by Satyajit Ray
‘OICURMT,’ I read quickly. ‘That’s “oh I see you are empty”.’
‘Good. How clever!’ Lalmohan Babu beamed.
With a grin, Feluda turned the paper over. More words and figures were written oh it:
UR
2 good 2 me
2 be
4 got
—
10
—
‘Read it,’ he said to Lalmohan Babu, who seemed to have got the hang of things and was enjoying it hugely.
‘You are too good to me to be four-got-ten? I see, that should read “forgotten”. Yes, that’s right.’
‘OK, now look at the other words. Topshe, try and work it out.’ I looked carefully. There were two columns, one showing words, and the other possibly their meaning:
Revolution to love ruin
Telegraph great help
Astronomers no more stars
Festival evil fast
Funeral real fun
‘Anagrams?’ I asked.
‘Yes. The last three are called “antigrams”, for they give you the opposite meaning to the real one. I mean, “funeral” could hardly be called “real fun”, yet if you rearrange the letters . . .’
‘. . . Where did you find that?’ asked a voice. Mahesh Chowdhury was standing near us, smiling.
‘It was lying near your garden,’ Feluda replied.
‘I was just . . . trying to find some amusement.’
‘Yes, I had guessed as much.’
All of us began rising, but Mr Chowdhury said, ‘Please don’t!’ and sat down beside us.
‘Let me show you another piece of paper,’ he said. He wasn’t smiling any more. He took out his wallet, then extracted an old folded card from it. It was a picture postcard, showing the city of Zurich including the lake.
‘This was the last postcard sent by my second son,’ he said gravely. On the other side of the postcard there was no message at all. All that was written was his name and address.
‘That’s what he had started to do,’ Mr Chowdhury explained. ‘He sent postcards just to let me know where he was. He was never much of a letter writer, anyway. His earlier postcards seldom had more than a couple of lines.’
He took the card back from Feluda and put it back in his wallet. ‘Did you ever learn what kind of work your son Biren did in England?’ Feluda asked.
‘No. He wasn’t the type to do an ordinary job. He was a rebel, totally different from most young men. And he had a hero. Another Bengali, who left home a hundred years ago and went to England, working as crew on a ship. Eventually, he ended up in Brazil—or was it Mexico?—and joined its army. He became a colonel and greatly impressed everyone by his valour and courage.’
‘Do you mean Suresh Biswas?’ Feluda asked. Lalmohan Babu, too, had recognized the name. His eyes gleamed.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly, ‘Colonel Suresh Biswas. He died in Brazil.’
‘Right,’ Mahesh Chowdhury went on. ‘My son Biren had read the story of his life. He wanted to be like him, and have as many adventures. I did not try to stop him, for I knew I couldn’t. So, one day, he vanished. Two months later, I got his first letter from Europe. He didn’t always write from England, you know. He had seemed to travel all over Europe . . . Holland, Sweden, Germany, Austria. He never told me what he was doing. His short letters simply meant that he was alive. I was very sorry he had left me without a word; at the same time, I couldn’t help feeling proud to think that he had made it entirely on his own. Then . . . after 1967, he stopped writing altogether.’
Mahesh Chowdhury stopped, looking sadly at the distant hills. ‘I know he will never come back to me,’ he sighed. ‘I will never know any peace. I have been cursed.’
‘What? Since when did you start to believe in curses?’
This was another voice, and it was speaking lightly. We turned to find we had been joined by Akhil Chakravarty.
‘You only looked at my horoscope, Akhil,’ Mahesh Chowdhury complained. ‘You didn’t bother to consider me as a man.’
‘Rubbish. A man and his horoscope are linked together. Didn’t I tell you in 1942 a big change would come over you? Have you forgotten that?’ He turned to Feluda. ‘Would you believe me, Mr Mitter, if I told you this amiable old man that you see today had once pushed his car off a cliff in a fit of rage, just because its engine had died on the way from Ranchi to Netarhat?’
Mr Chowdhury rose slowly to his feet. ‘People change as they grow older. One doesn’t need to be an astrologer to see that,’ he said shortly and walked away, possibly to look for stones.
