by Satyajit Ray
Taki was a town near Hasnabad. Could the man be telling the truth? If only we had noted the number of his car when he passed us!
‘How much longer will it take?’ he asked the mechanic impatiently.
‘A couple of minutes, sir, no more.’
Our tea had been served by this time. Feluda came back to pick up a glass. The three of us sat down on a bench in front of the stall. ‘He denied everything . . . the man’s a liar,’ Feluda muttered.
‘How can you be so sure, Feluda? There are millions of blue Ambassadors.’
‘His shoes are covered by ash. Have you looked at your own sandals?’
I glanced down quickly and realized the colour of my sandals had changed completely. The other man’s brown shoes were similarly covered with dark patches.
Feluda took his time to finish his tea. We waited until the blue car got a new tyre—this took another fifteen minutes instead of two—and went towards Jessore Road. Our own taxi left a minute later. There was quite a big gap between the two cars which, Feluda said, was no bad thing. ‘He mustn’t see that we’re following him,’ he told Mr Ghosh.
It began raining again as we reached Dum Dum. Everything went hazy for a few minutes and it became difficult to keep the blue car in view. Balaram Ghosh was therefore obliged to get a bit closer, which helped us in getting the number of the car. It was WMA 5349.
‘This is like a Hindi film, sir!’ Mr Ghosh enthused. ‘I saw a film only the other day—it had Shatrughan Sinha in it—which had a chase scene, exactly like this. But the second car went and crashed into a hill.’
‘We’ve already had a crash today, thank you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, sir. I’ve been driving for thirteen years. I haven’t had a single accident. I mean, not yet.’
‘Good. Keep it that way.’
Balaram Ghosh was a good driver, I had to admit. We were now back in Calcutta, but he was weaving his way through the busy roads without once losing sight of the blue car. I wondered where it was going.
‘What do you think the man’s going to do with the statue?’ I asked Feluda after a while.
‘Well, he’s certainly not going to take it back to Bhubaneshwar,’ Feluda replied. ‘What he might do is find another buyer. After all, it isn’t often that one gets the chance to sell the same thing twice!’
The blue car finally brought us to Park Street. We drove past the old cemetery, Lowdon Street, Camac Street, and then suddenly, it turned left and drove into a building called Queen’s Mansion.
‘Should I go in, sir?’
‘Of course.’
Our taxi passed through the front gates. A huge open square faced us, surrounded by tall blocks of flats. A number of cars and a couple of scooters were parked before these. The blue car went to the far end and stopped. We waited in our taxi to see what happened next.
The man got out with a black bag, wound up the windows of his car, locked it and slipped into Queen’s Mansion through a large door. Feluda waited for another minute, then followed him.
By the time we reached the door, the old-fashioned lift in the lobby had already gone up, making a great deal of noise. It came back a few seconds later. An old liftman emerged from behind its collapsible gate. Feluda went up to him.
‘Did I just miss Mr Sengupta?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Mr Sengupta?’
‘The man who just went up?’
‘That man was Mr Mallik of number five. There’s no Sengupta in this building.’
‘Oh. I must have made a mistake. Sorry.’
We came away. Mr Mallik, flat number five. I must remember these details.
Feluda paid Balaram Ghosh and said he was no longer needed. Before driving off, he gave us a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. ‘That’s my neighbour’s number,’ he said. ‘If you ever need me, ring that number. My neighbour will call me. I’d love to be able to help, sir. You see, life’s usually so boring that something like this comes as a tremendous . . . I mean, it makes a change, doesn’t it?’
We made our way to the Park Street police station. Feluda knew its OC, Mr Haren Mutsuddi. Two years ago, they had worked together to trace the culprit who had poisoned a race horse called Happy-Go-Lucky. It turned out that Mr Mutsuddi was aware of the theft in Bhubaneshwar. Feluda told him briefly about our encounter with Mr Mallik and said, ‘Even if Mallik is not the real thief, he has clearly taken it upon himself to recover the stolen object and pass it on to someone else. I have come to make two requests, Mr Mutsuddi. Someone must keep an eye on his movements, and I need to know who he really is and where he works. He lives in flat number five, Queen’s Mansion, drives a blue Ambassador, WMA 5349.’
