We discussed his work further in liaising with the government. His chance remark—‘Life will soon change in Japan and perhaps in the world’—piqued my interest. He was completely candid; though he had retired a couple of years earlier, he had kept in touch with his old friends, he said. He said that the Yakuza had infiltrated and completely compromised the Japanese Diplomatic Service—he spoke of the Korean assassination, which while technically a mere ‘facilitation,’ was in fact executed by a junior diplomat.
He said that various ministries were also riddled with Yakuza sympathizers who were often extreme nationalists too and not entirely pleased with the winds of transformation being ushered in by the Emperor Meiji. He gave me the names of many influential persons in the government who either ignored the Yakuza because they sympathized with them or were actually part of the organization. He was fairly sure that ‘something would happen soon.’ He was quite aware that the Yakuza was working closely with the Shanghai Triads and that the goal was quite complex.
He then lapsed into a long and rambling soliloquy about life being a complete illusion and referred to the Buddhist concepts of Maya, Dharma, and Nirvana. These matters, while interesting in their own way, were not relevant to my objective and I have not written them down. Nevertheless, from a purely philosophical perspective, I found them intriguing and worth additional research at the Library of the British Museum, should I ever return to London.
Do not get the impression that Mr. Fujimoto was an indiscreet, garrulous person. He had simply reached a peculiar inflection point in his thinking which made him wish to unburden his soul of any information unnecessary to his new quest. Moreover, my notes above are not the result of any one long conversation, but the collation of several brief ones.
I expressed my desire to visit Japan one day. Mr. Fujimoto gave me a long and searching look and finally smiled. He said he hoped such a thing would happen and wondered if it had already taken place.
At that point, I revealed our real identities and explained our circumstances, though I did not go into unnecessary details. He then insisted on writing a letter of introduction, which he said I could use gainfully at the Kinkaku-ji temple in Kyoto should an occasion arise; I would be afforded hospitality and protection. I do not anticipate such an eventuality, but I nevertheless accepted the letter politely.
***
We spent a fine week at Bodh Gaya. The bracing air and physical activity helped my recovery. Holmes did not consider it advisable for us to abandon our disguise till we reached Calcutta, though. We looked at the map again and concluded that travelling back to Patna was hazardous. We decided to take the road to Calcutta through the towns of Dhanbad and Asansol and then plan our next move toward Japan.
And so we did, after bidding good-bye to Hiroshi Ota and Akira Fujimoto, who proposed to continue their pilgrimage. They were planning to travel to Lumbini, near Nepal, where the Buddha was born, they said, and to other places on the pilgrimage circuit. We wished each other well.
The journey to Calcutta was arduous; we completed it in about two days without incident. We travelled by road to Dhanbad and took a train to Howrah, the railway station serving Calcutta. We were extremely tired, but quite aware that perhaps our journey had barely begun.
Calcutta
You often argued with me, when we were young fools
in Kobe, that logic is less important than passion. No.
There is logic and music in a blade of grass, in the song of
a hummingbird, in the sigh of a lover.
We reached Howrah Station, the main railway access point of Calcutta, around noon. The Hooghly River, over which we passed, is an offshoot of the Ganges that retains the mystique of its source. The July heat and the humidity of Calcutta affected us greatly, but my first impressions of the city were favourable—even if my description of it won’t be. It was different from Bombay and even more crowded. The air hung heavy with a concoction of smells, mostly offensive, but interesting on the whole.
The teeming mass of humanity belied description; poverty and utter deprivation seemed rife. The area was, I was told, in the midst of an extended drought of extreme severity and thousands from the hinterland were travelling to Calcutta to find a means of survival. I was moved by the plight of the hopeless and starving and the deep, silent stares of the emaciated children. But there was little I could do, being on a different mission that could not afford the slightest digression.
