by Satyajit Ray
You have been given a death sentence to atone for your ancestor’s sins. Be prepared to die.
‘This came on 5 October, the day before I got here. It had been posted in Katwa, which doesn’t really tell us anything, for anyone from Gosaipur could have gone there and posted it.’
‘If you don’t mind, can you tell us what “ancestor’s sins” might mean?’
‘Well, as I told you before, Mr Mitter, my grandfather treated his tenants very badly. I have no idea which particular crime has been referred to.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’
‘There were two reasons,’ Jeevanlal said. ‘One, people here would not recognize you. So, hopefully, whoever wrote that note would feel no need to be on his guard. Two, if I called the police, I would have been their prime suspect.’
Feluda and I both looked at him in surprise. Jeevanlal explained quickly, ‘Everyone knows I have not been able to get on with my father ever since this change came over him. I still live in the city, I find it impossible to do without certain modern amenities. I admit what happened to my father gave him more than just a physical shock. It also caused him great mental trauma. What really happened was that he and I returned together one evening, and stepped into our living room, which was dark. My father groped for the switchboard and received a shock from a live wire. I ran out and switched the mains off in five seconds. But, for some reason, he got the impression that I did not act quickly enough. This happened five years ago. But since that incident, he has stopped trusting me. We have violent arguments sometimes. Once I lost my temper and threw a burning kerosene lamp on a mattress, which naturally caught fire . . . and then there was hell to pay. The news spread, and everyone started to think I disliked my father intensely. That’s the reason why I did not call the police. Besides, I knew of your reputation, and how well you had handled your previous cases. So I thought you were the best person to turn to.’
We finished our coffee. The same bearer brought an oil lamp and put it down in a corner. ‘Would you like to meet my father?’ Jeevanlal asked.
‘Yes, I ought to.’
We rose and made our way upstairs. The few lamps and lanterns the servants had lit had done nothing to illuminate the staircase. In fact, most of the house was in darkness. Jeevanlal took out a small torch from his pocket and said, ‘Even this had to be smuggled in secretly. He hates torches.’
We found Shyamlal Mallik seated on a mattress, clutching the pipe of his hookah and leaning against a bolster. His face bore a marked resemblance to that of his father. If he grew a thick moustache, he would probably look stern like Durlabh Singh. When he spoke, I could tell that if he ever got angry and raised his voice, one might do well to stay away from him.
‘You may go now,’ he said in his deep voice. The person he addressed was sitting on one corner of the mattress. Jeevanlal introduced him as Tarak Kaviraj, the ayurvedic doctor. He got to his feet and greeted us, but left immediately.
‘What the hell is a detective going to do?’ asked Shyamlal Mallik as soon as Feluda had been introduced. He sounded extremely annoyed. ‘Durlabh Singh’s soul has already told me my enemy is in my own house. I have that written on a piece of paper. A departed soul can see it all . . . no one can hide the truth from it. What more can a detective from the city do for me?’
Jeevanlal looked profoundly startled. He obviously did not know anything about Durlabh Singh’s soul.
‘Did you go to Mriganka Bhattacharya’s house?’ he asked.
‘No, why should I have gone to him?’ his father barked. ‘He came to me. I called him. I had to know who was trying to cause me such distress. Now I do.’
‘When did he visit you?’
‘The day before you came.’
‘You did not tell me.’
Shyamlal Mallik made no reply. He began smoking.
‘May we see what Durlabh Singh told you?’ Feluda asked politely. Shyamlal Mallik stopped smoking and glared at him.
‘How old are you?’ he asked abruptly. Feluda told him.
‘I am amazed,’ the old man announced, ‘by your impertinence. Do you really think you’d understand the spiritual significance of a departed soul writing a message? Is that something to be shown to all and sundry?’
‘Please forgive me,’ Feluda said gently. ‘All I want to know is whether your dead father told you how you might get out of your present difficulties.’
‘I could tell you what he said. There’s no need to look at the writing. He simply said there was only one thing to be done: get rid of the enemy.’
For a few minutes, none of us could speak. Then Jeevanlal said slowly, ‘You are asking me to go away?’
