by Satyajit Ray
‘Come with me.’ Feluda went forward and patted the cow gently on its back. It moved to one side obligingly, allowing us to pass.
‘Where are we going now?’ Lalmohan Babu asked five minutes later.
‘I don’t know.’
Lalmohan Babu and I exchanged glances. The light from a street lamp shone directly on Lalmohan Babu’s face. He was looking decidedly perplexed. ‘Walking aimlessly often helps clear the mind,’ Feluda explained. ‘What we need now is a clear mind, clear thoughts.’
‘And is your mind showing signs of clearing?’
Feluda started to reply, but something happened at this moment to distract all of us.
The winding lanes we had passed through in the last few minutes had brought us to an alley that was very quiet. No one spoke here, or played the radio. I couldn’t even hear a child cry. All that could be heard was the faint sound of bells from a temple in the far distance. But, as we made our way down the lane, another rhythmic noise reached our ears: dhup, dhup, dhup, dhup, dhup . . .
Lalmohan Babu was walking between Feluda and me. The noise made him slow down and clutch at our sleeves. ‘Highly suspicious!’ he whispered.
Feluda disengaged himself. ‘There’s nothing suspicious about that. Someone’s using a hand grinder, that’s all. What I would call suspicious is over there. Look!’
A man had entered the lane from the other side. He stopped upon seeing us, standing with his back to a street light. The lamp cast a long shadow that almost touched our feet. The shadow was swaying strangely. Was the man drunk?
Feluda peered through the telephoto lens of his camera.
‘Shashi Babu!’ he exclaimed and rushed forward. Lalmohan Babu and I followed quickly.
Shashi Babu had fallen on the ground. His eyes were open wide, and between gasps, he was trying to speak.
‘What is it?’ Feluda bent over him.
‘The . . . the . . .’
‘Yes? What happened, Shashi Babu? What are you trying to say?’
‘L-l-li . . . lie . . . lie . . .’
Shashi Babu’s body gave a sudden jerk and was still. The street light fell on his back. It was soaked with blood.
Nine
‘I may as well give up. I do not deserve to be called a sleuth,’ said Feluda. I had never heard him talk like this. But then, we had never been in a situation like this before.
A whole day had passed after Shashi Babu’s death. Durga Puja had begun the day before. We had just finished breakfast and were sitting in our room. Mr Tiwari had rung a few minutes earlier to say that Shashi Babu’s son, Nitai, had been arrested. He had never got on well with his father. In fact, Shashi Babu had threatened to hand him over to the police on many occasions. So Nitai might have had a motive for killing his father, although he had denied it. He had apparently been watching a film at the time of the murder. The police did find a torn ticket in his pocket. The knife with which Shashi Babu was stabbed had not been found.
According to what Vikas Sinha had told the police, Shashi Babu had finished painting the eyes of the goddess and put the last finishing touches by 6 p.m. that evening. Then he had gone straight to Vikas Babu to get some more medicine as his temperature had risen again. Vikas Babu gave him a fresh dose of homoeopathic medicine, and Shashi Babu left for his home soon afterwards. Someone stabbed him on the way.
‘It is perhaps a good thing,’ Feluda continued to speak, more to himself than the two of us, ‘to fall flat on my face occasionally. At least it stops me from getting arrogant, and reminds me that I am no different from most men . . . Hey, Lalmohan Babu, you’ll come with us to the play, won’t you? I believe their standard of acting is pretty high.’
‘Yes, of course, that is if you decide . . .’
‘And what shall we do tomorrow? See a film? Why not? Let’s go and see Tarzan. And a Hindi film after that. I’ll also take you to Durga Bari. You’ll find lots of monkeys there. Each one of them has more intelligence than your Felu Mitter.’
In the end, we did go and see Kabuliwala at the Bengali Club, and discovered that Feluda was right. It was a very good performance.
The next day was Mahashtami, the third day of Durga Puja. We went out to visit a few places where Puja was being held, including Mr Ghoshal’s house. He invited us to lunch, but Feluda declined.
