The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II

by Satyajit Ray

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘if his prediction comes true, it will be remarkable. But what did he tell you about yourself?’

  ‘Oh, something very interesting. Five years ago, another palmist had told me I’d never travel abroad. Mouli Babu said I would, most definitely.’

  As things turned out, Lalmohan Babu was not disappointed. Feluda broke his silence the next day, saying over breakfast, ‘Do you know what my heart’s been telling me, Topshe? It keeps saying all roads lead to Nepal. And some of them are long and winding. So I think it’s time for Felu Mitter to pay a visit to Kathmandu.’

  It took us three days to make all the arrangements. The three of us were booked on an Indian Airlines flight. Our travel agent also made hotel reservations in Kathmandu.

  ‘Do you think Batra number two has returned to Kathmandu?’ I asked Feluda one day.

  ‘Possibly. You heard what Mahim Babu said. If a criminal manages to escape to another country, he can be quite safe until the two governments come to an agreement. And that can take ages. Criminals in the USA try to cross the border into Mexico. It’s the same story between India and Nepal.’

  Lalmohan Babu turned up the day before we were to leave to say that he had seen the ‘fake’ Mr Batra near Lenin Sarani, having a glass of lassi.

  Feluda’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Was he holding the glass in his left hand?’ he asked.

  ‘Eh heh—I didn’t notice that!’

  ‘In that case, your statement has no value at all.’

  The officer who checked us in at the airport happened to know Feluda. ‘I’ll give you seats on the right,’ he said. ‘You’ll get a good view.’

  But I had no idea just how good the view could be. Within ten minutes of leaving Calcutta, I could see Kanchenjunga glittering on our right—a sight as rare as it was breathtaking. This was followed by glimpses of several other famous peaks, each of which, I knew, held an irresistible attraction for adventurous mountaineers.

  We were still looking out of the window, transfixed, when an air hostess stopped by Feluda’s seat and said, ‘Captain Mukherjee, the pilot, would like to see you in the cockpit.’ Feluda unfastened his seat belt and stood up. ‘Can my friends go too, when I get back?’ he asked.

  The air hostess smiled. ‘Why don’t all of you come with me?’ she said.

  The cockpit was too small for us all to get inside, but what I saw from the top of Feluda’s shoulder was enough to make me give an involuntary gasp. Lalmohan Babu was peering from the other side. He later described his feeling’ as one of ‘speechless, breathless, enchanting, captivating wonder’.

  A row of peaks formed a wall in the distance. The closer we got, the bigger they seemed. The co-pilot laid aside the paperback he had been reading and began to point these peaks out to us. After Kanchenjunga came Makalu, and a little later, we saw Mount Everest. Then came Gourishankar, Annapurna and Dhaulagiri.

  We returned to our seats in five minutes. In less than half an hour, I could sense that the plane was losing height. I looked out of the window again and saw a thick green carpet spread below. This must be the famous Terai. The Kathmandu valley lay behind this.

  At this point, we disappeared into a grey mist and the plane started bumping up and down. Luckily, the mist cleared only a few minutes later, the plane steadied itself, and we caught our first glimpse of a beautiful valley, bathed in sunlight.

  ‘One doesn’t have to be told this is a foreign country!’ exclaimed Lalmohan Babu, swallowing hard.

  True. I had never seen anything like this in India. There were trees and rivers and rice fields and houses—but, somehow, everything seemed different.

  ‘Look at those little houses,’ said Feluda. ‘They’re made of bricks, with roofs thatched with straw. They were built by the Chinese.’

  ‘And what are those? Temples?’

  ‘Yes, Buddhist temples.’

  I now noticed the shadow of our plane on the ground. Suddenly, it began to grow larger and larger, until it seemed to shoot up in the air and disappear. We had landed at Tribhuvan airport.

  Four

  We had been warned that customs officials in Nepal were very strict. Apparently, every single passenger was required to have all his baggage examined.

  Lalmohan Babu, I noticed, was looking somewhat uneasy. This surprised me since I knew none of us was carrying anything suspicious. On being questioned, he said, ‘I brought a little aam papad in a tiffin box. Suppose they object?’