Akhil Chakravarty took his place. He seemed to be in the mood to tell stories. ‘Mahesh is an extraordinary character,’ he began. ‘I used to be his neighbour. We came from two different worlds. I was only a schoolteacher, and he was a rising star in his profession. I worked for a while as his sons’ private tutor and got to know him well. He didn’t believe in conventional medicine. If any of his children was unwell, he used to come to me for ayurvedic herbs. Never did he let me feel that we belonged to two different social classes. He treated my son with the same affection that he treated his own. He was devoid of snobbery.’
‘What does your son do?’
‘Who, Adheer? He’s an engineer. He went to IIT Kharagpur, and then to Dusseldorf. He spent ten years there, but he returned home and . . .’
The sound of an explosion made him stop.
‘Uncle’s gun!’ Bibi shouted. ‘Uncle’s killed a partridge. We’ll have it for dinner!’
‘Let me go and find Mahesh,’ Akhil Chakravarty said, getting up. ‘At his age, he shouldn’t go looking for stones. Heaven forbid, but if he slipped and fell near the water, his birthday would . . .’ he moved away.
‘It doesn’t feel like a picnic at all!’ said Neelima Devi. She had put her book away and come over to join us. ‘Why has everyone disappeared?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Feluda reassured her. ‘They’ll all turn up when they’re hungry and it’s time to eat.’
‘Probably. In the meantime, why don’t we play a game?’
‘Cards?’ asked Lalmohan Babu. ‘But all I can play is Screw.’
‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t bring any cards,’ Neelima Devi said. ‘It will have to be something we can play orally.’
‘Let’s try water-earth-sky. Lalmohan Babu could join us quite easily,’ Feluda suggested.
‘How do you play that?’
‘It’s very simple, really. Suppose I look at you and say “water!” or “earth!” or “sky!”—and then start counting up to ten. You have to think of a creature that can be found in it, within those ten seconds.’
‘Is this a very difficult game?’
‘Try it,’ Neelima Devi smiled. ‘Let me ask you the first one.’
‘OK.’ Lalmohan Babu took a deep breath, and sat crosslegged, holding himself straight. Neelima Devi looked at him in silence for a few moments. The she suddenly shouted, ‘Sky! One, two, three, four . . .’
‘Er . . . er . . . er . . .’
‘ . . . five, six, seven . . .’
‘Bafrosh!’
Feluda was the first to break the amazed silence that followed this perfectly weird remark.
‘What, pray, is a bafrosh? A creature of the sky in a different planet, perhaps?’
‘N-n-no. You see, I had thought of a balloon, a frog and a shark. But I mixed them all up!’
‘A balloon? You think a balloon qualifies as a living creature?’
‘Why not? Every living being needs oxygen. So does a balloon.’
‘Really? Well, I must confess I did not know that. I’ve heard of hot air balloons, hydrogen and helium balloons, even balloons that fly with gas made from coal, but this is the first time anyone mentioned oxygen. Perhaps you’d like to . . .’
Neelima Devi raised a hand to stop further argument. As things turned out, she need not have bothered. Something happened at this moment that automatically put a stop to all arguments.
It was Pritin Babu.
A long time ago, Feluda had shown me a painting by Leonardo da Vinci, which showed a man who had both fear and sadness etched in every line on his face. Pritin Babu’s face wore the same expression.
He emerged from behind a bush, took a few unsteady steps, then sat down quickly, trembling visibly. Neelima Devi got up and ran towards her husband, but Feluda had reached him already. Pritin Babu had to swallow a few times before he made an effort to speak.
‘B-b-b-baba,’ he managed finally, pointing at the direction from which he had come.
Five
By the time Mahesh Chowdhury was brought home, it was half past two. He was still unconscious. Judging by the injury on his head, he had been standing when he fell. The doctor who examined him said it was a heart attack. His heart was not particularly strong, anyway. The attack might have been caused by a sudden shock. His overall condition was critical; the doctor could not hold out much hope for a recovery.
He was found lying in an area behind a large boulder. We could see the boulder from where we sat, but not what lay behind it. None of us had seen him go there. Pritin Babu, who had climbed up a slope to go into the trees on the top of a hill, found him on his way back, as he came out in the open and looked down. At first, he had thought his father had died. That was why he had rushed to us, looking deathly pale. Feluda felt Mr Chowdhury’s pulse and said he was still alive. His head had struck against a stone the size of a brick. A pool of blood lay around it. Like everyone else, I felt dazed, but couldn’t help noticing two pretty yellow butterflies fluttering around the unconscious man.