Holmes had an idea that we would find good rooms and remain inconspicuous in the Armenian Street area, which was filled with immigrants from that distant country—a quite surprising fact. We found rooms at the Rose Lodge that were comfortable, though we had to change our garb at an intermediate spot in order to avoid refusal. Holmes still insisted on a disguise for himself; he made himself up to look several years older. He bought a pair of spectacles for me and I was transformed into a scholar. We now looked like two English gentlemen—and since there were hundreds in Calcutta, it was fairly simple to assimilate. We checked in as James Smith and John Brown; not very original, but as inconspicuous as we could imagine.
We considered our options after lunch. The manager, Mr. Abel Petrosian, proved to be a genial and talkative soul.
‘Ah, gentlemen, you wish to travel to Shanghai? Excellent! Admirable! A fine place, home to so many of our Chinese immigrants here! Let me suggest some options.
‘The first way, perhaps the fastest, is to take a passenger ship to Singapore and then travel upwards to the northeast. The second way is to travel to Rangoon on the same ship, then head due east overland to Bangkok and finally resume the sea journey. This sounds arduous, but you will actually save time. During the monsoon, however, the overland road is nothing but a sea of mud and I would not suggest you go there. There is a third option that involves travelling to Dacca, then on to Kohima in the Naga Hills, Burma, China, but that is considered highly risky and there is every possibility that you will be subject to an attack on your persons—no, no, I would not advise that! I strongly recommend that you take the sea route to Singapore. If you like, I can arrange for first-class tickets. I believe there is a passenger ship, the Isabella, to Singapore in two days. I recommend it highly.’
‘Two days seem considerable, Mr. Petrosian,’ said Holmes, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘But I suppose there is no alternative. If you could arrange for passage for two on the Isabella, we would be indebted. Going to Singapore makes eminent sense.’
‘Your tickets will be in your hands by this evening, gentlemen. Now, I do suggest you take a tour of this interesting city. If you wish, I can arrange a coach to take you around.’
Holmes declined. ‘I think we shall walk around, Mr. Petrosian. I hear there is considerable musical influence in this town. Could you guide us to someone who could elucidate?’
‘Ah no, Mr. Smith, this is not the refined and cultured music that you are used to. The music of India is primitive, barbaric, and quite disorganized. I would not recommend it at all. There is no philharmonic or conservatory of music here, sadly.’
‘I’m afraid that is not quite what I am looking for, Sir. Well, I shall find out. Good day.’
As we stepped out Holmes remarked, ‘There is no question of going to Singapore, of course, Watson. This is a talkative man not given to circumspection and it is best to give him an incorrect impression about our true plans. We shall travel on that ship, but get off at Rangoon or elsewhere and take the land route. There is no doubt in my mind that Professor Moriarty would be scanning the Singapore port. Well, let us discuss that later. I—we—shall be frustrated by a forced rest of two days, but we might as well make the most of it and soak in the culture.’
We explored Calcutta for a short while. The city was unusually filthy, with evidence of grinding poverty and decay. Neither of us was deterred. There was a different kind of life here, full of emotion and energy. We decided we rather liked Calcutta.
We strolled through the European Quarter. I had rarely seen Sherlock Holmes in such a relaxed frame of mind, though I was quite sure his gigantic brain was ahead in Tokyo.
We stopped at a large bookstore in an area called College Street. The owner came up and introduced himself as Mr. Shyam Chundur Mookerjee. He was a slight man and spoke excellent English.
‘Perhaps you can give us an idea of what we could see and experience in Calcutta for the next two days, Mr. Mookerjee? In particular, I would be keen to be introduced to a local musician.’
‘A local musician, Sir? An unusual but wise choice! We are certainly proud of our music and musicians. Would you like to meet someone specific?’
‘Perhaps someone who could teach me for a few hours. I have seen that music sharpens my mind. I am a violinist, albeit a dilettante.’
‘Unusual, unusual! But commendable.’ Mr. Mookerjee was quite flustered by this peculiar request from an Englishman.
A young Indian gentleman in Western attire stepped out from behind a large bookshelf. He had a regal bearing and intelligent eyes, with hair parted in the middle. He bowed gravely.
