The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘I can see your collection of rocks and butterflies,’ Feluda remarked, ‘but is there anything else you used to collect?’

  The rocks and stones were displayed in a glass case that stood in a corner. I had no idea stones could be of so many different types and colours. But what did Feluda mean? Mr Chowdhury looked quite taken aback and asked, ‘Why do you ask about other collections? What else could I have collected?’

  ‘Those tweezers young Bibi is using appear to be quite old.’

  ‘Brilliant! Brilliant!’ Mr Chowdhury exclaimed. ‘What sharp eyes you’ve got! But you are absolutely right. I used to collect stamps, and those were my tweezers. Even now, I sometimes look at the Gibbons catalogue. Philately was my first passion in life. When I used to practise as a lawyer, one of my clients called Dorabjee gave me his own stamp album to show me how grateful he was. He must have lost his interest in stamps by then, or certainly he would not have given it away like that. It had quite a few rare and valuable stamps.’

  I felt quite excited to hear this. I had started to collect stamps myself, and knew that Feluda, as a young boy, used to do the same.

  ‘May we see that album?’ Feluda asked.

  ‘Pardon?’ Mr Chowdhury said after a few moments of silence. He had suddenly grown a little preoccupied. Then he seemed to pull himself together.

  ‘The album?’ he said. ‘No, I’m afraid I cannot show it to you. It’s lost.’

  ‘Lost?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t I just tell you my life was full of mysteries? Mysteries . . . or you may even call them tragedies. But let’s not talk about it on a fine day like this . . . Come on, Ace, let me introduce you!

  Pritin Babu had returned with his brother. He was much older, but there was a marked resemblance between the two brothers. ‘Ace’ was a handsome man, if just a little overweight.

  ‘Trey could probably tell you a lot about mikes,’ Mr Chowdhury said. ‘Ace can only talk about mica. He has a business that deals with mica His real name is Arunendra. His office is in Calcutta, but his work often brings him to Hazaribagh.’

  ‘Namaskar,’ Feluda said, ‘you are Ace and Pritin Babu is Trey. Is that Deuce?’ He was looking at a photograph in a silver frame. It was a family group photo, taken at least twenty-five years ago. Mahesh Chowdhury and his wife were standing with two young boys. A third much smaller boy was in his wife’s arms. The younger of the two boys standing had to be Deuce.

  ‘Yes, you are right,’ Mr Chowdhury replied, ‘but you might never get the chance to meet him, for he has vanished.’

  Ace—Arun Babu—explained quickly: ‘He was called Biren. He left home at the age of nineteen to go to England, and did not return.’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain, do we?’ Mr Chowdhury sounded doubtful.

  ‘If he did, Baba, surely you’d have heard about it?’

  ‘Who knows? He didn’t write me a single line in the last ten years!’ Mr Chowdhury’s voice sounded pained.

  No one spoke after this. The atmosphere suddenly seemed to have become rather serious. Perhaps Mr Chowdhury realized this. He stood up, and said cheerfully, ‘Come on, let me show you around. Akhil and Shankar haven’t arrived yet, have they? So we have a little time.’

  ‘You don’t have to get up, Baba,’ Arun Chowdhury said. ‘I can take them upstairs.’

  ‘No, sir. This is my house; I planned it and I had it built. I will, therefore, show it to my visitors.’

  We followed him upstairs. There were three bedrooms, and a lovely wide veranda that overlooked the street on the north side. The Kanari Hills were dimly visible in the distance. Mr Chowdhury’s bedroom was in the middle. The other two were occupied at the moment. Arun Babu was in one, and Pritin Babu was in the other with his wife and daughter. There was a guest room on the ground floor, we were told. Mahesh Chowdhury’s friend, Akhil Chakravarty, was staying in it.

  I noticed more butterflies and rocks in Mr Chowdhury’s bedroom. A bookshelf in a corner contained rows of notebooks, almost identical in appearance. Mr Chowdhury caught Feluda looking at these and said they were his diaries. He had kept diaries regularly over a period of forty years. On a bedside table was another small framed photograph of a man, but not of anyone from the family. Lalmohan Babu recognized him instantly.

  ‘Ah, it’s Muktananda, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. My friend Akhil gave it to me,’ Mr Chowdhury replied. Then he turned to Feluda and added, ‘He has three continents to back him up.’