Mr Mutsuddi heard Feluda in silence. Then he removed a pencil that was tucked behind his ear and said, ‘Very well, Mr Mitter. If you want these things done, they will be done. A special constable will follow your man everywhere, and I’ll see if we have anything in our files on him. There’s no guarantee, mind you, that I’ll get anything, particularly if he hasn’t actually broken the law.’
‘Thank you. But please treat this matter as urgent. If that statue gets passed on to someone else, we’ll be in big trouble.’
‘Why?’ Mr Mutsuddi smiled, ‘Why should you be in big trouble, Mr Mitter? You’ll have me and the entire police force to help you. Doesn’t that count for anything? We’re not totally useless, you know. But there’s just one thing I’d like to tell you. The people who are behind such rackets are usually quite powerful. I’m not talking of physical strength. I mean they often manage to do things far worse and much more vile than ordinary petty criminals. I am telling you all this, Mr Mitter, because you are young and talented, and I look upon you as a friend.’
‘Thank you, Mr Mutsuddi. I appreciate your concern.’
We left the police station and went to the Chinese restaurant, Waldorf, to have lunch. Feluda went to the manager’s room to make a call after we had placed our order.
‘I rang Mallik,’ he said when he came back. ‘He was still in his room and he answered the phone himself. I rang off without saying anything.’ He sounded a little relieved.
We returned home at three o’clock. Mr Mutsuddi called us a little after four. Feluda spoke for nearly five minutes, noting things down in his notebook. Then he put the phone down and told me everything even before I could ask.
‘The man’s called Jayant Mallik. He moved into that flat about two weeks ago. It actually belongs to a Mr Adhikari, who is away in Darjeeling at the moment. Perhaps he’s a friend, and he’s allowed Mallik to use his flat in his absence. That blue Ambassador is Adhikari’s. Mallik took it to the Grand Hotel at three o’clock today. He went in for five minutes, then came out and was seen waiting in his car for twenty minutes. After that, he went in once more and emerged in ten minutes. Then he went to Dalhousie Square. Mutsuddi’s man lost him for a while after this, but then found him in the railway booking office in Fairlie Place. He bought a ticket to Aurangabad, second class reserved. Mutsuddi’s man will ring him again if there’s more news.’
‘Aurangabad?’
‘Yes, that’s where Mallik is going. And we are going immediately to Sardar Shankar Road, to visit Uncle Sidhu. I need to consult him urgently.’
Four
‘Aurangabad!’ Uncle Sidhu’s eyes nearly popped out. ‘Do you realize what this means? Aurangabad is only twenty miles from Ellora, which is a sort of depot for the best specimens of Indian art. There is the Kailash temple, carved out of a mountain. Then there are thirty-three caves—Hindu, Buddhist, Jain—that stretch for a mile and a half. Each is packed with beautiful statues, wonderful carvings . . . oh God, I can hardly think! But why is this man going by train when he can fly to Aurangabad?’
‘I think he wants to keep the yakshi’s head with him at all times. If he went by air, his baggage might be searched by security men. No one would bother to do that on a train, would they?’
Feluda stood up suddenly.
‘What did you de
cide?’ Uncle Sidhu asked anxiously.
‘We must go by air,’ Feluda replied.
The look Uncle Sidhu gave him at this was filled with pride and joy. But he said nothing. All he did was get up and select a slim book from one of his bookcases. ‘This may help you,’ he said. I glanced at its title. A Guide to the Caves of Ellora, it said.
Feluda rang his travel agent, Mr Bakshi, as soon as we got back home.
‘I need three tickets on the flight to Bombay tomorrow,’ I heard him say. This surprised me very much. Why did he need three tickets? Was Uncle Sidhu going to join us? When I asked him, however, Feluda only said, ‘The more the merrier. We may need an extra pair of hands.’
Mr Bakshi came back on the line. ‘I’ll have to put you on the waiting list,’ he said, ‘but it doesn’t look too bad, I think it’ll be OK.’
He also agreed to make our hotel bookings in Aurangabad and Ellora. The flight to Bombay would get us there by nine o’clock. Then we’d have to catch the flight to Aurangabad at half past twelve, reaching there an hour later. This meant we would arrive in Aurangabad on Saturday, and Mr Mallik would get there on Sunday.
