by Satyajit Ray
Lalmohan babu saw the elaborate arrangements and sank into silence. He really ought to have been pleased since all that action was centred around his story. He told me of his feelings: ‘I feel kind of peculiar, Tapesh,’ he explained. ‘At times, it's giving me a sense of power, you see, to think that I wrote the story that's led to so much work, such complex arrangements, so much expense! Yet, sometimes, I feel a little guilty for causing a lot of headache to a lot of people. And I cannot forget that the writer gets no recognition here. How many people in this unit know Jatayu's name, tell me?’
I tried to comfort him. ‘If the film is a success, everyone will learn your name!’
‘I hope so!’ Jatayu sighed.
The bandits who had finished their make-up were already on their horses, running around. All the horses were initially gathered under a large banyan tree. There were nine of them.
A minute later, a huge white Lincoln Convertible turned up, its tinted glass windows rolled up. It contained the hero and the villain. There was no need for the heroine that day, as the scenes in which she would appear, with her hands and feet tied, would be shot later in a studio. It was just as well, I thought. The two male stars caused enough sensation in the crowd. The presence of the heroine would only have made matters worse.
Sudarshan Das had given us some tea. We were in the process of returning the empty cups, when suddenly a raucous voice could be heard on a loudspeaker: ‘The train is coming! Train's here! Everybody ready!’
CHAPTER 10
An old-fashioned engine came into view, huffing and puffing, blowing thick black smoke. Behind it were eight coaches. It stopped at the level crossing at exactly five minutes to one.
Even from a distance, we could see that there was only one first-class compartment. Other coaches already had passengers in them—they had been planted there when the train left Matheran. There were men, women and children, both young and old. Mr Ghoshal became extremely busy as soon as the train arrived. We could see him rushing from one camera to another, from the hero to the villain, and from one assistant here to another assistant there. Even Lalmohan babu was forced to admit that it wasn't simply the producer's money that made a film.
Arjun Mehrotra—the hero—was ready. He was at the wheel of his car, wearing sunglasses. Beside him sat his make-up man, and two other men, possibly hangers-on. A jeep with an open top was ready, too. In it stood a camera on a tripod. Victor and his men had already departed with their horses. They would wait for a signal from the moving train, and then ride down a particular hill. Then they would be seen galloping alongside the train. I saw Micky go towards the engine, accompanied by one of Mr Ghoshal's assistants.
We didn't know what to do. There was no sign of Mr Gore. Was he on the train? There was no way to tell.
The crowd had dispersed by now, but no one had told us what to do. Lalmohan babu began to get restless. ‘What's going on, Feluda babu? Have we been totally forgotten?’ he asked.
‘Well, we were told to get into a first-class compartment, and there is only one such coach. So we should get into it … but let's wait for two more minutes.’
Before those two minutes were up, the engine blew its whistle, and we heard Sudarshan Das call out to us: ‘I say, gentlemen! This way!’
We ran towards the first class carriage, clutching our bags. Mr Das went with us up to the door to the carriage. ‘I knew nothing of the arrangements,’ he said. ‘Someone just told me Mr Gore will arrive in half an hour. After the first shot, this train is going to return here.’
We got into the compartment, to be greeted by a large flask standing on a bench, together with four white cardboard boxes. The name of the Safari Restaurant was printed on every box. In other words, it was our lunch. I was surprised by Mr Gore's care and attention, in spite of his being so busy.
There was another whistle, then the train started with a jerk. All of us got ready to watch the activities outside. This was going to be a totally new experience, so I was feeling quite excited.
The train was now gathering speed. A road ran by the track on the right hand side. On our left, very soon, we'd see hills. The bandits would arrive from the left, and the hero from the right.
A little later, when the train was running faster, the jeep with the camera could be seen, travelling down the road. It was followed by the hero's car. Now the hero was alone, his companions had gone. The camera was facing him. Apart from the cameraman, there were three other men in the jeep. One of them was Mr Ghoshal's assistant. He was speaking through a microphone, instructing the hero: ‘Look to your left!’ and ‘Now to your right!’