A minute later, we were joined first by Arun Babu, and then Akhil Chakravarty. Shankarlal was the last to arrive. He broke down immediately as he realized what had happened. There could be no doubt about his attachment and devotion to the old man.
It was clearly impossible for us to pick him up and carry him across the river. His two sons left at once to go back and get an ambulance. It took them more than two hours to return with a medical team, and another hour to move their father away in the ambulance. All of us returned to Kailash and remained there for a while. Since no one had had any lunch, Neelima Devi served the food that had been packed for the picnic: parathas, aloo-dum and kababs. Once she had got over the initial shock, she had regained her composure fully. I had to admire her.
Little Bibi was the only one who didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation. She kept saying her Dadu had simply had a dizzy spell, and would soon be playing with her again. We waited in the drawing room. Arun Babu remained upstairs with his father, and Pritin Chowdhury came and joined us every now and then. Shankarlal was sitting still like a statue. He hadn’t spoken a single word since we left Rajrappa. Akhil Chakravarty was saying the same thing over and over: ‘I told him not to go out today, but he didn’t listen to me!’
We left at around four o’clock. ‘We’ll come back tomorrow,’ Feluda told Pritin Babu. ‘Please do let us know if we can do anything to help.’
‘Thank you.’
On reaching our own house, each of us had a quick wash before going and sitting on the front veranda. I was still feeling dazed. Feluda wasn’t speaking much, which meant he was thinking hard. I knew he wouldn’t like being disturbed, but there was something I felt I had to ask him. ‘I heard the doctor say Mr Chowdhury’s heart attack might have been caused by a sudden shock. How could he have received a shock in Rajrappa, Feluda?’
‘Good question. That is what I’ve been thinking. Of course, we don’t know that for a fact.’
‘So all we need to do is wait until Mr Chowdhury gets better. Then the whole thing will become clear,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked.
‘Yes. But will he get better?’ Feluda sounded doubtful.
He was clearly curious about Mahesh Chowdhury. While we were waiting in the drawing room, I saw him looking closely at the books and every other object in the room. He did this very discreetly, but I knew he was making a mental note of everything he saw. The group photograph of all the Chowdhurys seemed to intrigue him the most. He spent at least five minutes looking at it closely.
Drums were beating in a distant village. It suddenly made me think of the escaped tiger. Obviously, it had not been captured, or Bulakiprasad would have told us.
It was now quite chilly outside. Lalmohan Babu pulled his cap tighter and said, ‘It’s significant, isn’t it?’ Perhaps he had expected one of us to ask him what he meant by that; but when we didn’t, he expanded further, ‘When Mr Chowdhury suffered this heart attack, we were with Neelima Devi and that little girl was playing with her doll. But we know nothing of the movements of the others, do we?’
‘Yes, we do,’ Feluda replied. ‘Arun Babu was trying to kill birds, Pritin Babu was recording bird calls, Akhil Chakravarty was looking for his friend, Shankarlal was chatting with a sadhu, and the two bearers were sitting under a cotton tree, smoking beedis.’
‘Yes, I saw them. But what about the others? They were all out of sight. How do we know they’re telling the truth?’
‘There is absolutely no reason to think they are not. I don’t know them well, and I’m not prepared to start by treating them with suspicion.’
‘OK, you’re right, Felu Babu.’
But Lalmohan Babu had more to tell. It came a few hours later, while we were at dinner. I saw him give a sudden start, slap his forehead and say, ‘Oh no, no!’
‘Whatever is the matter, Lalmohan Babu?’ Feluda asked.
‘I forgot to tell you something—something very important. I found another clue, a terrific one this time. As we got close to the spot where the body—sorry, I mean Mr Chowdhury—was lying, I stumbled against an object. It was Pritin Chowdhury’s tape recorder.’
‘Have you got it with you?’
‘No. I thought I’d pick it up later and give it back to him. But with all the hue and cry and everything, I totally forgot. When we were returning, however, I did remember, but by then it had gone!’