‘Gentlemen, excuse me. I happened to overhear your conversation with Mr. Mookerjee, quite inadvertently, for which I do beg your pardon. I may be able to assist you in your endeavours if you permit me.’ His English had no accent. Mr. Mookerjee stepped back in deference.
‘My name is Rabindranath Tagore, gentlemen. I am a regular patron at this establishment. If you could step behind here, there are some comfortable seats where we could converse in private. Mr. Mookerjee, perhaps some tea for your esteemed visitors?’
‘Of course!’
We introduced ourselves to the gentleman as visitors in Calcutta who would soon be on our way to Singapore. I was quite content watching Holmes adapt to our surroundings so easily and converse with natives of all classes; this young man of aristocratic bearing, suggesting a man of independent means, would likely be an interesting individual to be acquainted with.
Holmes puffed at his pipe. ‘I am a violinist, Mr. Tagore, perhaps merely an itinerant one. Nevertheless, if I could be instructed on a few select local compositions, I believe it would be time well spent. I propose to write a monograph on the adaptation of the violin to the music of India one day.’
Mr. Tagore looked at us very carefully. ‘A most noteworthy and desirable objective, Mr. Smith. I may be able to help you. The music of India is demanding, however, and may not be appreciated and absorbed over a matter of three days. Some take decades before declaring a mild appreciation for its underlying complexities. Nevertheless, a very brief introduction is certainly possible. As it happens, I am a lover of music myself and do compose music that is of a somewhat lighter nature, but I have an assistant, Mr. Sen, who is a classical musician of some eminence and could impart some training for a few hours, should it be convenient.’
‘I appreciate your courtesy. And what would be his fees?’
‘None whatsoever! A visit from Sherlock Holmes to my humble home would be fee enough.’
It is not often that I have seen Sherlock Holmes let surprise show vividly on his face. He took the pipe out of his mouth and stared.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Tagore?’
‘Come, come, Sir! I am certain—quite certain, Sir—that I am speaking with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the eminent private detective. It is an extraordinary coincidence that I am meeting you here in a bookshop in Calcutta. I lived in England for a few years and your famous face is quite familiar to me, though you seem a little older than I had imagined—excuse my poor manners! I was privy to the manner in which you handled a certain case involving the Treaty of Pondicherry. Your intervention prevented extreme embarrassment to the French governor-general and some other individuals. I am also aware of your role in retrieving the missing diamonds of the Princely State of Gwalior. Your name and fame precede you, Sir. And this, of course, must be Dr. Watson.’ He bowed. ‘Please tell me if I am wrong.’
Holmes regained his composure. ‘I must compliment you, Mr. Tagore. Let us drop this pretence. I can, of course, completely count on your discretion. I am here on a mission of great secrecy and shall leave in two days. If news of our identity is made known, I am afraid the consequences would be disastrous.’
‘In that case, Mr. Holmes, permit me to take charge of your affairs. I will proceed to my home in an area called Jorasanko, north of Calcutta, to make arrangements and organize myself. And if you will permit me, I shall like to send word to my good friend Mr. Jagdish Chandra Bose to join us there. He is a lecturer in Physics at Presidency College and is involved in several controversial forays into the world of science, for which, I confess, I have no talent. I know that he is an admirer of yours and would be sorely disappointed not to be able to avail of this opportunity to meet you. Mr. Mookerjee here will give you a brief guided tour of the city and then provide you with reliable transportation to my residence. You will then be escorted back to your hotel later tonight. Does this plan suit you?’
Holmes nodded and, within minutes Mr. Tagore departed after giving Mr. Mookerjee instructions. Mr. Mookerjee organized a brougham and we embarked on a brief but interesting tour of the city.
