The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘But who are you?’

  ‘You don’t have to bother with a name. I am a photographer. I’m here to take photos for the Asia magazine of Hong Kong.’

  ‘OK. What about Lalmohan Babu and myself?’

  ‘You are his nephew. He teaches history in the City College. You are a student in the City School. You are interested in painting, but you want to join your uncle’s college next year to study history. Your name is Tapesh Mukherjee. Lalmohan Babu need not change his name, but please read up on Ellora. Basically, all you need to remember is that the Kailash temple was built during the reign of Raja Krishna of the Rashtrakut dynasty, in the eighth century.’

  Lalmohan Babu repeated these words to himself, then took out his little red notebook and noted them down, although writing wasn’t easy in the moving car. Now I could see why Feluda had asked him to come with us. He must have known he’d have to be in disguise and pretend he didn’t know me. Lalmohan Babu’s presence ensured that there was an extra pair of eyes to check on Mallik’s movements, and I had an adult to accompany me. I didn’t mind having to call Lalmohan Babu ‘Uncle’, but pretending Feluda was a total stranger was going to be most difficult. Well—I had no choice.

  I looked out of the window. There were hills in the distance, and the land on either side of the road was dry and barren. Cactus grew here and there, but it was a different kind of cactus, not the familiar prickly pear I had seen elsewhere. These bushes were larger and taller by several feet.

  Another car behind us had been honking for some time. Our driver slowed down slightly to let it pass. It had the bald American we had seen this morning, and the stout man who had travelled with Feluda in the same taxi.

  Half an hour later, we found ourselves getting closer to the distant hills. To our left stretched a small town, called Khuldabad. We were going to stay in the dak bungalow here. At any other time, it would have been impossible to find rooms at such short notice. Thank goodness it was not the regular tourist season. However, the absence of tourists also meant that the thieves and vandals could have a field day.

  A little later, to our right, the first of the many caves of Ellora came into view.

  ‘To the dak bungalow?’ our driver asked. ‘Or would you like to see the caves first?’

  ‘No, let’s go straight to the dak bungalow,’ Feluda replied.

  Our car made a left turn where the road curved towards Khuldabad. I was still staring at the rows of caves in the hills. Which one of them was Kailash?

  There were two major places to stay in Khuldabad. One was the dak bungalow where we were booked, and the other was the more expensive and posh Tourist Guest House. The two stood side by side, separated by a strong fence. I spotted the green taxi standing outside the guest house, which meant that was where Jayant Mallik had checked in. Our bungalow was smaller, but neat and compact. Feluda paid the driver, then asked him to wait for fifteen minutes. We would leave our things in our rooms, and go to Kailash. The driver could drop us there, and return to Aurangabad.

  There were four rooms in the bungalow. Each had three beds. Feluda could have remained with us, but decided to take a separate room. ‘Remember,’ he whispered before he left us, ‘your surname is Mukherjee. Lalmohan Babu is your uncle . . . Rashtrakut dynasty . . . eighth century . . . Raja Krishna . . . I’ll join you in ten minutes.’ Then he went into his own room and shouted, ‘Chowkidar!’ in a voice that was entirely different from his own.

  Lalmohan Babu and I had a quick wash and went into the dining hall, where we were supposed to wait for Feluda. We found another gentleman in it, the same man we had just seen travelling with the American. Clearly, he was going to stay in the bungalow with us. At first, he had struck me as a boxer or a wrestler. Now I noticed his eyes: they were bright and intelligent, which suggested he was educated and, in fact, might well be a writer or an artist, for all I knew. His eyes twinkled as they caught mine.

  ‘Off to Kailash, are you?’ he asked with a smile.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Lalmohan Babu replied eagerly, ‘we are from Calcutta. I am a . . . what d’you call it . . . professor of history in the City College; and this is my nephew, you see.’

