The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I

by Satyajit Ray

  9. Noor Muhammad: Age between seventy and eighty. Serving Mahesh for over forty years.

  Feluda was right in thinking there might be a lot of visitors. When we arrived at Kailash long after lunch, we were told the last of them had just left. Mr Chowdhury’s two sons and Akhil Chakravarty were in the drawing room. Pritin Babu seemed more restless than ever. He was sitting in a corner, fidgeting and cracking his knuckles. Akhil Babu was sighing and shaking his head from time to time. Only Arun Chowdhury seemed calm and composed. Feluda addressed him directly.

  ‘Are you going to be here for a few days?’ he asked.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I need your help. Your father gave me a job to do, although he was in no condition to explain the details. What I want to know is this: did any of you understand his meaning?’

  Arun Babu smiled slightly. ‘Few of us could understand his meaning even when Baba was alive and well. A serious man in many ways, there was a childish streak in him, which you probably saw for yourself. I don’t think there is any need to pay too much attention to his last words.’

  ‘But his last words did not strike me as totally without meaning.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. But obviously, I could not understand the significance of each little gesture. For instance,’ he turned to Akhil Chakravarty, ‘I do not know why he wanted me to have that photograph. Perhaps you can help me there? Didn’t you give it to him?’

  Akhil Chakravarty smiled sadly. ‘Yes, I did. Muktananda once came to Ranchi, and I went to see him. He struck me as a genuine person, so I said to Mahesh: “You have never believed in sadhus and gurus, but if you keep a photo of this one with you, it cannot do any harm. He is worshipped in three continents, his influence can only do you good.” But I had no idea he had kept it in his bedroom. I never went into his bedroom until yesterday.’

  ‘Do you know anything about it?’ Feluda asked Arun Babu, who shook his head.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘In fact, I didn’t even know he had such a photograph. I saw it yesterday for the first time.’

  ‘I don’t know anything either,’ Pritin Babu piped up before anyone asked him.

  ‘Very well. But may I request you to give me two things? They would help me a great deal.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘The first thing I’d like are the letters and postcards your brother Biren sent your father.’

  ‘Biren’s letters?’ Arun Babu sounded very surprised. ‘What do you need those for?’

  ‘I believe your father wanted me to give that photo to his second son.’

  ‘How strange! What made you think that?’

  ‘Well, your father asked you to pass the photo to me, and then raised two fingers. All of you saw that. It could be that he meant to say “deuce”. Isn’t that what he called Biren? I could be wrong, of course, but I must proceed—at least for the present—on that assumption.’

  ‘But how will you find Biren?’

  ‘Suppose Mr Chowdhury was right? Suppose he has returned?’ Arun Babu forgot himself for a moment and burst out laughing. ‘Mr Mitter, do you know how many times in the last five years my father claimed to have actually seen Biren? He wanted to believe he had returned. If he had, wouldn’t he have got in touch? Besides, how could anyone expect to recognize him after twenty years, if they saw him from a distance? Particularly an old man like my father, with failing eyesight?’

  ‘Please don’t get me wrong, Arun Babu. I am not saying he came back. That was a suggestion made by your father. However, even if he is living abroad, I still have to fulfil my responsibility. I must try to find out where he is and arrange to send him the photo.’

  Arun Babu seemed to relent a little.

  ‘Very well, Mr Mitter,’ he said. ‘I will separate Biren’s letters from my father’s correspondence and give them to you.’

  ‘Thank you. The other thing I want are Mr Chowdhury’s diaries. I’d like to see them, if you don’t mind.’

  I had expected Arun Babu to object to this, but surprisingly, he did not.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘My father’s diaries are no secret. But you are going to be disappointed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I doubt if anyone ever kept diaries that could be as dry, mundane and boring as my father’s. You won’t find anything except the most ordinary record of his daily life.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I am perfectly willing to risk being disappointed.’

  ‘All right, so be it. You may take the diaries right now, if you like. I will let you have the letters tomorrow.’