We ordered lunch in the hotel. Feluda normally had a light meal but, to my surprise, today he had a huge plate of rice and curry and went to sleep straight after. I realized later that this was only the lull before a storm. But, at this precise moment, it broke my heart to see Feluda so depressed.
In the evening, we went to see Tarzan, the Ape Man. But Feluda, for some reason, left the hall virtually as soon as the film began. All he got to see was the name Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, followed by the title of the film. He did not explain where he was going, but shot up from his chair and left immediately, with a brief: ‘You stay here and watch the film. I’ve got some work to do.’
Lalmohan Babu and I did stay on till the end of the film, but neither of us could enjoy it properly. Where had Feluda gone? And why?
We returned to the hotel at a quarter past eight, to find Feluda deeply engrossed in making new entries in his notebook.
‘You go ahead and have your dinner,’ he said as we appeared. ‘I’ve ordered a cup of coffee for myself.’
‘Won’t you eat anything at all?’
‘No, I’m not hungry. Besides, I’m expecting an urgent call from Tiwari.’
The cook had produced a special meal today because of puja, but I had to rush through it. This time, I was determined to hear myself what Feluda said to Tiwari.
His call came half an hour after we had finished eating. This is what Feluda said to him:
‘Yes, Mr Tiwari? Yes, very good . . . no, no, don’t do anything yet, wait till the last moment . . . Yes, that’s why there was such confusion at first . . . And did you find out about the house? Yes, all right. . . See you tomorrow. . . . Good night.’
Lalmohan Babu had gone to our room straight after dinner. ‘I must get some writing done,’ he had told me on our way back from the cinema. ‘Your cousin’s behaviour has got me all confused and mixed up. I must think carefully and chalk out my plot.’
When Feluda and I returned to the room, he was sitting with a writing pad and a pen in his hand, looking a bit put out. Feluda did not seem to notice him at all. He lit a Charminar and began pacing the floor.
Lalmohan Babu pushed the writing pad away. ‘This,’ he declared, ‘is most unfair. I cannot concentrate on my own writing; nor can I make out what’s going on. Why are you being so secretive? Why can’t you tell us if you’re on to something? After all, we’re not entirely brainless, are we? Why don’t you give us a chance?’
‘All right,’ said Feluda, blowing out a smoke ring, ‘I’ll give you five clues.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘The king of Africa, Shashi Babu’s “lie”, the mouth of a shark, one to ten, and Maganlal’s barge.’
Lalmohan Babu stared at him for a few seconds, then let out a long sigh, shaking his head slowly.
‘Promise me one thing,’ Feluda said seriously. ‘From tomorrow, you are not going to ask me any more questions.’
‘I wouldn’t dare. I’ve learnt my lesson, thank you.’
‘I may have to go out from time to time,’ Feluda went on, ‘but not with you. You are free to go where you like, there’s no risk in that. I will, of course, tell you if I think there’s any danger anywhere. And—Lalmohan Babu, you can swim, can’t you?’
‘Swim? Why, yes, I mean—’
‘That’ll do. As long as you can stay afloat if thrown into the water. Can you manage that?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Very well. It may not be necessary, but it’s good to know, just in case.’
The next day was the last day of Durga Puja. Lalmohan Babu and I went sightseeing. When we returned at about 11 a.m., Feluda was stretched out on his bed, looking carefully at the enlarg
ements of some of his photos. He had dropped in at a studio on our way to the Bengali Club two days ago to get the film developed.
Mr Tiwari rang again in the evening. Feluda went down to take the call and returned only a couple of minutes later. I did not bother to go with him this time. A little later, Lalmohan Babu and I left again for a long walk. We were both getting bored with having nothing to do in the hotel.
Feluda was still in the room when we came back.
‘I don’t think anyone followed us today,’ said Lalmohan Babu for the third time. Feluda said nothing.
‘Did you go out?’ I asked.
‘No. Mr Ghoshal rang. He asked me if I had given up.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Only that I hadn’t.’
I rose at six the next morning, and found, to my surprise, that Feluda had already gone out. His bed was neatly made; on it was a small bowl that he had been using as an ashtray. Under this bowl was a piece of paper with ‘I’ll ring you’ scrawled on it.