  ‘Correct!’ Lalmohan Babu sounded quite excited. ‘He is a famous Tantric sadhu. Asia, Europe and America—he has followers everywhere.’

  ‘How do you know so much about him? Are you a devotee yourself?’

  ‘Oh no. But one of my neighbours is. He told me about his guru.’ There was nothing more to see on the first floor. As we began climbing down, I heard a car arrive. The two men Mr Chowdhury was waiting for soon made an appearance. One of them was of about the same age as Mahesh Chowdhury. He was wearing an ordinary dhoti and kurta and had a plain dark brown shawl wrapped around his shoulders. It was obvious that he had never had anything to do with the complex world of the law; nor did he seem even slightly westernized in any way. The other man was much younger, probably under forty. He had a smart and intelligent air. He came forward quickly and touched Mr Chowdhury’s feet as soon as he saw him. The older gentleman was carrying a box of sweets. He passed it to Pritin Babu and said, ‘Look, Mahesh, please listen to me. Drop the idea of a picnic. The time’s not auspicious at all, and then there’s that tiger to be considered. What if he decides to visit the temple of Chhinnamasta?’

  Mr Chowdhury turned to us. ‘Please allow me to introduce you. This man here who cannot stop seeing danger and pitfalls everywhere is a very old friend, Akhil Bandhu Chakravarty. He used to be a schoolteacher. Now he dabbles in astrology and ayurveda. And this is Shankarlal Misra. I am exceedingly fond of this young man. You might say I look upon him as a sort of replacement for my missing son.’

  We greeted one another, and then everyone began to get ready to leave. Akhil Chakravarty tried one last time: ‘So nobody’s going to heed my warning?’

  ‘No, my dear,’ Mr Chowdhury replied. ‘I hear the tiger is called Sultan. That means he’s a Muslim. He’s not likely to want to visit a Hindu temple, never fear. Oh, by the way, Mr Mitter, do go and see the circus, if you can. We were invited the day before yesterday. I went with little Bibi and her mother. I had no idea that Indian circus had made such progress. The items with the tiger, particularly, were most impressive.’

  ‘But didn’t something go wrong towards the end?’

  ‘Yes, but that wasn’t the ringmaster’s fault. Even animals have moods, don’t they? The tiger was not in the right mood, that’s all. After all, it’s a living being, not a machine that will run each time you press a button.’

  ‘Yes, but see what the animal’s mood has done,’ Arun Babu remarked. ‘There’s panic everywhere. That tiger ought to be killed. This would never have happened if it was a foreign circus.’

  His father smiled dryly, ‘Yes, your hands must be itching to pick up your gun. Anyone would think you were the president of the Wildlife Destruction Society!’

  We met another person before leaving for Rajrappa. It was Pritin Chowdhury’s wife, Neelima Devi. Like the rest of her family, she was very good looking.

  Four

  Rajrappa was eighty kilometres from Hazaribagh. We had to take a left turn when we reached Ramgarh, which took us through a place called Gola. Beyond Gola was the Bhera river. All cars had to be left here, and the river had to be crossed on foot. Rajrappa lay on the other side, only a short walk away.

  Shankarlal Misra did not have a car, so he travelled with us. Two bearers had also joined the group. One of them was the old Noor Muhammad, who had been with Mr Chowdhury since he started working as a lawyer. The other was the tall and hefty Jagat Singh, who was carrying Arun Chowdhury’s rifle and cartridges.

  Mr Misra proved to be very friendl
y and easy to talk to. From what he told us about himself, it seemed there was a mystery in his life as well. His father, Deendayal Misra, used to work as Mahesh Chowdhury’s chowkidar. Thirty-five years ago, when Shankar was only four, Deendayal suddenly went missing one day. Two days later, a woodcutter found his body in a forest nearly eight miles away. He had been killed by a wild animal. No one knew why he had gone to the forest. There was an old Shiva temple there, but Deendayal had never been known to visit it.

  Mahesh Chowdhury took pity on Deendayal’s child. He brought him to his house, and began to bring him up like his own son. In time, Shankar proved to be a very bright student. He won scholarships and finished his graduation from Ranchi University. Then he opened a bookshop called Shankar Book Store in Ranchi. Recently, he had opened a branch in Hazaribagh. He travelled frequently between the two cities.