Mr Ghoshal himself was handling the second camera, which was placed inside one of the carriages. The third camera was on the roof of the last coach, towards the rear of the train.
The hero wasn't driving all that fast, which I found somewhat disappointing. But Feluda pointed out that, in the film, it would appear fast enough as the speed of the camera had been reduced to shoot this particular scene.
‘Besides,’ he added, ‘that car isn't moving as slowly as you seem to think, because it's running to keep pace with our train; and the train is moving pretty fast, isn't it?’
True. I hadn't thought about that.
In a few minutes, the hero's car and the jeep passed our compartment and went further down the road. Since it was an old-fashioned carriage, there were no bars on the windows. I wanted to lean out and see how the remaining scene was being shot, but Feluda stopped me. ‘How do you suppose you'd feel if you went to see Jet Bahadur at a cinema, and found yourself on the screen, leaning out of a train?’
I had to resist the temptation to poke my head out. Then I decided to get up and sit near a window on the opposite side. The scent of Gulbahar hit my nostrils as soon as I got to my feet.
Suddenly, I realized that Feluda was no longer by my side. He had sprung up and moved to the opposite end of the carriage. His eyes were fixed on the door to the bathroom, and his hand was in his jacket pocket.
‘It's no use, Mr Mitter. Don't take out your gun—a revolver is already pointed at you!’ said a voice.
The door on our left opened. A man entered and stood blocking the exit. In his hand was a revolver. Where had I seen him before? Oh, of course, this was Mr Red Shirt! But today he was wearing different clothes, and there was a vicious expression on his face that had been absent that day when we'd seen him at the airport. Looking at him now, I had no doubt in my mind that this man was a killer, and he would kill without the slightest qualm. His revolver was aimed straight at Feluda.
The door to the bathroom, which was ajar, opened fully and the whole compartment was filled with the scent of Gulbahar.
‘San … San …’ muttered Lalmohan babu, then his voice trailed away. His whole body seemed to have shrunk with fear.
‘Yes, I am Sanyal,’ said the stranger, ‘and my real business is with you, Mr Ganguli. You have brought that packet here, haven't you? Open your bag and give it to me. I needn't tell you what's going to happen if you don't.’
‘P-p-packet …?’
‘Surely you know which packet I am talking about? I did not meet you at the airport that day in Calcutta just to hand you a copy of your own book, did I? Come on, give me the real packet.’
‘You are mistaken. That packet is with me, not Mr Ganguli.’
The train was making such a lot of noise that everyone had to raise his voice to be heard; but Feluda spoke slowly and steadily. Even so, his words reached Sanyal's ears and his eyes lit up behind his glasses.
‘You destroyed so many pages of Life Divine. Did that bring you any special gain?’ Feluda was still speaking calmly, his words were measured.
‘Nimmo,’ Sanyal gave a sidelong glance at the hooligan and spoke harshly, ‘finish this man off if he creates any trouble. Keep your hands raised, Mr Mitter.’
‘Aren't you taking a very big risk?’ Feluda asked. ‘You will not release us, will you, even if you get what you want? You're going to finish us off,
anyway. But what's going to happen to you, once the train comes to a stop? Have you thought about that?’
‘That's easy,’ Sanyal's face broke into an evil grin, ‘No one knows me here. There are so many passengers on this train—you think I couldn't just disappear amongst them? Your corpses will lie here, and I will move to another compartment. It's that simple.’
Feluda and I had faced many tricky situations before and that had taught me not to lose my nerve easily. But, right at this moment, although I was trying very hard to stay calm, one thing kept making me break into a cold sweat. It was the figure of Nimmo. I had only read about such characters. The look in his eyes held pure malice. He had closed the door and was now leaning against it. The fine cotton embroidered shirt he was wearing was fluttering in the breeze; his right arm was shaking a little because of the train's movement, but the revolver was still pointed straight at Feluda.