Feluda rang off and began dialling another number. The doorbell rang before he could finish dialling. I opened it to find Lalmohan Babu. Feluda stared, as though he had seen a ghost, and exclaimed, ‘My word, what a coincidence! I was just dialling your number.’
‘Really? Now, that must mean I have got a telepathetic link with you, after all,’ Lalmohan Babu laughed, looking pleased. Neither of us had the heart to tell him the correct word was ‘telepathic’.
‘It’s so hot and stuffy . . . could you please ask your servant to make a lemon drink, with some ice from the fridge, if you don’t mind?’
Feluda passed on his request to Srinath, then came straight to the point.
‘Are you very busy these days? Have you started writing anything new?’
‘No, no. I couldn’t have come here for a chat if I had already started writing. All I’ve got is a plot. I think it would make a good Hindi film. There are five fights. My hero, Prakhar Rudra, goes to Baluchistan this time. Tell me, how do you think Arjun Mehrotra would handle the role of Prakhar Rudra? I think he’d fit the part very well—unless, of course, you agreed to do it, Felu Babu?’
‘I cannot speak Hindi. Anyway, I suggest you come with us to Kailash for a few days. You can start thinking of Baluchistan when you get back.’
‘Kailash? All the way to Tibet? Isn’t that under the Chinese?’
‘No. This Kailash has nothing to do with Tibet. Have you heard of Ellora?’
‘Oh, I see, I see. You mean the temple? But isn’t that full of statues and rocks and mountains? What have you to do with those, Felu Babu? Your business is human beings, isn’t it?’
‘Correct. A group of human beings has started a hideous racket involving those rocks and statues. I intend to put a stop to it.’
Lalmohan Babu stared. Feluda filled him in quickly, which made him grow even more round-eyed.
‘What are you saying, Felu Babu? I had no idea stone statues could be so valuable. The only valuable stones I can think of are precious stones like rubies and emeralds and diamonds. But this—!’
‘This is far more precious. You can get diamonds and rubies elsewhere in the world. But there is only one Kailash, one Sanchi and one Elephanta. If these are destroyed, there would be no evidence left of the amazing heights our ancient art had risen to. Modern artists do not—they cannot—get anywhere near the skill and perfection these specimens show. Anyone who tries to disfigure any of them is a dangerous criminal. In my view, the man who took that head from the statue of the yakshi is no less than a murderer. He has got to be punished.’
This was enough to convince Lalmohan Babu. He was fond of travelling, in any case. He agreed to accompany us at once, and began asking a lot of questions, including whether or not he should carry a mosquito net, and was there any danger of being bitten by snakes? Then he left, with a promise to meet us at the airport.
Neither of us knew how long we might have to stay in Aurangabad, but decided to pack enough clothes for a week. Since Feluda was often required to travel, he always had a suitcase packed with essentials such as a fifty-foot steel tape, an all-purpose knife, rail and air timetables, road maps, a long nylon rope, a pair of hunting boots, and several pieces of wire which came in handy to unlock doors and table-drawers if he didn’t have a key. None of this took up a lot of space, so he could pack his clothes in the same suitcase.
He also had guide books and tourist pamphlets on various parts of the country. I leafed through the ones I thought might be relevant for this visit. Feluda set the alarm clock at 4 a.m. before going to bed at ten o’clock, then rang 173 and asked for a wake-up call, in case the alarm did not go off for some reason.
Ten minutes later, Mr Mutsuddi rang again. ‘Mallik received a trunk call from Bombay,’ he said. ‘The words Mallik spoke were these: “The daughter has returned to her father from her in-laws. The father is taking her with him twenty-seventy-five.” The caller from Bombay said: “Carry on, best of luck.” That was all.’
Feluda thanked him and rang off. Mallik’s words made no sense to me. When I mentioned this to Feluda, he simply said, ‘Even the few grey cells you had seem to be disappearing, my boy. Stop worrying and go to sleep.’
The flight to Bombay was delayed by an hour. It finally left at half past seven. There were quite a few cancellations, so we got three seats pretty easily.