‘When did I ever ask you to come here?’
Jeevanlal refused to give up. ‘Baba,’ he said, ‘you have begun to trust Bholanath Babu much more than you trust me. Have you forgotten his family history? Durlabh Singh’s men had gone and set fire to his house because his father had failed to pay the rent on time. And—’
‘Fool!’ Shyamlal Mallik shouted. ‘Bholanath was only a small child at the time. Are you suggesting that he has waited almost sixty years to plan his revenge? How absurd can you get?’
At this point, we decided to leave. ‘Let me take you back,’ Jeevanlal offered. ‘I don’t think you can manage the short cut in the dark.’ As we came out of the house, he added, ‘I had no idea he would insult you like that. I am terribly sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ Feluda replied. ‘The first thing a detective learns to grow is a thick skin. I am used to handling slights and insults. It is you I am more concerned about. You must realize one thing, Jeevan Babu. Suspicion is more likely to fall on you because that anonymous letter points at Bholanath.’
‘But when that cloth and the note arrived, I was in Calcutta, Mr Mitter.’
‘So what? How do I know you haven’t got an accomplice here in Gosaipur?’
‘Even you are turning against me?’ Jeevanlal sounded deeply distressed.
‘No. Right now, Jeevan Babu, I am not flinging accusations at anyone; nor am I making assumptions about anyone’s innocence. But I must ask you something. What kind of a man is Bholanath Babu?’
After a moment’s silence, Jeevanlal replied, ‘Very reliable and trustworthy. I have to admit that. But that’s no reason to suspect me, surely?’ He sounded a little desperate.
Feluda raised a hand. ‘Jeevan Babu,’ he said soothingly, ‘you must appreciate my position. I have to assess the whole situation objectively and impartially. You will simply have to be patient. Neither you nor I have a choice in the matter. We must wait until I learn the truth. The only thing I can promise you is that I will definitely protect whoever is innocent.’
Jeevanlal did not reply. It was impossible to see his face in the dark and tell whether Feluda’s words had reassured him. Feluda asked him something else as we emerged from the bamboo grove. ‘Does your father ever walk barefoot outside the house?’
‘Outside the house? Never. Why, he doesn’t take off his clogs even inside the house. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought I saw traces of mud on his feet. And . . . doesn’t he use a mosquito net?’
‘Of course. Everyone here uses mosquito nets. They have to.’
‘Perhaps you have not noticed it, but his face, neck and arms were covered with mosquito bites.’
‘Really? No, I hadn’t noticed. It’s strange, because he certainly uses a net.’
‘Then perhaps the net is torn. Could you please check?’
Three
Tulsi Babu and Lalmohan Babu were waiting for us. I felt immensely relieved to see electric lights again.
‘Can you imagine,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘even in this tiny village, I found as many as twenty people who had read more than fifty per cent of my books? Of course, many of them got them from the school library, but those who had bought a few copies had them signed by me.’
‘Very good. I am very pleased to hear that, Lalmohan Babu.’ Tulsi Babu turned to Feluda, ‘Let�
�s go and call on Atmaram. We can see the Bat-kali temple tomorrow.’
‘Bat-kali temple? What on earth is that?’
‘Yet another local attraction. There is an old and abandoned Kali temple in the bamboo grove you just came through. It’s two hundred years old. It must have once had a statue of Kali, but it’s gone now. Dozens of bats live in it, which is why people call it the Bat-kali temple. When it was in use, it must have seen a lot of activity.’
‘I see. By the way, does your Atmaram come from this village?’
‘No, but he has been living here for some time. Two years ago, his special power came to light. Besides, he knows astrology and palmistry as well. People from Calcutta often come here to consult him.’
‘Does he charge a fee?’
‘Yes, he probably does. But I’ve never heard of him charging any of the locals. He holds seances on Mondays and Fridays. Today, we’ll just go and meet him.’
‘All right, let’s go.’
I could see that, somehow, Mriganka Bhattacharya had become a part of Feluda’s investigation. We left the house once more.