Sanyal advanced slowly. My nostrils were burning with the scent. His eyes were fixed on Feluda's bag. It was an Air India bag, placed on a bench in front of Sanyal. Lalmohan babu was standing behind me, so I couldn't see the look on his face. But, in spite of the racket the train was making, I could hear him breathing heavily, wheezing like an asthma patient.
The train was speeding on its way. It meant that the shooting was going ahead as planned. Did Mr Gore have any idea just how badly he had messed things up?
Sanyal sat down, grabbed the bag and pressed its catch. It did not open. The bag was locked.
‘Where's the key? Where is it?’ Sanyal's entire face was distorted with impatient rage. ‘Where the hell did you put it?’
‘In my pocket,’ Feluda replied coolly.
‘Which pocket?’
‘The right one.’
That was where Feluda kept his revolver. I knew it.
Sanyal rose to his feet, still looking livid. After a few uncertain moments, he suddenly turned to me. ‘Come here!’ he roared.
Feluda looked at me. I could tell he wanted me to do as I was told.
As I began moving towards Feluda, a different noise reached my ears. It wasn't just the noise of the train. I could hear galloping horses. Unbeknown to me, the train had reached the hills, which were now stretched on the left. By the time I could slip my hand into Feluda's pocket, the gang of bandits was moving swiftly down a hill, throwing up clouds of dust.
My fingers first found the revolver, then brushed against the key.
‘Give it to him,’ Feluda told me.
I passed the key to Sanyal. Feluda's hands were still raised.
Sanyal unlocked the bag. Life Divine was resting on top of everything else. Sanyal took it out.
There was the sound of hooves quite close to the window. Not one, but several horses had sped down the hill and were now galloping beside the track, keeping pace with the train.
Sanyal leafed through the pages quickly until he got to the point where many of the pages were stuck together. Then he did something most peculiar. Instead of turning the pages, he began scratching and clawing at them. At once, one of the pages tore, revealing a square ‘hollow’. A certain section had been cut out from the centre of several pages to create that hollow.
Sanyal peered into it—and the expression on his face changed at once. It was really worth watching. God knows what he was expecting to find, but what the hollow contained were about eight cigarette stubs, a dozen used matches and a substantial quantity of ash.
‘I hope you don't mind,’ said Feluda, ‘but I couldn't resist using that as an ash-tray.’
Now Sanyal shouted so loudly that I was sure the whole train could hear him.
‘You think you can get away with this? Where's the real stuff?’
‘What stuff?’
‘You scoundrel! Don't you know what I'm talking about?’
‘Of course. But I want to hear you spell it out.’
‘Where is it?’ Sanyal roared again.
‘In my pocket.’
‘Which pocket?’
‘The left one.’
The bandits were now just outside the window. The hill was much closer. A lot of dust was coming in through the window.
‘You there!’
I knew I would be ordered once more.
‘Don't just stand there—get it from his pocket!’
I had to slip my hand into Feluda's left pocket this time. The object that I found was something the like of which I had never held in my hand before. It was a necklace strung with pearls and studded with diamonds. Such an amazing piece of jewellery was fit to be handled only by kings and emperors, I thought.
‘Give it to me!’ Sanyal's eyes were glinting once more, not with rage, but with greed and glee.
I stretched my hand towards him. Feluda kept his hands raised. Lalmohan babu was groaning. The bandits were …
CRASH!
Something heavy had made an impact against the carriage, making it shake a little. In the next instant, Nimmo was rolling on the floor. A pair of legs had slipped in through the window and kicked him hard. The gun in his hand went off, hit a light fixed to the ceiling and shattered it. In a flash, Feluda lowered his hands and took out his own revolver.
Then the door on the left opened again, and a man dressed as a bandit climbed into our carriage. He was known to all three of us.
‘Thank you, Victor!’ said Feluda.
CHAPTER 11
Sanyal flopped down on a bench. He was trembling once more—but with fear this time, not rage. He knew there could be no escape.