  We thanked him and came out a little later, all three of us carrying heavy packets wrapped with newspapers. There were seven of these, each containing Mahesh Chowdhury’s diaries. Feluda would get very little sleep tonight, I thought, for the total number of diaries was forty and he had promised to return them the next day.

  As we emerged out of the house and reached the driveway, we saw Bibi roaming in the garden, playing with her doll. She appeared to be looking for a flower to put in her doll’s hair. She turned her head to face us, and spoke unexpectedly.

  ‘Dadu didn’t tell me!’ she complained.

  ‘What didn’t he tell you?’ Feluda asked her.

  ‘What he was looking for.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day before yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.’

  ‘Three days?’

  ‘I saw him looking, but I asked him only one day.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said: “What have you lost, Dadu?” because he was in his room, and he was moving his books and all the papers on his table and everything else, and he wouldn’t play with me . . . so I asked.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said . . . a pier, that which opens and . . . and that which shuts.’

  ‘What utter nonsense!’ Lalmohan Babu muttered under his breath.

  Feluda ignored him. ‘Did he tell you anything else?’

  ‘No. No, he said he’d explain later, and he’d tell me everything . . . but he didn’t. He died.’

  Bibi had found a flower for her doll. She lost interest in us, and turned to go back inside. We came away.

  Seven

  Since Feluda was now going to start reading the diaries, Lalmohan Babu and I decided to go for a drive soon after a cup of tea at four o’clock.

  ‘If we go towards the main town, we might get to hear the latest on Sultan,’ Lalmohan Babu told me. ‘Your cousin may have found a mystery related to Mahesh Chowdhury’s death, but I think an escaped tiger is much more interesting.’

  We didn’t have far to go to get news of the tiger. We had to stop for petrol at a local station, where we saw another group of men gathered round someone who was speaking very rapidly. He raised a hand and pawed the air, so there was no doubt that he was talking of the tiger. Lalmohan Babu got out of the car and went forward to make enquiries. This wasn’t easy, for his Hindi was not particularly good. However, what we eventually managed to learn was this:

  To the east of Hazaribagh was a forest, near the town of Vishnugarh. Sultan’s new trainer, Chandran, and a shikari from the Forest Department, had found Sultan there. Apparently, it had looked for a while that the tiger was willing to be captured, but he had then changed his mind and run away again after clawing Chandran. The shikari had shot at him, but no one knew whether the tiger was hurt. Chandran was in a hospital, but his injuries were not serious.

  ‘Do you know anything about Kandarikar?’ Lalmohan Babu asked his informant. I felt obliged to correct him. ‘It is Karandikar, Lalmohan Babu, not Kandarikar. He’s the old trainer.’

  ‘No, I don’t know anything about him,’ the man replied, ‘but I do believe the circus isn’t doing so well since the main show with the tiger is off.’

  We were both curious to know how Mr Karandikar had reacted to the news of Sultan being shot at, so we went from the petrol station straight to the Great Maje
stic.

  Normally, if Feluda accompanies us, Lalmohan Babu keeps to the background. Today, however, he walked up smartly to the man outside the main entrance and said, ‘Put me through to Mr Kutti, please.’ God knows what the man thought of this strange request, but he let us in without a word. Perhaps he had recognized us from our first visit.

  We found Mr Kutti in his caravan, but what he told us sounded like another mysterious riddle. Karandikar had disappeared the previous night.

  ‘The audience has been demanding to see the tiger,’ Mr Kutti said. ‘I went and personally apologized to Karandikar. I promised him I wouldn’t allow anyone else to train the tiger, if it could be captured. Even so, he left without telling a soul. He used to go off occasionally, but he always came back in a few hours. This time . . . I don’t think he’s coming back.’

  There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. We thanked Mr Kutti and left the circus. Lalmohan Babu said as we came out, ‘Now we’ll never get to see Sultan being captured, Tapesh. We simply won’t get another chance.’

  I, too, felt sad and depressed. So we decided to go for a long drive instead of returning home. Debating over whether to go towards the Kanari Hills in the north, or Ramgarh to the south, we eventually tossed for it and got Ramgarh.