  They didn’t. Lalmohan Babu relaxed, turned towards the exit, and froze. I followed his gaze and saw why. One of the two Batras was standing near the door, talking to a tall, white man with a beard.

  It turned out to be the real Mr Batra. His face broke into a smile as he caught sight of Feluda. He said ‘Excuse me’ to his companion and came forward to greet us.

  ‘Welcome to Kathmandu!’ he said.

  ‘I felt I had to come,’ Feluda explained.

  ‘Very good, very good.’ Mr Batra shook our hands. ‘I don’t think that other man followed me back here. There hasn’t been any problem in the last few days. How long are you here for?’

  ‘About a week.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Hotel Lumbini.’

  ‘It’s a new hotel, and quite good. If you want to go sightseeing, I can make all the arrangements for you. My office is only five minutes from your hotel.’

  ‘Thank you. By the way, do you get Indian newspapers here? Did you see this?’ Feluda took out a cutting from the Statesman and handed it to Mr Batra. It was a report on the murder of Mr Som. Mr Batra read it quickly, then looked up, his eyes filled with apprehension.

  ‘What that report does not say,’ Feluda told him, ‘is that a man called Batra bought that Nepali kukri from the shop in the Grand Hotel. The police had this verified.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Mr Batra went very pale.

  ‘You didn’t know Anikendra Som, did you?’

  ‘No, never heard of him.’

  ‘He travelled on the same plane as you.’

  ‘From Kathmandu? Nepal Airlines?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then maybe I’d have recognized him if I saw him, although—mind you—there were a hundred and thirty passengers on that flight.’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, try and stay away from Calcutta for the moment,’ Feluda said lightly.

  ‘But why should anyone try to harass me like this, Mr Mitter?’ Mr Batra wailed.

  ‘Well, I can think of a good reason,’ Feluda said slowly. ‘If a criminal discovers that he has a look-alike, isn’t it natural for him to try and frame the other man, so that he himself can get away scot free?’

  ‘All right, but this is no ordinary crime, Mr Mitter. We’re talking of murder!’

  ‘I am convinced, Mr Batra, that the killer will return to Kathmandu. Anikendra Som had gone to Calcutta to seek my help. I do not know what he wanted me to do, but I won’t rest in peace until I’ve caught the man who murdered him. So if you, or anyone you know, sees this man who looks like you, I hope you’ll let me know immediately.’

  ‘Oh yes, certainly. I have to go out of town tomorrow, but I’ll contact you the day after.’

  We came out of the airport and got into a taxi. It was a Japanese Datsun, one of the many that could be seen on the clean, broad, beautiful roads of Kathmandu. Eucalyptus trees stood in neat rows by the sides of these roads. We passed a large park with a stadium in it. There were huge buildings everywhere, many of which had once been palaces owned by the Ranas. Some among them were Hindu and Buddhist temples, their spires towering over everything else.

  It was easy to see from the way Lalmohan Babu was rubbing his hands that he was already quite impressed by what he had seen in this foreign land. When Feluda told him that the king of Nepal was the only Hindu king in the world, and that Lumbini, where Lord Buddha was born, was in Nepal, his mouth parted and formed a silent ‘O’.

  Our taxi drove down Kanti Path and passed through a large and elaborate
ly carved gate. A right turn brought us into New Road. Hotel Lumbini, together with many other hotels and rest houses, stood on one side of this road. Our taxi drew up near its front door.

  The first man we met as we were checking in turned out to be a Bengali. He rose from a sofa and came forward to greet us.

  ‘Did you come by the Indian Airlines flight?’ he addressed Lalmohan Babu.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is this your first visit to Nepal?’

  ‘Yes. We’re on holiday,’ Lalmohan Babu replied with a sidelong glance at Feluda.

  ‘You must visit Pokhara, if you can.’

  This time, Feluda spoke.

  ‘Do you live here?’ he asked. A bell boy, in the meantime, had taken our luggage upstairs. We were given two adjacent rooms on the second floor, numbers 226 and 227.

  ‘I am from Calcutta. I’ve come on a holiday with my family. My friend here lives in Kathmandu.’