In the meantime, someone must have realized there was something wrong and pulled the cord, for the train came to an unexpected halt. It wouldn't have stopped unless the cord had been pulled.
Within seconds, we could hear a confused babel. Several voices were shouting the same name: ‘Victor! Victor! Where have you gone, Victor?’
I could hear Mr Ghoshal's voice. Victor Perumal had messed things up. He was supposed to jump on the roof of the train. Instead of doing that, he had jumped into our compartment.
Feluda leant out of the door and called, ‘Mr Ghoshal! Over here!’
Mr Ghoshal arrived, looking profoundly distressed and harassed. That was hardly surprising as any holdup in shooting such a complex scene would be liable to cause heavy losses, perhaps to the tune of thirty thousand rupees.
‘What's the matter with you, Victor? Have you gone completely mad?’ he demanded.
‘Mr Ghoshal,’ said Feluda, ‘if anyone in your film deserves to be called Jet Bahadur, it is Victor Perumal.’
‘What's that supposed to mean?’ Mr Ghoshal asked. He was now looking perplexed, but perplexity was still outweighed by annoyance.
‘Besides,’ Feluda went on, ‘the role of that smuggler should have gone to this man here, not your actor called Paramesh Kapoor.’
‘What rubbish are you talking, Mr Mitter? Who is this man?’ Mr Ghoshal glanced at Sanyal.
By this time, two vehicles had appeared on the road. One was a police jeep, and the other was a police van. The jeep pulled up next to our compartment. Inspector Patwardhan climbed out of it.
In reply to Mr Ghoshal's question, Feluda walked up to Sanyal, grabbed his beard and moustache and yanked them off, before pulling off his wig and glasses.
‘I would have been delighted,’ Feluda remarked, ‘if I could remove that scent from your body, Mr Gore. Sadly, that's something even Felu Mitter cannot do.’
∗
‘Laluda, who told you a film would remain incomplete if its producer was arrested?’
The question came from Mr Ghoshal. To tell the truth, Lalmohan babu hadn't spoken at all. He was simply sitting there, looking pensive and morose. Anyone could guess that he was worried about the future of Jet Bahadur.
‘No one,’ Mr Ghoshal continued, ‘can stop our film. Gore might go to prison—or hell—or wherever—but don't you see, he wasn't the only producer in Bombay? There's Chuni Pancholi; he's been pestering me for over a year to make a film for him. I'll get things going again, you
mark my words. Even before you leave Bombay, you'll see me shooting the film under a new banner.’
That day, however, all shooting had ground to a halt at half past one. Gore and Nimmo were arrested and handcuffed. Nanasaheb's naulakha necklace was in police custody.
Feluda had anticipated trouble during the first day's shooting. When he'd told us in the morning that he was going out to buy cigarettes, he had actually gone to speak to Patwardhan. Gore, apparently, had spent twelve years in Calcutta. He had been not just to Don Bosco, but also to St. Xavier's. Hence he could speak Bengali very well, although in Bombay he was heard speaking only Hindi and Marathi besides English.
We were sitting on the veranda of a dak bungalow in Khandala. It was a beautiful place and there was a decided nip in the air. People from Bombay often went to Khandala for a change of air, I had heard. We had already finished the food (naan and mutton do-pyaza) we'd found in those boxes, provided by the Safari Restaurant. It was now four-thirty, so we were having tea and pakoras.
Mr Ghoshal had joined us for a while, then moved to a different table where Arjun Mehrotra was seated. Mehrotra was looking a little crestfallen, perhaps because most undoubtedly, the real hero that day was Pradosh Mitter. Plenty of people from the unit—including Micky, the villain—had asked Feluda for his autograph.
There was a second hero, and unquestionably that was Victor Perumal. It turned out that Feluda had spoken to him before the shooting started. ‘When you come riding down the hill and get close to the train,’ he had said, ‘keep an eye on the first-class compartment. If you see anything suspicious, come in through the door.’ Victor had seen Feluda standing with his arms raised. That had told him instantly that help was required, and he had swung into action.