  ‘There are hills there, didn’t you see them that day? They’re just as beautiful,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked.

  I agreed with him, and we set off in the direction of Ramgarh. Neither of us had any idea of what lay in store.

  Things began to go wrong as we passed a signpost that said ‘11 kms’. To start with, Lalmohan Babu’s car—which he had bought only six months ago—hiccuped three times, slowed down and then died altogether. His driver got out to investigate. He was our only hope, for Lalmohan Babu knew nothing of cars and engines. ‘If I can move about without knowing how many bones and what muscles I have in my legs, where is the need to worry about how my car moves on its four wheels?’ he had once said to me.

  We climbed out of the car and went and sat on a culvert. The sun was about to set, and the time was 5.20 p.m. There were dark patches of clouds in the sky, behind which the sun happened to be hiding at the moment. It peeped out for just a second a little later, only to call it a day almost at once.

  ‘I think I’ve fixed it, sir!’ the driver called. ‘I am ready when you are.’

  We rose, and I looked at my watch. It said 5.33 p.m. It is important to mention the time, for it was at this precise moment that we saw Sultan.

  I might have described the event in a much more dramatic fashion, but Feluda has always told me not to use cliches and other hackneyed phrases just to create an effect. ‘Keep your descriptions brief and simple,’ he tells me often, ‘and you will see how effective that can be.’ I shall therefore try to relate what happened as briefly as possible.

  I had seen a tiger in the wild before, about which I have written in The Royal Bengal Mystery. On that occasion, we were accompanied by several other armed men, including Feluda; and Lalmohan Babu and I were sitting on a treetop, out of harm’s way. Now, we were standing by the side of an open road that was lined by trees and woodland. There were bound to be wild bears in the wood, and it was quickly getting dark. Worst of all, Feluda was not with us.

  The tiger came out of the trees to our right and appeared on the road, barely fifty yards away. All three of us saw it together, for each one turned into a statue. The driver had stretched out an arm to open a door. He stood still with an outstretched arm. Lalmohan Babu had leant forward slightly to blow his nose. He remained in that position, clutching his handkerchief. I was in the process of dusting my jeans. My hands remained stuck at my waist.

  The tiger, at first, did not see us. It began to cross the road, took four steps, then suddenly stopped and turned its head to look at us.

  My legs began shaking and a hammering started in my chest. Yet, I could not move my eyes away from the tiger. Out of the corner of my eye, I could vaguely see the outline of Lalmohan Babu’s body getting lower and lower, which could only mean that his legs were going numb and were unable to support the weight of his body. Then my vision began to blur. The figure of the tiger became hazy, and its stripes suddenly started to vibrate.

  It is impossible to say how Song Sultan stared at us. The time seemed endless. Lalmohan Babu likes to call it eight to ten minutes, but I think it was eight to ten seconds. Even so, it was a long time.

  Once he had finished looking at us, Sultan simply turned his head away, crossed over to the other side and made for the wood. We saw him gradually disappear among the tall trees.

  Strangely enough, we remained rooted to the spot for nearly a whole minute even after Sultan had gone (Lalmohan Babu said fifteen minutes). Then we uttered only three words before getting back into the car. The driver said, ‘Sir!’; I said ‘Coming!’; and Lalmohan Babu said ‘G-go!’ Fortunately, it turned out that the driver’s nerves were strong and steady. He began to drive with admirable equanimity. Apparently, when he used to work in Jamshedpur before, he had once seen a tiger by the roadside.

  We returned home to find Feluda still deeply engrossed in Mr Chowdhury’s diaries. I knew Lalmohan Babu was dying to tell him about our experience, so I said nothing. Instead of coming straight to the point, he decided to create a preamble. First, he began humming a tune, then remarked casually, ‘Tell me Tapesh, tigers have padded feet, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, so I’ve heard,’ I replied, hiding a smile.

  ‘It must be true, for we didn’t hear its footsteps, did we? And we were only a few feet away!’

  Sadly, this great build-up to his story had no effect on Feluda. He didn’t even look at us. All he did was put one diary away, pick up another and say, ‘If you have seen the tiger, you should tell the Forest Department immediately about the exact spot and the time it was seen.’