We visited a Kali temple, which turned out to be an unsettling experience. The place was dirty, noisy, and extremely crowded and we had to exercise care, as dozens of urchins and beggars made futile attempts to divest us of our money, clothes, and belongings. The priests—referred to as pandas, if I recall—were particularly persistent in their manner, to the point of being unpleasantly intrusive, and promised salvation for monetary considerations, a matter in which we evinced no interest. Goddess Kali, depicted as a rather ruthless eradicator of evil, appears central to the culture of Bengal and the city is named after her. Devotees sacrifice all manner of animals to propitiate her rather startling idol at this temple; this can be a very unpleasant sight. We left quickly.
I erred in making a slightly uncivil remark about the natives and their beliefs. ‘Such heathen customs, Holmes!’
Sherlock Holmes shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Heathen? Tut! A most uncharitable comment from you, Watson. Doubtless our own beliefs guided by the Church of England will not stand the test of scrutiny from the lens of their perspective!’
‘Yes, you have a point, Holmes,’ I said, suitably chastened.
As we travelled to Jorasanko to meet Mr. Tagore (after picking up Holmes’ violin from our hotel and dropping Mr. Mookerjee back at his bookstore), we passed by a motley group of Bengalees of the labour class waving red flags and raising slogans outside a factory on the outskirts of the town. We had never seen such a sight before and Holmes requested our driver to drive by slowly to enable us to observe the event closely.
At regular intervals, the group, as a body, would clench their fists, raise their right hands and shout something loudly, which invariably ended with the expression ‘Moordabad,’ which I understood later is condemnatory and hopes for death for the person or persons who are the object of their ire. Holmes directed some enquiries at the driver, who responded, presumably explaining what the matter was.
‘Why are they upset, Holmes?’ I asked, quite fascinated by the sight.
Holmes sank back in the seat as the coach gathered speed. ‘It would appear that the Bengalees are an excitable people, Watson. Easily agitated about issues big and small and prone to endless argumentation. For a moment, I thought we were witnessing some form of political protest, which is indeed the case, but the coachman tells me that the gentlemen were, in fact, additionally leading a labour disturbance. In essence, they were protesting against working conditions and their pay, which they believe is altogether too modest. Their suggestion is that working hours be reduced and the pay increased, a proposition that they hope the mill owner [for it was a mill the gentlemen were standing outside] will consider favourably.
‘Doubtless you are aware of the influence of Karl Marx
, presently comfortably interred at the Highgate Cemetery in London. He made a powerful case—though, I would personally argue, an erroneous one—for common ownership of land and industry and the notion of socialism. I would hazard a guess that the citizens of this area are quite taken by this utopian ideal and look forward to an equalization of economic conditions. While I would not challenge the premise of the demonstrators, being unaware of the specifics, I also conjecture that the disturbance is some form of political catharsis. I wonder if we are witnessing the beginning of some stirring changes, Watson, in the very concept of the British Empire. Time will tell.’
By now, we had reached Jorasanko and after dismissing the cab, we entered the rather large and beautiful building where we expected to meet Mr. Rabindranath Tagore. We were welcomed elaborately and most warmly and then escorted to an inner room. In a moment, Mr. Tagore entered the room, greeted us with great warmth, and made the most courteous enquiries about our well-being.
He sat opposite us on an oversized chair made of teak and studied us carefully with his intense eyes, his fingers drumming the wooden arms. ‘Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown? Well, well! You could have done better! In any case, I am delighted, Mr. Holmes, to learn about your interest in the culture of India. Someone did mention that you had written a monograph7 on the dead language of Pali, which is considered the final word on the matter. I hope to give you any additional information that is within my capacity to provide.
‘And you, Dr. Watson,’ he said, turning to me. ‘How I envy you your excursion to Afghanistan of which I have read so much! Yes, it was war and doubtless unpleasant, but I am a romantic man, Sir, and think of Afghanistan in a certain dreamy way—strong and proud Pathans, beautiful women, Kandahar, mountains, the famous city of Kabool…’
‘May I?’ enquired Holmes, taking out his pipe after some additional pleasantries.
‘Of course! And ah, here is Jagdish!’
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years, Japan Page 14
