by Satyajit Ray
‘Was there any particular reason why he left for Rudraprayag?’
‘He told me he had met a sadhu at a ghat. Talking to him had brought about a serious change in Upadhyaya. He became more withdrawn. I often found him sitting quietly in his room, lost in thought.’
‘Did he take all his medicines with him?’
‘There wasn’t much to take. All he had were a few jars of herbs and roots, some pills and ointments, that was all. Yes, he took them with him. But I think eventually he’ll give up ayurveda altogether and become a full-fledged sanyasi.’
‘He was not married, was he?’
‘No. He had no attachments at all. He told me the day he left, “Two, paths were open to me. One meant indulgence and running after comforts and luxuries. The other meant sacrifice and austerity. I decided to choose the latter.”’
‘Did he give you his new address before he left?’
‘Oh no. I got it from the postcard he sent me from Rudraprayag.’
‘Do you have it with you now?’
‘Yes.’ Mr Pandit went inside and came back with a postcard, which he handed to Feluda. I couldn’t read what was written on it, but could see that it had been written in Hindi. Feluda read it quickly, said, ‘Most interesting,’ and returned it to Mr Pandit. God knew what was so interesting in the card.
Finally, Mr Pandit himself arranged a taxi for us. It would take us first to Rudraprayag, and then we could go wherever we liked. The Garhwali driver was called Joginder Ram. He seemed very friendly and cheerful. All of us took an instant liking to him. Feluda told him we’d have an early lunch in Hrishikesh and leave for Rudraprayag at twelve o’clock. Hrishikesh was fifteen miles from Haridwar. There was nothing to see in Haridwar itself. The river looked dirtier than it had when I saw it last. Every quiet corner in the town seemed to have been filled by new buildings; all the walls were covered with handwritten advertisements. It was necessary for us to go to Hrishikesh, since we’d need to arrange our accommodation in Rudraprayag. We could stay in a dharamshala. Every town in the vicinity had the old and famous Kalikamli dharamshalas, but we were sure Pavandeo would not be staying in one of them.
Luckily, before we left Hrishikesh, we could book a double room in the rest house run by the Garhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam in Rudraprayag. They agreed to put an extra bed in the same room for Lalmohan Babu. We had a quick lunch, and left for Rudraprayag as planned. A few miles later, I saw Laxmanjhoola on our right. Like Haridwar, it had been spoilt by hideous new structures, but even so, memories of our adventure regarding the Emperor’s ring gave me goose pimples.
Rudraprayag was famous for two reasons. The first was Jim Corbett. Anyone who has read The Man-eating Leopard of Rudraprayag will always remember the patience, perseverance and courage with which Corbett had hunted down the man-eater fifty-five years ago. Our driver Joginder said he had heard his grandfather talk of Corbett. He cared very deeply for the local Garhwalis, and they loved him just as much.
The second thing that made Rudraprayag important was that it was possible to go to both Kedarnath and Badrinath from here. Two rivers—Mandakini and Alakananda—met in Rudraprayag. If one followed Alakananda, one could get to Badrinath; Mandakini would take one to Kedar. Buses went to Badrinath. But to get to Kedarnath, one had to walk, or ride in either a dandi or on horseback the bus route finished in Gaurikund, 14 km before Kedar.
Rudraprayag was 140 km from Hrishikesh. Even if we could go at 30 km an hour, we couldn’t reach there before dark. We would pass through three towns on the way, Devprayag, Keertinagar and Srinagar. The last was the capital of the Garhwal district, it had nothing to do with the capital of Kashmir.
The road, built through forests and hills, was going up and down. Occasionally, the trees parted to reveal green plateaus in the distance, on which stood sweet little villages, like picture postcards.