Although lights were on in every house in the vicinity, it was very dark outside, possibly because of the large number of big trees. The moon had not yet risen. Crickets and owls and jackals in the distance had started a regular concert, which made me think that, in a place like this, it was Shyamlal Mallik’s palanquin and the flickering light from his oil lamps that fitted the atmosphere far better. Lalmohan Babu whispered into my ear, declaring that he had never seen a place so full of mystery and excitement. ‘You know, Tapesh,’ he said, ‘I had thought of Guatemala as the place of action for my next novel; but now I think I will change it to Gosaipur.’
‘Really?’ Feluda laughed, having overheard this remark. ‘But you haven’t even seen the thugee’s noose. Can you think of anything more exciting?’
‘What are you talking about, Felu Babu?’
Feluda explained quickly. He also mentioned the anonymous note.
‘If Mr Bhattacharya got Durlabh Singh’s spirit to come and reveal the truth, you need not look any further, Mr Mitter,’ Tulsi Babu remarked ‘Shyamlal Mallik’s enemy must be in his house.’
No one said anything after this, for we had reached Mr Bhattacharya’s house. This house did not appear to have an electric connection, either. Perhaps souls found it easier to re-enter the earth if they could move in the faint and hazy light of lanterns.
Mriganka Bhattacharya turned out to be a man with an impressive appearance. It was impossible to guess his age. His hair had thinned, but not turned grey. His features were sharp, his skin smooth, except around his eyes and mouth. He was seated on a divan, facing three chairs and two benches. He clearly did not share Shyamlal Mallik’s aversion to furniture. A young man of about twenty-five was sitting on one of the benches, leafing through an astrological magazine. We learnt later that he was Mr Bhattacharya’s nephew, Nityanand. He helped his uncle in hailing spirits.
Tulsi Babu touched Mr Bhattacharya’s feet quickly and said, ‘These are my friends from Calcutta. I brought them here so that they could meet the man Gosaipur is so proud of.’
Mr Bhattacharya raised his eyes and looked at us. Then he glanced at the chairs. The three of us sat down. Tulsi Babu remained standing.
Mr Bhattacharya closed his eyes, sat erect, his legs crossed in the lotus position. A few moments later, he suddenly opened his eyes and said, ‘Sixteen, three, thirteen. Which one of you has those initials?’
We stared at him, perfectly taken aback. Feluda was the first to speak, after a short pause. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘My full name is Pradosh Chandra Mitter, and you are quite right. P, C, M, are the sixteenth, third and thirteenth letters from the alphabet.’
I felt considerably surprised by this. Tulsi Babu had certainly not mentioned our names. How did Mr Bhattacharya guess Feluda’s initials? I saw Tulsi Babu cast an admiring glance at Mr Bhattacharya. Then he asked, ‘Can you guess his profession?’
By this time, another man—possibly a client—had entered the room. Feluda naturally did not want his profession disclosed before a stranger. So he said hurriedly, ‘Oh, there’s no need to do that.’ Tulsi Babu realized his mistake and began to look embarrassed.
‘I’ll bring them back on Friday,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘We came today only to meet you.’
Mr Bhattacharya looked steadily at Feluda. ‘You simply seek the truth, don’t you? Stop worrying, sir, nobody will understand my meaning if I say that.’
We took our leave and left soon after this. ‘He must have a very strong sixth sense,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked as we began walking, ‘and he can speak in riddles. Remarkable!’
Someone was coming from the opposite direction, carrying a lantern in one hand. It swung as he moved, making his shadow sweep the ground. Tulsi Babu raised the torch in his hand, shone it on the man’s face and said, ‘Off, to see Bhattacharya? You’ve started visiting him pretty frequently, haven’t you?’
The man smiled, hesitated for a second, then went on his way without saying anything.
‘That was Bholanath Babu,’ Tulsi Babu informed us, ‘Bhattacharya’s latest devotee. I believe Bhattacharya went to his house once and spoke to a spirit. Whose, I couldn’t say.’