‘Maybe Pritin Babu himself had picked it up?’
‘No. He most definitely did not go anywhere near it. Besides, it was lying under a bush. I wouldn’t have seen it myself if my foot hadn’t actually struck against it.’
Feluda started to make a comment, but was stopped by the phone ringing.
It was Arun Babu. Feluda spoke briefly, put the phone down, and turned to us.
‘We must go back to Kailash. Mr Chowdhury has regained consciousness, and is asking for me.’
It took us only a minute to reach their house by car. Everyone was gathered around his bed, with the exception of Bibi. Mr Chowdhury was lying in his bed with a dressing on his head, his hands folded and resting on his chest, his eyes half closed. His lips parted in a faint smile as he saw Feluda. Then he slowly raised his right hand and straightened his index finger.
‘A j-j-j-’ he tried to speak.
‘A job for me?’ Feluda asked anxiously.
Mr Chowdhury gave a slight nod. Then he raised his middle finger as well.
‘We . . . we . . .’ he folded his fingers and raised his thumb, shaking it.
With an effort, he then moved his head and looked at the bedside table. Muktananda’s photograph rested on it. As he tried to stretch his arm towards it, Arun Babu picked it up and offered it to him. Instead of taking it, Mr Chowdhury looked at Feluda. Arun Babu passed the photo to Feluda without a word. Mr Chowdhury sighed and raised two fingers again. He tried to speak once more, but no words came.
After a while, he gave up trying and just stared in silence.
Six
We had returned to our room. The passport-size photograph of Muktananda was now with Feluda. I could not imagine why Mr Chowdhury had given it to him and told him he had a job. Lalmohan Babu, however, ventured to hazard a guess.
‘I think he asked you to become a follower of Muktananda,’ he observed.
‘Then why did he raise two fingers?’
‘Maybe he meant . . . as a follower of Muktananda, your skills
at your job would double themselves? Mind you,’ Lalmohan Babu added sadly, ‘I cannot figure out why he then shook his thumb at you!’
Early in the morning, Akhil Chakravarty rang us to say that Mahesh Chowdhury had breathed his last two hours after we had left his house the previous night.
By the time the funeral was over, it was past eleven o’clock. On our way back from the cremation ground, Lalmohan Babu asked, ‘Where do you want to go now, Felu Babu? To Kailash, or back home?’
‘I don’t think we should spend any more time in Kailash, just at this moment. They are bound to receive a lot of visitors. I won’t get any work done.’
‘What work do you mean?’
‘Gathering information.’
After lunch, Feluda took out his blue notebook and began scribbling in it. When he finished, he let us see what he had written:
1. Mahesh Chowdhury: Born 23 November 1907; died 24 November 1977 (Natural causes? Heart attack? Shock?). Fond of riddles, stamps, butterflies, rocks. A valuable stamp album given by Dorabjee—lost (how?). Attached to second son. What about his feelings towards the other two? Deep affection towards Shankarlal. No snobbery. Violent temper in the past; drinking. A changed man in later years, amiable. Why a curse?
2. His wife: Dead. When?
3. First son: Arunendra. Born (approx.) 1936. Deals with mica. Travels between Calcutta and Hazaribagh. Fond of shooting. Doesn’t talk much.
4. Second son: Birendra. Born (approx.) 1939. Very bright, a rebel. Left home at nineteen. Admired Col. Suresh Biswas. Wrote to father until 1967. Alive? Dead? Father thought he had returned
5. Third son: Pritindra. Younger than Arunendra by at least nine years (basis: family photo), i.e. born (approx.) 1945. Electronics. Bird calls. Talks a lot, chiefly about himself. Left tape recorder in Rajrappa.
6. Pritin’s wife: Neelima. Age twenty-five/twenty-six. Intelligent, smart, collected.
7. Akhil Chakravarty: Age (approx.) seventy. Ex-schoolteacher. Mahesh’s friend. Astrology, ayurveda.
8. Shankarlal Misra: Born (approx.) 1939. Same age as Biren. Mahesh’s chowkidar Deendayal’s son. Deendayal died in 1943. Question: why did he go into the forest? Mahesh raised Shankarlal. Owner of bookshop. Griefstricken by Mahesh’s death.