This meant that we could not leave the hotel. I didn’t mind waiting, but I couldn’t help worrying about Feluda’s safety. Although he had said nothing to us, we suspected that Shashi Babu had been killed by one of Maganlal’s men. If he could get rid of one man, why would he spare Feluda?
Lalmohan Babu said over breakfast, ‘After what Maganlal said the other day, your cousin should simply have withdrawn from the case.’
‘He did, didn’t he? Then God knows what happened to him when we went to see that Tarzan film.’
‘Who knew Tarzan would cause such trouble?’
We waited until lunch time, but Feluda did not call. After lunch, possibly for want of anything better to do, Lalmohan Babu told me his own theory about the theft of the Ganesh.
‘You see, dear Tapesh,’ he said, ‘I don’t think that the little Ganesh was stolen at all. Ambika Babu opened the chest that evening after he had had a dose of opium and took it out. The next morning, when the effect of the drug had worn off, he forgot all about it!’
‘Oh? Well then, where is it now?’
‘Did you notice the size of his slippers? I did. His slippers were much larger than his feet. If an old man sits in his room with his slippers on his feet, who is going to look inside them?’
I felt a little suspicious. ‘Is your new story going to have a little detail like this?’ I asked.
Lalmohan Babu smiled, ‘Yes, you guessed it. But in my story, it’s not a statuette, but a diamond. Two thousand carats.’
‘What! Two thousand? The biggest known diamond in the world is called the Star of Africa. Do you know how much it weighs?’
‘How much?’
‘Five hundred carats. And the Koh-i-noor is only a hundred and ten.’
Lalmohan Babu shook his head gravely. ‘My readers would not be impressed by anything less than two thousand,’ he said.
At half past four, a waiter came up to say that there was a call for me. I sped downstairs as fast as I could and almost snatched the receiver from Niranjan Babu’s hand.
‘Is that you, Feluda?’
‘Yes. Listen carefully,’ Feluda’s voice sounded solemn. ‘On one side of Dashashwamedh Ghat is Munshi Ghat. Next to it is Raja Ghat. Are you listening?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Between Munshi and Raja Ghat is a quiet spot, where one set of steps ends and another begins.’
‘Yes, I’ve got that.’
‘There is a big hand-painted poster on the wall, and just below it, quite a large shed.’
‘OK.’
‘You two should get there by 5.30 and wait for me by the shed. I’ll meet you at six.’
‘All right.’
‘I’ll be in disguise.’
My heart missed a beat. I couldn’t say a thing. If Feluda was going to be in disguise, it could only mean that the drama was reaching its climax.
‘Are you there?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘I’ll try and be there by six. Wait for me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. But are you all right?’
‘Bye.’
With a click, the line was disconnected. Where was Feluda?
Ten
We knew Dashashwamedh would be crowded as it was Bijaya Dashami. So we decided to take a different route, past Abhay Chakravarty’s house, to reach Kedar Ghat. Raja Ghat wasn’t far from Kedar.
While we were waiting for Feluda’s call, Lalmohan Babu had stepped out for a minute and bought a few ayurvedic pills. ‘To calm my nerves,’ he explained. I noticed now that the pills had had the desired effect. The first lane we turned into had a huge bull standing diagonally across, blocking our way completely. Lalmohan Babu, instead of getting nervous, walked boldly up to it and said, ‘Get out of the way, you!’ The bull stepped aside. Lalmohan Babu passed through. I lingered deliberately, simply to see what he would do next. To my amusement, he turned around, beckoned to me, and said, ‘Come along, Tapesh. Don’t be afraid.’
The number of people gathered both in and outside Abhay Chakravarty’s house seemed much larger than usual. Then I remembered that this was the day Machchli Baba was supposed to leave Varanasi. This meant that there was going to be another big event, in addition to the immersion of Durga.
I saw a man from our hotel standing outside. ‘Do you know which ghat Machchli Baba will go from?’ I asked him. ‘Would it be Kedar?’
‘No, I think it’s going to be Dashashwamedh.’
‘We’ll have to witness the event from a distance,’ I said to Lalmohan Babu.
‘Good,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘At least we won’t get trampled in the rush!’
