian architecture. The chowkidar of the temple is said to be missing. The Archaeological Department of Orissa has asked for a police investigation.
I read this report aloud, and asked, ‘Would that mean the chowkidar is the thief?’
Feluda finished squeezing out toothpaste from a tube of Forhans and placed it carefully on his toothbrush. Then he said, ‘No, I don’t think stealing the head was just the chowkidar’s idea. A poor man like him would not have the nerve. Someone else is responsible, someone big enough and strong enough to think he is never going to be caught. Presumably, he—or they—simply paid the chowkidar to get him out of the way for a few days.’
Uncle Sidhu must have seen the report too. He would probably turn up at our house again to tell us proudly that he was right.
He did arrive, but not before half past ten. Today being Thursday, our area had been hit by its regular power cut since nine o’clock. Feluda and I were sitting in our living room, staring occasionally at the overcast sky, when someone knocked loudly at the door. Uncle Sidhu rushed in a minute later, demanding a cup of tea once more. Feluda began talking of the headless yakshi, but was told to shut up.
‘That’s stale news, young man,’ Uncle Sidhu barked. ‘Did you hear the last news bulletin?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Our radio is not working. Today is . . .’
‘I know, it’s Thursday, and you’ve got a long power cut. That is why, Felu, I keep asking you to buy a transistor. Anyway, I came as soon as I heard. You’ll never believe this. That flight to Kathmandu crashed, not far from Calcutta. It took off at seven-thirty, but crashed only fifteen minutes later. There was a storm, so perhaps it was trying to come back. There were fifty-eight passengers. All of them died, including Saul Silverstein. Yes, his name was mentioned on the radio.’
For a few moments, neither of us could speak. Then Feluda said, ‘Where did it crash? Did they mention the place?’
‘Yes, near a village called Sidikpur, on the way to Hasnabad. Felu, I had been praying very hard for that statue not to leave the country. Who knew my prayer would be answered through such a terrible tragedy?’
Feluda glanced at his watch. Was he thinking of going to Sidikpur?
Uncle Sidhu looked at him sharply. ‘I know what you’re thinking. There must have been an explosion and everything the plane contained must have been scattered over miles. Suppose, among the belongings of the passengers, there is—?’
Feluda decided in two minutes that he’d take a taxi and go to Sidikpur to look for the head of the yakshi. The crash had occurred three hours ago. It would take us an hour and a half to get there. By this time, the police and the fire brigade would have got there and started their investigation. No one could tell whether we’d succeed in our mission, but we could not miss this chance to retrieve what was lost.
‘Those paintings I sold to Nagarmal fetched me a tidy little sum,’ Uncle Sidhu told Feluda. ‘I would like to give you some of it. After all, you are going to get involved only because of me, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ Feluda replied firmly. ‘It is true that you gave me all the details. But, believe me, I wouldn’t have taken any action if I didn’t feel strongly about it myself. I have thought a great deal about this, and—like you—I have come to the conclusion that those who think they can sell our ancient heritage to fill their own pockets should be caught and punished severely.’
‘Bravo!’ Uncle Sidhu beamed. ‘Please remember one thing, Felu. Even if you don’t need any money, you may need information on art and sculpture. I can always help you with that.’
‘Yes, I know. Thank you.’
We decided that if we could find what we were looking for, we would take it straight to the office of the Archaeological Survey of India. The thief might still be at large, but at least the stolen object would go back to the authorities.
We quickly got ready, and got into a yellow taxi. It was 10.55 when we set off. ‘I’ve no idea how long this is going to take,’ Feluda said. ‘We can stop for lunch at a dhaba on Jessore Road on our way back.’
This pleased me no end. The food in dhabas—which were usually frequented by lorry drivers—was always delicious. Roti, daal, meat curry . . . my mouth began to water. Feluda could eat anything anywhere. I tried to follow his example.
There was a shower as soon as we left the main city and reached VIP Road. But the sun came out as we got close to Barasat. Hasnabad was forty miles from Calcutta. ‘If the road wasn’t wet and slippery, I could have got there in an hour,’ said our driver. ‘There’s been a plane crash there, sir, did you know? I heard about it on the radio.’
On being told that that was where we were g
oing, he became very excited. ‘Why, sir, was any of your relatives in that plane?’ he asked.