  There was no need to tell him anything else. But, possibly because he was nervous about playing a new role, Lalmohan Babu went on speaking, ‘I thought . . . you know . . . that we must see this amazing creation of the Rashtraput—I mean kut—dynasty. My nephew is . . . you know . . . very interested in art. He wants to get into an art college. He paints quite well, you know. Bhuto, don’t forget to take your drawing book.’

  I said nothing in reply, for I had not brought my drawing book. Thankfully, Feluda came out at this moment and glanced casually at us.

  ‘If any of you want to go to the caves, you may come with me. I’ve still got my taxi,’ he said in his new voice.

  ‘Oh, thank you, that’s very kind,’ Lalmohan Babu turned to him, looking relieved. Then courtesy made him turn back to the other gentleman. ‘Would you like to come with us?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thank you. I’ll go later. I must have a bath first.’ We went out of the bungalow.

  ‘Tell me a bit more about the history of this place, Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu pleaded in a low voice. ‘I can’t manage unless I have a few more details.’

  ‘Do you know the names of different periods in Indian history?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as Maurya, Sunga, Gupta, Kushan, Chola . . . things like that?’

  Lalmohan Babu turned pale. Then, getting into the taxi, he said, ‘Tell you what, why don’t I pretend to be deaf? Then, if anyone asks me anything about the history of the caves, or anything else I might find difficult to answer, Í can simply ignore them. Isn’t that a good idea?’

  ‘All right. I have no objection to that, but remember your acting must be consistent at all times.’

  ‘No problem with that. Anything would be better than trying to remember historical facts. Didn’t you see how I messed things up just now? I mean, saying “put” instead of “kut” was hardly the right thing to do, was it?’

  We were passing the guest house. Jayant Mallik was standing outside, his hands in his pockets, staring at our bungalow. The green Ambassador was still parked by the road. On seeing Mr Mallik, Feluda took out a small comb from his bag and passed it to me. ‘Change your parting,’ he said, ‘make a right parting.’ I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and quickly changed the parting in my hair as Feluda suggested. Who knew a little thing like that would make such a lot of difference? Even to my own eyes, my face looked different.

  We reached the main road. Another road rose up the hill from here, curved around and finally brought us to the famous Kailash temple. We got out here, and the taxi returned to Aurangabad.

  At first, I didn’t realize what the temple was like. However, as soon as I had passed through its huge entrance, my head began reeling. For a few moments, I forgot all about the yakshi’s head, the gang of crooks, Mr Mallik, Shubhankar Bose, everything. All I was aware of was a feeling of complete bewilderment. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a group of men, carving the whole temple out of the hill twelve hundred years ago, using no other tools but hammers and chisels. But I could not. It seemed as if the temple had always been there. It couldn’t be manmade at all. Or maybe it had been created by magic; or perhaps—as Feluda’s book had suggested—creatures from a different planet had come and built it.

  The temple had hills rising on three sides. A narrow passage went around it. On both sides of the temple were a number of caves—that looked like cells—which had more statues in them. We started walking down the passage to go around the temple. Feluda kept up a running commentary: ‘This place is three hundred feet in length, one hundred and fifty feet in width and the height of the temple is a hundred feet. Two hundred thousand tonnes of rock must have been excavated to build it . . . they built the top first, then worked their way down to the base . . . the statues include gods and goddesses, men and women, animals,
events from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, the lot. Just think of their skill, the precision of their calculations, their knowledge of engineering, quite apart from the aesthetics . . .’ he stopped. There were footsteps coming towards us. Feluda fell behind deliberately and began inspecting the statue of Ravana shaking Kailash.

  Shubhankar Bose emerged from behind the temple. In his hand was a notebook, and a bag hung from his shoulder. He seemed engrossed in looking at the carvings. Then his eyes fell on us. He smiled, then seemed to remember something and asked anxiously, ‘Any news of your cousin?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, trying to sound casual, ‘he sent a message. He had to go to Bombay on some urgent work. He’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Mr Bose went back to gazing at the statues. A faint click behind us told me Feluda had taken a picture. His camera was hanging from his neck. If he was to pass himself off as a photographer, the camera naturally had to stay with him whenever he went out.