It took us five minutes to reach Raja Ghat from Kedar. A number of tall buildings on one side blocked out the sunlight. The river had risen considerably after the rains. The buildings cast long shadows up to the edge of the water. It was only a matter of minutes before the sun would disappear altogether.
A row of boats stood by the side of the ghat. From Dashashwamedh came a constant cacophony. It included the sound of drums and bursting of crackers. The immersion of Durga had started.
We had crossed Raja Ghat and were walking towards Munshi. I saw the hand-painted poster on the wall a minute later. The spot Feluda had chosen was really very quiet. Besides, we could see Dashashwamedh fairly clearly, although we were not very close.
‘Durga Mai ki jai!’ shouted the crowd. A figure of Durga was raised on top of a barge and lowered into the water. The sun had gone. But the crowd at Dashashwamedh seemed to have swollen further. Lalmohan Babu looked at his watch. ‘Twenty to six,’ he said. ‘If only your cousin was here with his telefocus—’ he couldn’t finish. A fresh shout had risen from the crowd.
‘Guruji ki jai! Machchli Baba ki jai!’
At one end of Dashashwamedh, about twenty-five yards from where we were standing, facing us was a platform. A few people were standing on it. Now they suddenly grew a bit restless. Each one of them was craning his neck and staring at the steps of the ghat. The reason soon became clear.
A large group was coming down the steps, making its way to the platform. Its leader was none other than Machchli Baba. He was still clad in bright red, except for a yellow patch round his throat. Clearly, his followers had heaped garlands on him.
Most of the people got down from the platform. Only a couple of them remained, to help the baba climb up. He raised his arms and faced the crowd. We couldn’t hear what he said. Then he turned around and began walking towards the edge of the platform, his arms raised high. He stood still for a moment, facing the river. ‘Machchli Baba ki jai!’ shouted his devotees. The baba dived into the water.
A strange noise rose from the crowd. Lalmohan Babu called it ‘mass wailing’. Machchli Baba could be seen swimming for a few minutes. Then he disappeared.
‘He’ll swim all the way to Patna, not stopping anywhere, not seen by anyone . . . thrilling, isn’t it?’ said Lalmohan Babu. I turned my head to answer him, but froze at what I saw. While we were both tak
ing in the events at Dashashwamedh Ghat, a figure had stolen up silently in the fading light, and was standing next to us. His face was hidden behind a thick beard and moustache. He wore a turban, a long shirt, a waistcoat, loose pyjamas and Afghani shoes.
An Afghan? Here? Then it dawned upon me. Kabuliwala!
The figure raised a reassuring hand.
Feluda! He had come dressed as a Kabuliwala. Why, wasn’t this the costume an actor at the Bengali Club was wearing the other day?
‘Wonder—’ began Lalmohan Babu. Feluda put a finger against his lips and stopped him. Neither of us knew what was about to happen, or why Feluda had found it necessary to put on a disguise What we did know—very well—was that if Feluda asked us to keep our mouths shut, we would have to.
I glanced at him. He was looking straight at Dashashwamedh Ghat. My eyes automatically followed his gaze. There were two barges on the river. One was waiting near the steps. The other was at some distance, slowly making its way to the ghat. Five or six men were sitting on its roof. It was impossible to see them clearly.
‘Durga Mai ki jai! Jai Durga Mai ki!’ began the crowd once more. Another figure of Durga was being brought down the steps. It glittered as it caught the light from the gas lamps. I could recognize it easily even from afar. It was the one from Mr Ghoshal’s house. The three of us stood like statues, watching the process of immersion.
The idol was carried to the top of the barge, which began to move slowly towards the centre of the river, where the water was deeper. Then, with a sudden movement, the idol rose high into the air, tilted to one side, and disappeared behind the barge. The sound of a loud splash came a moment later.
What Shashi Babu had created with such devotion was now sunk under several feet of water. Perhaps all the paint had already been washed away.
A few of the garlands Machchli Baba had been wearing came floating past.
The second barge, which had been at a distance, had, by now, crossed Dashashwamedh and was coming towards the spot where we were standing. I could now see whose barge it was. Maganlal was sitting on its roof. Four other men sat with him.