However, I could not concentrate on the scenery. My mind kept going back to Bhavani Upadhyaya and the valuable pendant in his possession. If a sanyasi, who had no other earthly possessions, decided to hang on to just one thing, there was bound to be trouble. Someone somewhere would want to take it from him. Besides, I was still puzzled about why Mr Puri told Feluda to forget the whole thing. He did provide an explanation in his letter, but was that really the truth? Or was I reading too much into it, just because such a thing had never happened before?
Lalmohan Babu broke the silence. ‘I was never good in either geography or history,’ he confessed. ‘You have often pointed this out, haven’t you, Felu Babu? So will you now kindly explain where we are? I mean, which part of the country is it, exactly?’
Feluda took out his large map, produced by the Bartholomew Company.
‘Look, here is Haridwar, and we are on our way to Rudraprayag. Here it is, can you see it? That means, on the east is Nepal and on the west is Kashmir. We are in the middle. Now do you understand?’
‘Ye-es. It’s all quite clear to me now, absolutely crystal clear.’
Three
By the time we reached Rudraprayag, after a brief stop in Srinagar to have a cup of tea, it was nearly five o’clock. Rudraprayag was a fairly large town, with its own school, college, hospital and post office. A signboard used to hang over the spot where Corbett had killed that famous leopard. ‘But it broke a few years ago, and nobody replaced it,’ Joginder informed us.
We went straight to the rest house. It was just outside the main town, in a quiet and peaceful spot. The first thing we heard on our arrival was that the road to Kedar had reopened and buses were running again. Apparently, it had been blocked for many days due to a landslide. As things turned out, this was a stroke of luck, but we did not realize it until much later.
The manager of the rest house, Mr Giridhari, had not heard of Feluda, but that did not stop him from being most kind and hospitable. He said he had read many Bengali authors in translation, Bimal Mitra and Shankar among them. ‘They are my favourite authors,’ he beamed.
A few minutes later, we met another guest, who had got stuck in Rudraprayag because of the landslide. Unlike Mr Giridhari, he recognized Feluda instantly. ‘I am a journalist, I have heard of many of your cases,’ he said. ‘Your photograph was published in the newspapers in northern India after the Sukhtankar murder case in Allahabad. That’s how I could recognize you. My name is Krishnakant Bhargav. I am very proud to meet you, sir.’
The man was about forty years old, of medium height and had a thick beard. Mr Giridhari naturally became curious on learning that Feluda was an investigator.
‘There is no trouble here, I hope?’ he asked anxiously.
‘There can be trouble anywhere, Mr Giridhari, but we haven’t come here to look for trouble. Actually, all we’re looking for is a man called Bhavani Upadhyaya.’
‘Upadhyaya? But he’s no longer here!’ exclaimed Mr Bhargav. ‘I came here simply to write a story on him. When I reached Haridwar, I heard he had come here. So I came here, and discovered he had gone to Kedarnath. That’s why I decided to follow him there. Now that the road is open again, I intend leaving tomorrow morning. He’s a very interesting character.’
‘Is he? I’m looking for him because I believe he treats the sick, and can work wonders. You see,’ Feluda lowered his voice, glancing rather pointedly at Lalmohan Babu, ‘this friend of mine is mentally disturbed. He behaves quite normally most of the time, but just occasionally, his problem flares up. He starts talking absolute gibberish, and can even get violent at times. A lot of doctors have seen him in Calcutta, but nothing has worked. So when I heard of Upadhyaya, I thought he might be able to help. At least it’s worth a try, don’t you think?’
After the first few seconds of stunned disbelief, Lalmohan Babu caught on quickly. In order to prove Feluda right, he tried to bring an expression of wild insanity to his face, but succeeded only in looking like the Nepali mask that hangs in our drawing room.
Mr Bhargav nodded sympathetically. ‘Then you, too, must look for him in Kedarnath. He didn’t go to Badri, for
I didn’t find him there. But I hear he has become a sanyasi, so he may have changed his name.’