‘No, no.’
Feluda could hardly tell him the whole story, but his curiosity was aroused and he went on asking questions.
‘I believe everything’s been reduced to ashes. What will you get to see, anyway?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you a reporter?’
‘I . . . well, I write stories.’
‘Oh, I see. You’ll get all the details and then use it in a story? Very good, very good.’
We had left Barasat behind us. Now we had to stop every now and then to ask people if they knew where Sidikpur was. Finally, a group of young men standing near a cycle repair shop gave us the right directions. ‘Two miles from here, you’ll see an unpaved road on your left,’ said one of them. ‘This road will take you to Sidikpur. It’s only a mile from there.’ From the way he spoke, it seemed obvious that he and his friends had already given the same directions to many others.
The unpaved road turned out to be little more than a dirt track. It was muddy after the recent rain and bore several sets of tyre marks. Thank goodness it was only June. A month later, this road would become impossible to drive through. Three other Ambassadors passed us. Several people were going on foot, and some others were returning from the site of the crash.
A number of people were gathered under a banyan tree. Three cars and a jeep were parked near it. Our taxi pulled up behind these. There was no sign of the crash anywhere, but it became clear that we couldn’t drive any further. To our right was an open area, full of large trees. Beyond these, in the distance, a few small houses could be seen.
‘Yes, that’s Sidikpur,’ one of the men told us. ‘There’s a little wood where the village ends. That’s where the plane crashed.’
By this time, our driver had introduced himself to us. His name was Balaram Ghosh. He locked his car and came with us. As it turned out, the wood wasn’t large. There were more banana trees than anything else. Only half a dozen mango and jackfruit trees stood amongst them. Each of them was badly charred. There were virtually no leaves left on their branches, and some of the branches looked as if they had been deliberately chopped off. The whole area was now teeming with men in uniform, and some others who were probably from the airline. There was a very strong pungent smell, which made me cover my face with a handkerchief. The ground was littered with endless pieces of broken, burnt and half-burnt objects, some damaged beyond recognition, others more or less usable. Feluda clicked his tongue in annoyance and said, ‘If only we could have got here an hour ago!’
The main site had been cordoned off. There was no way we could get any closer. So we started walking around the cordon. Some of the policemen were picking up objects from the ground and inspecting them: a portion of a stethoscope, a briefcase, a flask, a small mirror that glinted brightly in the sun. The site was on our right. We were slowly moving in that direction, when suddenly Feluda saw something on a mango tree on our left and stopped.
A little boy was sitting on a low branch, clutching a half-burnt leather shoe. He must have found it among the debris. Feluda glanced up and asked, ‘You found a lot of things, didn’t you?’ The boy did not reply, but stared solemnly at Feluda. ‘What’s the matter? Can’t you speak?’ Feluda asked again. Still he got no reply. ‘Hopeless!’ he exclaimed and walked on, away from the debris and towards the village. Balaram Ghosh became curious once more.
‘Are you looking for something special, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes. The head of a statue, made of red stone.’
‘I see. Just the head? OK.’ He started searching in the grass. There was a peepul tree about a hundred yards away, under which a group of old men were sitting, smoking hookahs. The oldest among them asked Feluda, ‘Where are you from?’
‘Calcutta. Your village hasn’t come to any harm, has it?’
‘No, babu. Allah saved us. There was a fire as soon as the plane came down—it made such a big noise that we all thought a bomb had gone off—and then the whole village was filled with smoke. We could see the fire in the wood, but none of us knew what to do . . . but soon it started to rain, and then the fire brigade arrived.’
‘Did any of you go near the plane when the fire went out?’
‘No, babu. We’re old men, we were simply glad to have been spared.’
‘What about the young boys? Didn’t they go and collect things before the police got here?’
The old men fell silent. By this time, several other people had gathered to listen to this exchange. Feluda spotted a boy and beckoned him. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked as the boy came closer. His tone was gentle and friendly.
‘Ali.’
Feluda placed a hand on his shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘A lot of things scattered everywhere when the plane crashed. You’ve seen that for yourself, haven’t you? Now, there should have been the head of a statue among those things. Just the head of a statue of a woman. Do you know if anyone saw it?’