Tulsi Babu’s cook, Ganga, produced an excellent meal that night, including moong daal, three types of vegetables and egg curry. After dinner, our host regaled us with stories of his life as a schoolteacher. When we said good night to him and went to bed, it was only half past nine, though it seemed like midnight. We had brought our own bedding and mosquito nets. Feluda said he’d use Odomos and not bother with a net. I had noticed that he had plunged into silence since our return from Mr Bhattacharya’s house. In the last couple of hours, he had opened his mouth only to praise Ganga’s cooking. What was he thinking?
Lalmohan Babu lit a lantern and placed it by his bed. He needed the light, he said, to work on his speech for his reception. He didn’t want to disturb us by keeping the main light on.
I couldn’t go to sleep without asking Feluda something that was puzzling me very much.
‘How did that man guess your initials, Feluda? And he knew about your profession, too!’
‘Yes, those are questions I have been asking myself. I haven’t got an answer yet, Topshe. Sometimes . . . some people do turn out to have extraordinary powers that cannot be rationally explained.’
Four
The next morning, we went for a long walk and explored the whole village. The local club, Jagarani, was rehearsing for a play. We were invited to watch the rehearsal. A lot of people were curious about life in Canada, so Feluda ended up giving a short lecture on the subject. Then we met the only mime artist of Gosaipur, called Benimadhav. He offered to visit us on Friday and show us what he could do. ‘I can climb stairs without any props . . . I can show you what happens to a man caught in a storm . . . change the expression on my face— through six different steps—from sad to happy!’
In the evening, Tulsi Babu took us to a fair in the next village. By the time we returned, having enjoyed ourselves hugely, it was nearly six o’clock. The sun had set, but it wasn’t dark yet. Feluda said he’d like to visit Jeevanlal Mallik. Tulsi Babu went home to wait for us.
Jeevanlal came out of his house even before we could reach the front door.
‘I saw you coming from my bedroom window,’ he explained. ‘Has there been any new development?’ Feluda asked.
‘No.’
‘May I look at your garden?’
‘Of course.’
The ‘garden’ was not really a garden: that is to say, there were no flower beds or a lawn. It was simply a large, open area in which stood a number of tall trees. Feluda began inspecting it carefully. I had no idea what he was looking for. I saw him stop at one point and stare at the ground for a few minutes. After a while, a voice cried out from a balcony on the first floor: ‘Who’s there? What are you doing among the trees?’
It was Jeevanlal’
s grandmother. ‘It’s all right, Grandma!’ he shouted back. ‘It’s only me, and my friends.’
‘Oh. I keep seeing people roaming about in the garden. God knows what they do.’
‘Can she see well?’ Feluda asked.
‘No, not very well; nor can she hear unless one shouts.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone looks after the garden?’
‘No, not really. Bholanath Babu does what he can, but obviously that’s not enough.’
‘Do the guards keep an eye on it at night?’
‘At night? You’ve got to be joking. No guard here would dream of staying awake to do their duty.’
‘The front door is locked, surely?’
‘Oh yes. That’s Bholanath Babu’s job. But when I am here, I lock the front door and keep the key with me.’
‘I haven’t yet met Bholanath Babu. Could you call him, please?’ Jeevanlal asked one of his bearers to call Bholanath Babu, and bring us some lemonade. We were sitting outside by the pond. The recent monsoon rains had filled it to its brim. It was now covered with shaluk flowers.
Bholanath Babu arrived in a couple of minutes. He was wearing a dhoti and a shirt, but his appearance was really no different from an ordinary farmer. I could easily picture him working in a field, tilling the land.
Feluda began talking with him. There was no noise anywhere except the faint strains of music from a distant transistor. Had that not been there, it would have been quite easy to pretend we had travelled back in time by more than a hundred years.
‘Has Mriganka Bhattacharya visited this house just once?’ Feluda asked.
‘Recently, yes. Just once.’
‘You mean he has visited Mr Mallik before?’
‘Yes, a few times. I think the master had asked him to draw up his horoscope.’
‘And did he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What made him pay a visit recently? Who asked him to come?’
‘The master did. Er . . . the doctor and I had both told him it might help.’
‘You visit Mr Bhattacharya regularly, don’t you?’