  This mention of books prompted Lalmohan Babu to ask, ‘What kind of books do you keep in your shop?’

  ‘All kinds,’ Mr Misra replied, smiling, ‘including crime thrillers. We have often sold your books.’

  After a few moments, Feluda asked, ‘Mahesh Chowdhury’s second son must have been the same age as yourself. Is that right?’

  ‘Who, Biren? He was younger than me, but only by a few months. We went to school together, and were in the same class. All three brothers went to Calcutta for higher studies, but Biren was never really interested in them. He was always restless, fond of adventures. I was not surprised when he left home at nineteen.’

  ‘Does his father believe in tantrics and holy men?’

  ‘He didn’t earlier. But he has changed a lot over the years. I didn’t see it myself, but I’ve heard that he used to have an extremely violent temper. He may not actually visit holy men, but today . . . I believe the reason for going to Rajrappa is that temple of Chhinnamasta.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He doesn’t talk about it, but I have gone to Rajrappa with him before, more than once. I’ve seen how the look on his face changes when he visits the temple.’

  ‘Could this be linked to something in his past?’

  ‘I don’t know. I know very little about his past. Don’t forget I was only his chowkidar’s son, never really one of the family.’

  At around ten-thirty, three cars stopped by the side of the Bhera river. Ours was the last, just behind Pritin Chowdhury’s car. We saw him get out, tape recorder in hand, and disappear among the trees on our left. Mahesh Chowdhury was in the first car. He got out, and came towards us. ‘Let’s have a cup of coffee before going across,’ he said. ‘Rajrappa isn’t far from here. There’s no point in hurrying.’

  We walked towards the river. There wasn’t much water in it now, but after the monsoon it often became knee-deep, which made it difficult to cross. Even now, it was flowing with considerable force, rushing over a great many rocks of various sizes and different colours, polishing and smoothing their surface, as if it was in a great hurry to jump into the great Damodar. Rajrappa stood at the point where the Bhera met the Damodar.

  Neelima Devi opened a flask and began pouring coffee into paper cups. We went and helped ourselves. Pritin Babu was the only one missing. Perhaps he had had to go deeper into the wood to record bird calls. A variety of birds were chirping in the trees.

  I looked at and tried to make a study of every new character I had met since my arrival. Feluda had taught me to do this, although his own eyes caught details that I inevitably missed.

  The youngest in our group had placed her doll on a flat stone and was talking to it: ‘Sit quietly, or I’ll throw you into the river. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’

  Arun Babu finished his coffee, threw the cup away, then disappeared behind a bush. The faint smoke that rose a little later told me that he didn’t smoke in his father’s presence.

  Mahesh Chowdhury was standing quietly by the river, staring at its gushing water. His hands were clasped behind his back.

  Feluda had picked up two small stones and was striking one against the other to see if they were flint, when Akhil Chakravarty walked up to him and said, ‘Do you know what sign you were born under?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Aquarius. Is that good or bad for a detective?’ Neelima Devi picked up a wild yellow flower and stuck it into her hair. Then she looked at Lalmohan Babu and said something which made him throw back his head and laugh. But, only a second later, he stopped abruptly, gasped and jumped aside. Neelima Devi’s laughter broke out this time. ‘That was only a harmless chameleon!’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me you are afraid of them?’

  I looked around for Shankarlal, but saw that he had already crossed the river and was talking to a man in saffron clothes, on the other side. A busload of visitors had crossed over a few minutes ago. The saffron-clad sadhu must have been one of them.

  We finished our coffee, and Pritin Babu returned. It was now time to wade through the river. Everyone lifted their clothes by a couple of inches. Little Bibi decided to ride on Noor Muhammad’s back, and I saw Lalmohan Babu stop, close his eyes and mutter something before stepping on to a stone. He nearly lost his balance at least three times before he got to the other side. Then, landing safely on the dry ground, he said, ‘Hey, who knew that was going to be so easy?’