  ‘The time was 5.33 and the place was near a culvert close to the “11 kms” signpost on the road to Ramgarh.’

  ‘Good. There’s a directory in the living room. The Forest Department’s office will be closed at this hour, but you can look up the residential number of the Chief Forest Officer and inform him. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.’

  Lalmohan Babu licked his lips. ‘You are asking me to ring the officer?’

  ‘Yes. You saw the tiger, I didn’t.’

  ‘That’s true. So what should I tell him? “The tiger which escaped from the circus . . .”?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Go on.’

  I found the number in the directory. Perhaps I should have made the phone call as well, for Lalmohan Babu picked up the phone, coughed twice and said, ‘Er . . . the circus that escaped from the Great Majestic tiger . . . oh sorry!’

  Luckily, Feluda had heard him from the next room. He rushed in, snatched the receiver from his hand and passed on the information himself.

  Eight

  Bulakiprasad brought us tea in our room. He had already told Feluda about the attempt made to catch Sultan, and Chandran being injured in the process. It was Feluda’s belief that no one but Karandikar could catch the tiger alive.

  Lalmohan Babu took a long, noisy sip from his cup and asked, ‘Did you find anything interesting in those diaries? Or was Arun Babu right?’

  ‘You tell me.’ Feluda opened a diary and pushed it towards Lalmohan Babu.

  ‘Self elected president of club—meeting on 8.4.46,’ he read aloud. ‘Tea party at Brig. Sudarshan’s, and, on a different page—Trial for new suit at Shakur’s . . . why, Felu Babu, you think any of this stuff has any relevance?’

  ‘Topshe, have a look and tell me what you think.’

  I had been leaning over Lalmohan Babu’s shoulder. Now I picked the diary up.

  ‘Bring it closer to the light,’ Feluda ordered. I went forward and put it directly under a table lamp. A shiver of excitement ran down my spine.

  The diary was fairly large in size. The main entries had been made in ink, but on the top of the page, over the printed date, something had been
scribbled with a hard pencil. The words were barely legible.

  ‘Why, this seems to be a message of some kind!’ I exclaimed. ‘Read it out.’

  ‘Conveyance destroyed because of two.’

  Good heavens, more puzzles?’ Lalmohan Babu gave a start. ‘Yes. Now look at this. This is the first diary, going back to 1938.’ On the very first page, Mr Chowdhury had written: ‘Shambhu is ruled by two and five.’

  ‘Who is Shambhu?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, surprised. ‘Shambhu is another name for Shiva, like Mahesh. Mr Chowdhury referred to himself in his diaries by using various names for Shiva.’

  ‘All right, but what’s this about “two and five”?’

  ‘Do you know about the six deadly sins that Hindus believe in?’

  ‘The six ripus? Yes, yes. They are . . . let me see . . . kaam, krodh, lobh, maud, moha, matsarya.’

  ‘Yes, but not in that order. The correct order is kaam, krodh, lobh, moha, maud, matsarya. What do they mean?’

  ‘Lust, wrath, greed, attachment, drinking, envy.’

  ‘Right. So two and five are wrath and drinking.’

  ‘I see, I see. That’s easy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Now if you look at the message Topshe read out, you’ll get his meaning.’

  I had, in fact, already worked it out. ‘Conveyance destroyed because of two. Could that mean car destroyed because of wrath? Because of his temper?’ I offered.

  ‘Shabaash. But there’s more. I have not yet been able to understand what the second message means, and that involves these same six numbers.’

  Feluda had marked the pages where coded messages appeared. He opened one of these and showed it to us. ‘2+5=X’, it said.

  ‘X is an unknown quantity, isn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu asked. ‘Why don’t you just ignore it? Why are you assuming every strange message has a significant meaning?’

  ‘If a man writes a code on just twenty occasions in a whole year—and don’t forget he writes in that diary three hundred and sixty-five times—then I must assume every code has a special meaning. I just have to work harder to find out what it is, that’s all.’