At this moment, an American car drew up outside the gate. Three men got out of it and came walking towards us. The leader of this team was easy to recognize, for we had all seen the photo Mr Puri had given Feluda. It was Pavandeo Singh of Rupnarayangarh. The other two were obviously his chamchas. Pavandeo took a cane chair and sat down on the veranda. We were sitting only a few feet away, drinking tea. ‘No luck,’ Pavandeo said, shaking his head, ‘we’ve just been to Badri. Upadhyaya isn’t there.’
‘What amazes me,’ Mr Giridhari remarked, ‘is that everyone in this rest house is looking for Upadhyaya for a different reason. You want to include him in your film, Mr Bhargav wants to write a story on him, and Mr Mitter wants to get his friend treated.’
Pavando’s men were carrying television equipment. He was holding a camera with a huge lens.
‘A tele lens?’ Feluda asked.
‘Yes. I took it with me to film the melting snow on the peaks of Badrinath. Actually, the main equipment I am using is compact enough for one person to handle. That includes sound. My friends will go with me as far as Gaurikund. I will film the rest of it myself.’
‘Does that mean you are going to leave for Kedarnath tomorrow?’
‘Yes, first thing in the morning.’
‘Will you be interviewing Upadhyaya if you can find him?’
‘Yes, certainly. This film is being made for an Australian television company. I will naturally show the mountains and the snow and all the rest of it, but the interview with Upadhyaya will get a lot of footage. He’s such an amazing character. What he did to my father was nothing short of a miracle.’
I watched Pavandeo Singh closely. This man bore little resemblance to what Umashankar Puri had told us. Feluda, I noticed, did not mention Mr Puri at all.
We left the rest house shortly afterwards, to go and have our dinner in town. When the waiter came to take our order, Lalmohan Babu suddenly banged a fist on the table and demanded an omelette. ‘An armadillo’s egg! That’s what I want!’ he said loudly. Feluda was obliged to explain to him that his insanity was something he didn’t have to prove all the time, particularly when nobody from the rest house was in sight. If he kept behaving strangely without any reason, the chances of getting thrashed were very high.
‘Well, you’re right,’ Lalmohan Babu conceded, ‘but if I get a suitable opportunity, don’t think I’m going to miss it.’
We returned straight to the rest house as we wanted an early night. Pavandeo’s room was not far from ours. The sound of clinking glass and loud laughter told us he was with his two friends and Mr Giridhari, having a good time.
‘I must admit one thing, Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu said, stretching out on his bed. ‘In spite of what Mr Puri told us about Raja Chandradeo’s younger son, he struck me as a most amiable man.’
‘Surely you’re aware that looks can be deceptive? Besides, nature often bestows cruelty and beauty in the same creature. Can you think of an animal more beautiful than the Royal Bengal tiger? Then consider the peacock. A creature of incredible beauty, right? Just think of the damage one peck of its beak can cause. You have seen it for yourself, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s true.’ Lalmohan Babu rose, grabbed his alarm clock and began twisting its switch viciously, a wild look slowly creeping into his eyes.
Clearly, he felt he had to do full justice to his role.
Four
We came out of the rest house and found our taxi at five-thirty the following morning. Joginder was ready and waiting for us. Pavandeo’s American car was standing near ours, being loaded with film equipment. He could not possibly leave for another half an hour. But the chances were he would catch up with us without any problem, and then overtake us.
As we were about to get into our car, the man himself came striding towards us, as though he had something important to say.
‘Last night,’ he said to Feluda, ‘Mr Giridhari had a glass too many, and revealed your identity. I’d like to ask you a straight question.’
‘Yes?’
‘Did Umashankar send you here to keep an eye on me?’
‘Even if he did, Mr Singh, I would certainly not tell you about it, for that would be a breach of confidentiality. It would also be rather foolish. However, I have to admit Mr Puri has nothing to do with my presence here. We are going to Kedarnath purely as tourists. If something untoward does happen, I will naturally not stand by and be a passive spectator. I would like to meet Bhavani Upadhyaya myself, for something special has made me immensely curious about him, although I am not at liberty to tell you what it is.’