  I noticed for the first time that another elderly gentleman was sitting on the sofa. His skin was very fair, and his hair totally white. He was distinguished looking. He now rose and joined us.

  ‘His family has lived here for three hundred years,’ the first gentleman told us.

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes, you must get him to tell you his story.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind, why don’t you come up to our room and join us for a cup of tea?’ said Feluda. ‘I am interested in Bengalis living in Nepal . . . for a specific reason, you see.’

  I knew exactly what he meant. I also knew that Feluda didn’t normally invite people up to his room so soon after being introduced to them.

  Feluda and I had been given a double room. All of us trooped into it, and Feluda rang room service for tea. Our guests formally introduced themselves. The gentleman from Calcutta was called Mr Bhowmik. The other gentleman was Mr Harinath Chakravarty. Over a cup of tea, he related the history of his family.

  Nearly three hundred years ago, Nepal had been struck by a severe drought. The Mallyas were then the rulers. King Jagatjit Mallya invited a tantrik from Bengal, to see if his magical powers could bring rain. This tantrik was Harinath’s ancestor, Jairam Chakravarty. Jairam did some special puja, as a result of which it rained in the Kathmandu valley for eleven continuous days. After this, Jagatjit Mallya could not allow him to go back. He gave him land to live on, and made sure that Jairam and his family lived in comfort.

  When the Mallyas were ousted by the Ranas, Jairam continued to be looked after, for the Ranas were orthodox Hindus. Until two generations ago, the men of the Chakravarty family lived as priests of the royal household. An uncle of Harinath was still a priest in the temple of Pashupatinath. It was his father who was the first in the family to go to Calcutta for higher studies. He returned to work as a private tutor for the Ranas. Harinath himself did the same. He went to Calcutta to study English literature. When he came back to Nepal, the Ranas appointed him as private tutor. But, over a period of time, the Ranas lost their power. When, eventually, a college opened in Kathmandu in the name of Raja Tribhuvan, Harinath joined it as a professor of English.

  ‘My sons, of course,’ said Harinath Babu, bringing his tale to an end, ‘were not even remotely interested in priesthood. The older, Niladri, used to work as a trainer in the mountaineering institute.’

  ‘Used to? I mean—?’

  ‘He died in a climbing accident in 1976.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What about your other children?’

  ‘I had another son, Himadri. He worked as a helicopter pilot. Took tourists to look at the Terai and the famous Himalayan peaks. I . . . I lost him, too. Only three weeks ago.’

  ‘Air crash?’

  Harinath Babu shook his head sadly. ‘No. That would have made sense. What really happened was weird. He had taken a friend to look at a monastery. When he returned, he found a small injury on his hand. He had no idea how he had got it, but his friend thought it might have been caused by barbed wire. Himadri tried to shrug it off, but his friend insisted on calling a doctor to give him an anti-tetanus shot.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  Harinath Babu shook his head again. ‘Nothing. The shot didn’t help. He got tetanus and died.’

  ‘Perhaps by the time he was given the shot, it was already too late?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. According to the friend, he cut his hand in the evening. The shot was given the following morning. But he began to have convulsions soon after that. We lost him the same day.’

  ‘The doctor who was called . . . was he your own?’

  ‘No, but I know him. It was Dr Divakar. He has quite a large practice. It seems to have grown since our family physician, Dr Mukherjee, died. Dr Divakar is now a fairly wealthy man.’

  Mr Bhowmik spoke suddenly. ‘Never mind about the doctor,’ he said. ‘It is the drug that must be questioned. It’s not unusual at all these days, is it, for a patient to die because of a spurious drug? They put water in ampoules, talcum powder in capsules, or powdered chalk, or just plain dust. Surely you’ve heard of this before?’

  Harinath Babu gave a wan smile. ‘Yes. But what could I do? I had to accept the situation. My son was dead. That was that.’

  The two gentleman rose to leave.