  I turned my head slightly and saw that Feluda was following us. We finished walking around the temple, and had almost reached the main entrance again when we saw someone else. Blue shirt, white trousers. Mr Jayant Mallik. He had probably just arrived. He was standing quietly, but moved towards the statue of an elephant as soon as he saw us. In his hand was the same bag I had seen him carrying before. He had travelled from Barasat to Calcutta with it. I had seen him walk into Queen’s Mansion, clutching it. Feluda had now almost caught up with us. I was dying to know what that bag contained. Why didn’t Feluda go up to the man, grab him by his collar and challenge him straightaway? Why didn’t he say, ‘Where’s that broken head? Take it out at once!’

  But no, I knew Feluda would not do that. He could not, without sufficient evidence. It was true that Mallik had gone to Sidikpur where that plane had crashed; it was true that he had travelled all the way to Ellora, and had been heard speaking to someone in Bombay, talking about a daughter having returned to her father. But that was not really enough. Feluda would have to wait a bit longer before speaking to him.

  There was, however, one way of finding out if Mallik’s bag contained anything heavy. I saw Feluda walk past us, go up to Mallik and give him a push. ‘Oh, sorry!’ he said quickly, and began focusing his camera on a statue. Í saw the bag swing from side to side with the push. Its contents did not appear to be very heavy.

  We left the temple. On our way out, we saw two other men. One of them was the stout gentleman Lalmohan Babu had recently tried to impress, and the other was the bald American.

  The former was explaining something with elaborate gestures; the latter was nodding in agreement.

  For some strange reason, I suddenly began to think everyone around us was a suspicious character. Each one of them should be watched closely.

  Was Feluda thinking the same thing?

  Seven

  Feluda wanted to stop at the guest house on our way back. ‘I want to see what newspapers they get,’ he said by way of an explanation.

  Lalmohan Babu and I returned to the bungalow. We were both feeling hungry, so Lalmohan Babu called out to the chowkidar and asked him to bring us tea and biscuits. The dining room faced the small lobby. The room to its right—number one—was ours. Number two was empty. Opposite these two were rooms three and four. The stout gentleman was in one of them, and Feluda had the other.

  Lalmohan Babu was still in a mood to snoop. ‘Listen, Tapesh,’ he said, sipping his tea, ‘I think we can leave the American out of this, at least for the moment. That leaves us with three other people: Bose, Mallik and that man who’s staying here. We know something about Bose and Mallik—true or false, God only knows—but we know absolutely nothing about the third man, not even his name. We could peep into his room now, it doesn’t appear to be locked.’

  I did not like the idea, so I said, ‘What if the chowkidar sees us?’

  ‘He cannot see us if I go in, and you stay here to look out for him. If you see the chowkidar coming this way, start coughing. I will get out of that room at once. I think your cousin will appreciate a helping hand. This man’s suitcase also struck me as quite heavy.’

  The whole world was suddenly full of heavy suitcases. But I could not stop him. To be honest, although I had never done anything like this before for anyone except Feluda, there was a scent of adventure in the suggestion, so I found myself agreeing.

  I went to the back veranda. There was a small courtyard facing the veranda, across which was the kitchen and, next to it, the chowkidar’s room. A cycle stood outside this room. A boy of about twelve—presumably his son—was cleaning it with great concentration. I turned my head as I heard a faint creaking noise and saw Lalmohan Babu sneak into room number three. A couple of minutes later, it was he who coughed loudly to indicate that he had finished his job. I returned to our room.

  ‘There was nothing much in there,’ Lalmohan Babu said. ‘His suitcase seemed pretty old, but it was locked and it did not open even when I pulled the handle. On the table was an empty spectacle-case with “Stephens Company, Calcutta” stamped on it, a bottle of indigestion pills and a tube of Odomos. Apart from these things, there was nothing that I . . .’