‘Ask him!’ Ali replied, pointing at another boy. Feluda had to repeat the whole process once more.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Panu.’
‘Did you see the head of a statue? Did you take it?’
Silence. ‘Look, Panu,’ Feluda said even more gently, ‘it’s all right. No one’s going to get angry with you. But if you can give me that head, I’ll pay you for it. Have you got it with you?’
More silence. This time, one of the old men shouted at him, ‘Go on, Panu, answer the gentleman. He hasn’t got all day.’
Panu finally opened his mouth. ‘I haven’t got it with me now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I found it, babu. I swear I did. But I gave it to someone else, only a few minutes ago.’
What! Could this really be true? My heart started hammering in my chest.
‘Who was it?’ Feluda asked sharply.
‘I don’t know. He was a man from the city, like you. He came in a car, a blue car.’
‘What did he look like? Was he tall? Short? Thin? Fat? Did he wear glasses?’
This prompted many of Panu’s friends to join the conversation. From the description they gave, it seemed that a man of medium height, who was neither thin nor fat, neither fair nor dark, and whose age was between thirty and fifty, had arrived half an hour before us and had made similar enquiries. Panu had shown him the yakshi’s head, and he had bought it from him for a nominal sum. Then he had driven off in a blue car.
When we were driving to Sidikpur, a blue Ambassador had come from the opposite direction, passed us and gone towards the main road. All of us remembered having seen it.
‘OK. Come on, Topshe. Let’s go, Mr Ghosh.’
If Feluda was disappointed by what we had just learnt, he did not show it. On the contrary, he seemed to have found new energy. He ran all the way back to the taxi, with the driver and me in tow.
God knew what lay in store.
Three
We were now going back the same way we had come. It was past one-thirty, but neither of us was thinking of lunch. Balaram Ghosh did suggest stopping for a cup of tea when we reached Jessore Road, but Feluda paid no attention. Perhaps our driver smelt an adventure in all this, so he, too, did not raise the subject of food again.
Our car was now going at 75 kmph. I was aware of only one thought that kept going over and over in my mind: how close we had got to retrieving the yakshi’s head! If we hadn’t had a power cut this morning, we would have heard the news on the radio, and then we would have reached Sidikpur much sooner and most certainly we would have got hold of Panu. If that had happened, by now we would have been making our way to the office of the Archaeological Survey of India. Who knows, Feluda might have been given a Padma Shree for recovering the country’s lost heritage!
The sun had already dried the road. I was beginning to wonder why we couldn’t go a little faster, when my eyes caught sight of something by the roadside that cau
sed a sharp rise in my pulse rate.
A blue Ambassador was standing outside a small garage. ‘Should I stop here, sir?’ Balaram Ghosh asked, reducing his speed. He had obviously paid great attention to what those boys had told us.
‘Yes, at that tea stall over there,’ Feluda replied. Mr Ghosh swept up to the stall and pulled up by its side with a screech. We got out and Feluda ordered three cups of tea. I noticed that tea was being served in small glasses, there were no cups.
‘What else have you got?’ Feluda asked.
‘Biscuits. Would you like some? They’re fresh, sir, and very tasty.’ Two glass jars stood on a counter, filled with large, round biscuits. Feluda asked for half-a-dozen of those.
My eyes kept darting back to the blue car. A mechanic was in the process of replacing a punctured tyre. A man—medium height, age around forty, thick bushy eyebrows, hair brushed back—was pacing up and down, inhaling every now and then from a half-finished cigarette.
Our tea was almost ready. Feluda took out a Charminar, then pretended he had lost his lighter. He patted his pocket twice, then shrugged and moved over to join the other man. The driver and I stayed near our taxi, but we could hear what was said.
‘Excuse me.’ Feluda began, ‘do you . . . ?’
The man took out a lighter and lit Feluda’s cigarette for him. ‘Thanks,’ Feluda inhaled. ‘A terrible business, wasn’t it?’
The man glanced at Feluda, then looked away without replying. Feluda tried once more.
‘Weren’t you at the site where that plane crashed? I thought I saw your car there!’
This time, the man spoke. ‘What plane crash?’
‘Good heavens, haven’t you heard? A plane bound for Kathmandu crashed near Sidikpur.’
‘I am coming from Taki. No, I hadn’t heard of the crash.’