  ‘I am afraid I have wasted a lot of your time,’ said Harinath Babu. ‘Not at all,’ Feluda replied. ‘There is only one thing I’d like to ask.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is it possible to meet your son’s friend?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. He was staying at our house. He had been profoundly shocked by Himadri’s death. I tried to comfort him by saying it was destiny, no one was to blame. But this seemed to upset him even more. He stopped speaking to me. Then, a week after my son’s death, he left our house without a word. I do not know where he went. But he’s bound to come back sooner or later, for we’ve still got most of his things.’

  ‘What is his name?’

  ‘Anikendra Som. We call him Anik.’

  Five

  Half an hour later, we had had a shower and were down at the hotel’s restaurant, Nirvana, to have lunch. I had not expected things to move quite so quickly so soon after our arrival. Mr Som’s murder in Calcutta, Himadri Chakravarty’s death in Kathmandu, the fake Mr Batra—all these were undoubtedly linked together. Had Mr Som wanted Feluda to investigate the death of his friend ? Did he really die because he was injected with a spurious drug?

  A waiter arrived to take our order. Lalmohan Babu peered at the menu and asked, ‘What is mo-mo?’

  ‘It’s meat balls in sauce, sir,’ the waiter replied.

  ‘It’s a Tibetan dish,’ Feluda told him. ‘Try it, Lalmohan Babu. When you go back to Calcutta, you can tell your friends you ate the same thing as the Dalai Lama.’

  ‘OK, one mo-mo for me, please.’

  The waiter finished taking our order and left. Lalmohan Babu now produced a light green card.

  ‘A man at the counter handed this to me,’ he said, ‘but, for the life of me, I can’t figure out what to do with it. I can recognize the word “casino”, but what’s all this? Jackpot, pontoon, roulette, blackjack . . . and, look, it says its value is five dollars. What does it mean?’

  Feluda explained, ‘There is a very famous hotel here, which has a big casino for gambling. Those words that you read out are names of various types of gambling. Gambling in public isn’t permitted in our country, so you won’t find a casino in any Indian hotel. What you can do with that card is show it at the casino and try your hand at any game. You can spend up to five dollars without paying anything from your own pocket.’

  ‘Hey, that sounds interesting! Why don’t we . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t mind!’ I said.

  ‘Yes. How can a horse resist a carrot if it dangles right before its nose? What do you say, Felu Babu?’

  ‘Horse? You may well feel like an ass when you’ve finished. But then, if you’re lucky enough, who knows what might happen?’

  We decided to spend an evenin
g at the casino. Our hotel would arrange transport, at no extra cost.

  Our food arrived. ‘Delicious!’ said Lalmohan Babu, tasting his mo-mo. ‘I must get the recipe from somewhere. I have an excellent cook back home who, I’m sure, could make it for me. Six months of consuming this stuff and one is bound to start looking distinguished.’

  We went out after lunch. ‘Let’s go to Darbar Square,’ said Feluda. ‘That is where the main police station is. I must go there. The two of you can look around, then meet me somewhere.’

  Darbar Square startled us all. It reminded me of a chessboard, when a game is well under way. Just as the board is littered with chessmen in various positions, the square was strewn with palaces, temples, statues and pillars. Amidst these, hundreds of people went about their business, and traffic flowed endlessly. In a distant way, it was a bit like Varanasi. But in Varanasi, all famous temples were hidden in narrow lanes. Here, the roads were so much wider. The old royal palace had a huge open space in front of it. It must have held a vast number of people when the king used to stand on a balcony to grant an audience.

  Feluda consulted a map. ‘If you go straight, you’ll soon find the statue of Kaal Bhairav. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.’ He strode away.

  Lalmohan Babu and I began walking. I was struck by the amazing carvings on the wooden doors, windows and even roofs of old buildings. I had heard Nepal was famous for its woodwork. Now I could see why. There were a few Hindu temples, built in a style similar to those in India. And there were pagodas, built in several layers, each layer getting narrower as one moved to the top.

  However, Darbar Square wasn’t just a place for religion. There was a large market, spread all over. Every imaginable object from vegetables to garments was being sold on pavements, corridors and stairs. Lalmohan Babu and I stopped at a small stall selling rather attractive Nepali caps. He brought out his little red notebook again.