  There were more trees here, though not enough to call it a wood. Nevertheless, from the way Lalmohan Babu kept casting nervous glances over his shoulder, I knew that he had not forgotten about the tiger. We turned a corner in a few minutes, and stopped. It was as if a curtain had been lifted to reveal Rajrappa. Lalmohan Babu said, ‘Waah!’ so loudly that two little birds flew away.

  He had every reason to say that. I could see both rivers from where we stood. On our left was the smaller river, the Bhera, and to our right, down below, flowed the Damodar. There was a waterfall, not yet visible, but I could hear it. Huge rocks stood out from the water, looking like giant turtles. The forest began at a distance, beyond which stood the hills in a faint, bluish line. It was a truly charming sight.

  The temple was only twenty yards away. It was obviously quite old, but parts of it had been restored recently. Only a few days ago, we were told, a buffalo had been killed here for Kali Puja. ‘I bet once they used to have human sacrifices!’ Lalmohan Babu muttered into my ear. He might well have been right.

  None of the passengers who had come by bus seemed interested in the scenery. All of them had gathered before the temple. Shankarlal was right about Mahesh Chowdhury. I saw him stand still at the door of the temple and stare inside. He spent nearly a minute there, although it was so dark inside that the statue was almost invisible. Then he moved away, and slowly followed the others.

  The waterfall came into view in a few minutes. The two bearers began spreading a durrie on the sand.

  ‘This is an unexpected bonus, isn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu said. ‘Who knew we’d be invited to a picnic on the second day of our visit?’

  ‘This is only the beginning,’ Feluda observed.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Have you ever played chess?’

  ‘Good God, no!’

  ‘If you had, you’d have understood my meaning. When a game of chess comes to a close, and only a few pieces are left on the board, something like an electric current flows between the two players. Neither of them moves, but they can feel it with every nerve in their body. All the members of the Chowdhury family remind me of these pieces. What I still don’t know is who is black and who is white—or who’s the king, and if there’s a bishop.’

  We chose a spot between the temple and the place where the main picnic was being arranged, and sat down under a peepul tree. It was not yet eleven o’clock. Everyone was relaxed and roaming around lazily. Bibi was sitting on the sand, and Akhil Chakravarty was talking to her, explaining something with different gestures. Neelima Devi was sitting on the durrie. I saw her take out a paperback from her bag. It was probably a detective novel. Pritin Babu was walking aimlessly; then he sat down on a small mound and began inserting a new cassette i
nto his recorder. Arun Babu took his gun from Jagat Singh, and Mahesh Chowdhury picked up a stone from the ground, only to throw it away again.

  ‘Shankarlal is not around,’ Lalmohan Babu commented.

  ‘Yes, he is, but at some distance. Look!’

  I followed Feluda’s gaze and saw that Shankarlal was standing under a tree behind the temple, still chatting with the sadhu.

  ‘Somewhat suspicious, isn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu asked. I looked at Feluda to see if he agreed, but before he could say anything, Arun Chowdhury walked over to us, gun in hand.

  ‘Is that adequate for a tiger?’ Feluda asked him.

  ‘That tiger from the circus is not going to come here,’ Arun Babu laughed. ‘I have killed sambar with this gun, but usually I only kill birds. This is a twenty-two.’

  ‘Yes, so I see.’

  ‘Do you hunt?’

  ‘Only criminals.’

  ‘Do you work for an agency? Or are you private?’

  Feluda handed him one of his cards with ‘Pradosh C. Mitter, Private Investigator’ written on it.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Arun Chowdhury. ‘I may need it one day, who knows?’

  Then he moved away.

  I saw Feluda clutching the same piece of paper we had found near the lawn in Kailash. This surprised me, for I hadn’t seen him taking it out.

  ‘Why this sudden interest in letters from the alphabet?’ Lalmohan Babu wanted to know.

  ‘Look carefully. These aren’t just letters from the alphabet. These are words, proper words.’

  ‘Nonsense! If they are, it must be some strange foreign language.’

  ‘Not at all. These are ordinary English words, and you know them very well. Try reading them out.’

  Lalmohan Babu leant across to read the letters.

  ‘Eks El En See,’ he read, ‘Eks El. Eks Pee Dee . . . oh, I see! The first word is “excellency”, isn’t it? One has to read it quickly. And the second word is “excel”. Then it’s “expediency”, and the last word is “enemy”. But what’s this beginning with an O?’