Lalmohan Babu had flown with us for the first time when we had gone to Delhi and Simla in connection with Mr Dhameeja’s case. This was possibly the second time he was travelling by air. I noticed that this time he did not pull faces and grip the arms of his chair when we took off; but, a little later, when we ran into some rough weather, he leant across and said, ‘Felu Babu, this is no different from travelling in a rickety old bus down Chitpur Road. How can I be sure the whole plane isn’t coming apart?’
‘It isn’t, rest assured.’
After breakfast, he seemed to have recovered a little, for I saw him press a button and call the air hostess. ‘Excuse please Miss, a toothpick,’ he said smartly. Then he began reading a guide book on Bombay. None of us had been to Bombay before. Feluda had decided to spend a few days there with a friend on our way back—provided, of course, that our business in Ellora could be concluded satisfactorily.
When the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign came on just before landing, there was something I felt I had to ask Feluda. ‘Will you please explain what Mr Mallik’s words meant?’
Feluda looked amazed. ‘What, you mean you really didn’t understand it?’
‘No.’
‘The daughter has returned to her father from her in-laws. “The daughter” is the yakshi’s head, the “in-laws” refers to Silverstein who had bought it, and the “father” is Mallik himself.’
‘I see . . . What about “twenty-seventy-five”?’
‘That refers to the latitude. If you look at a map, you’ll see that’s where Aurangabad is shown.’
We landed at Santa Cruz airport at ten. Since our flight to Aurangabad was at half past twelve, we saw no point in going into the town, although an aerial view of the city had impressed me very much. We remained in the airport, had chicken curry and rice for lunch at the airport restaurant, and boarded the plane to Aurangabad at quarter to one. There were only eleven passengers, since it was not the tourist season.
This time, Lalmohan Babu and I sat together. Feluda sat on the other side of the aisle, next to a middle-aged man with a parrot-like nose, thick wavy salt-and-pepper hair brushed back and wearing glasses with a heavy black frame. We got to know him after landing at the small airport at Aurangabad. He was expecting to be met, he said, but no one had turned up. So he decided to join us to go to town in the bus provided by the airline.
‘Where will you be staying?’ he asked Feluda.
‘Hotel Aurangabad.’
‘Oh, that’s where I shall be
staying as well. What brings you here? Holiday?’
‘Yes, you might call it that. And you?’
‘I am writing a book on Ellora. This is my second visit. I teach the history of Indian art in Michigan.’
‘I see. Are your students enthusiastic about this subject?’
‘Yes, much more now than they used to be. India seems to inspire young people more than anything else.’
‘I believe the Vaishnavas have got a strong hold over there?’ Feluda asked lightly. The other gentleman laughed. ‘Are you talking of the Hare Krishna people?’ he asked. ‘Yes, their presence cannot be ignored. They are, in fact, very serious about what they do and how they dress. Have you heard their keertan? Sometimes it is impossible to tell they are foreigners.’
It took us only fifteen minutes to reach our hotel. It was small, but neat and tidy. We checked in and were shown into room number 11. Lalmohan Babu went to room 14. Feluda had bought a newspaper at Bombay airport. I had seen him read it in the plane. Now he sat down on a chair in the middle of our room, spread it once more and said, ‘Do you know what “vandalism” means?’
I did, but only vaguely. Feluda explained, ‘The barbarian invaders who sacked Rome in the fifth century were called Vandals. Any act related to disfiguring, damaging or destroying a beautiful object has come to be known as vandalism.’ Then he passed the newspaper to me and said, ‘Read it.’
I saw a short report with the heading, ‘More Vandalism’. According to it, a statue of a woman had been broken and its head lifted from one of the walls of the temple of Kandaria Mahadev in Khajuraho. A group of art students from Baroda who were visiting the complex were the first to notice what had happened. This was the third case reported in the last four weeks. There could be no doubt that these statues and other pieces of sculpture were being sold abroad.
As I sat trying to grasp the full implications of the report, Feluda spoke. His tone was grim.
‘As far as I can make out,’ he said, ‘there is only one octopus. It has spread its tentacles to various temples in different parts of the country. If even one tentacle can be caught and chopped off, it will make the whole body of the animal squirm and wriggle. It should be our aim here to spot that one tentacle and seize it.’