  ‘Whose possessions are you talking about?’ asked Feluda. We looked up with a start. He had walked into our room silently, almost like a ghost.

  This called for an honest confession. Much to my surprise, he did not get cross with either of us. All he said was, ‘Was there any particular reason for doing this?’

  ‘No, it’s just that we don’t know anything about the man, do we?’ Lalmohan Babu tried to explain. ‘I mean, he hasn’t even told us his name. And he looks kind of hefty, doesn’t he? Didn’t you say there was a whole gang involved in this? So I thought . . .’

  ‘So you thought he must be one of them? There was no need to search his room just to get his name. He’s called R.N. Raxit. His name’s written on one side of his suitcase. I don’t think we need to know any more about him at this moment. Please don’t go into his room again. It simply means taking unnecessary risks. After all, we haven’t got any concrete reason to suspect him.’

  ‘Very well. That just leaves the American.’

  ‘He’s called Lewison, Sam Lewison. Another Jew, and also very wealthy. He owns an art gallery in New York.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘The manager of the guest house told me. We got talking. He’s a very nice man, passionately fond of detective novels. In fact, he’s been waiting for thieves and crooks to arrive here ever since he read about the thefts in other temples.’

  ‘Did you tell him why you were here?’

  ‘Yes. He can help us a great deal. Don’t forget Mallik is staying in his guest house. Apparently, Mallik has already tried to ring someone in Bombay, but the call didn’t come through.’

  That night, all four guests in the bungalow sat down to dinner together. Feluda did not speak a word. Mr Raxit turned to Lalmohan Babu and tried to make conversation by asking him if he specialized in any particular period of history. In answer to that, Lalmohan Babu said he didn’t know very much about pyramids, except that they were in Egypt. Then he went back to dunking pieces of chapati into his bowl of daal. Mr Raxit cast me a puzzled glance. I placed a hand on my ear and shook my head to indicate that my ‘uncle’ was hard of hearing. Mr Raxit nodded vigorously and refrained from asking further questions.

  After dinner, Feluda went straight to his room and Lalmohan Babu and I went out for a walk. It was quite windy outside. A pale moon shone between patches of dark clouds. From somewhere came the fragrance of hasnahana. Lalmohan Babu, inspired by all this, decided to start singing a classical raga. I suddenly felt quite lighthearted. Just at that moment, we saw a man walking towards us from the guest house. Lalmohan Babu stopped singing (which was a relief since he was singing perfectly out of tune) and stood still. As the man got closer, I recognized him. It was Shubhankar Bose. ‘I wish your cousin was here!’ Lalmohan Babu whispered.

  ‘O
ut for a walk, eh?’ Mr Bose asked. Then he cleared his throat, looked around a couple of times, lowered his voice and said, ‘Er . . . do you happen to know that man in the blue shirt?’

  This time, Lalmohan Babu couldn’t pretend to be deaf. Mr Bose had spoken with him before.

  ‘Why, did he say he knew us?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

  Mr Bose looked over his shoulder again. ‘That man is most peculiar,’ he told us. ‘He says he is interested in Indian art and this is his first visit to Ellora. Yet, when I met him at the temple, he didn’t seem moved by any of it. I mean, not at all. I felt just as thrilled by everything, even though this is my second visit. Now, if the man does not care for art and sculpture, why is he here? Why is he pretending to be something he clearly isn’t?’

  We remained silent. What could we say?

  ‘Have you read the papers recently?’ Mr Bose went on.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Pieces of our ancient art are being sold off. Statues from temples are disappearing overnight.’

  ‘Really? No, I didn’t know that. What a shame! It’s a regular crime, isn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu declared. His acting was not very convincing, but luckily Mr Bose did not seem to notice. He came closer and added, ‘The man left the guest house a while ago.’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘Mr Mallik.’

  ‘What!’ We both spoke together. Lalmohan Babu was right. Feluda ought to have been here.

  ‘Why don’t we go, too?’ Mr Bose asked, his voice trembling with excitement.