‘I see.’
‘May I now ask you a question?’
‘Sure.’
‘Are you going to show that famous pendant in your film?’
‘Of course, assuming that Upadhyaya has still got it with him.’
‘But don’t you realize that will put his life at risk? At the moment, nobody knows he has got something so valuable; but your film will be seen by thousands. Do you think it’s fair to expose his secret like that?’
‘Mr Mitter, if he has truly become a sanyasi, that locket should have no meaning for him. I will ask him to give it to a museum. It originally belonged to the Maharaja of Travancore. Its workmanship is absolutely exquisite. If he donates it to a museum, Upadhyaya’s name will always be remembered. You bet I am going to show it in my film, and I hope you will not try to stop me.’
Pavandeo stormed off, having spoken the last few words with a great deal of emphasis. Mr Bhargav joined us as soon as he left. ‘I wish I had known you were also going to Kedar,’ he said. ‘I could have gone with you, and shared the information I’ve got regarding Upadhyaya.’
‘Really? Who—or what—is the source of your information?’
‘Well, I spoke to Mr Singh’s brother, Surajdeo, in Rupnarayangarh. But the interesting details came from their eighty-year-old bearer. He said Upadhyaya had treated the former Raja Chandradeo Singh, and cured him of asthma.’
‘I see.’
‘In order to show his appreciation, the Raja gave him one of his most precious pieces of jewellery. Nobody outside the family knew of this until now. Can you imagine what this will mean to the press? Oh, what a story! What a scoop!”
‘Good for you, Mr Bhargav. You’ll be able to make a lot of money out of this, won’t you?’
‘Maybe. But I can tell you one thing, Mr Mitter. That locket is not going to remain with Upadhyaya for long. Do you really think Pavandeo is here just to make a telefilm? Don’t be surprised if your professional skills are soon called for.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me, Mr Bhargav. I always keep myself ready for any eventuality.’
Mr Bhargav said goodbye and left.
‘A clever man!’ Lalmohan Babu observed.
‘All good reporters and journalists are clever. They have to be, for in their job they often have to do a bit of detective work. He has shown a lot of initiative by interviewing an old retainer. Sometimes servants come to know of things that their masters are blissfully unaware of. But even so . . .’ Feluda broke off.
‘Even so, what?’ I prompted. I could see something was bothering him.
‘I don’t know. Something in that man makes me uneasy. I just can’t put my finger on it.’
We finally got into our car and started our journey. The road ran by the side of Alakananda. Only a few minutes later, we entered a tunnel. When we emerged from it, the river had changed. It was now Mandakini that flowed by our side, and it would stay with us right up to Kedarnath, which was where its source was supposed to be.
Feluda was still frowning. His next words explained why he was so annoyed.
‘I am very cross with that man Giridhari. I had no idea he was so utterly irresponsible. What Pavandeo just told me was, I suppose, natural enough, coming from him. But it shows he and Umashankar Puri did not talk about Upadhyaya’s pendant a
fter Mr Puri returned from Calcutta. Now, if that is the case, why did he send me that telegram and the letter? The whole thing seems even more mystifying now. God knows who is telling the truth, and who can be trusted. I am only glad we didn’t drop our decision to come here, even if we did agree to drop Mr Puri’s case.’
Gaurikund was only 80 km from Rudraprayag; but the road went up and down the hills so frequently that it took much longer to get there than one might expect. Thirty kilometres from Rudraprayag stood Agastyamuni, at 900 metres. Guptakashi was 9 km from there, standing at 1800 metres. From there one had to go to Son Prayag, where Son Ganga joined Mandakini. Gaurikund was 8 km from Son Prayag. Its elevation was 2250 metres.
Our woollen clothes were packed into a small bag which we had taken with us. Our heavy luggage was in the rest house, waiting to be collected on the way back. Lalmohan Babu had not forgotten to bring his Rajasthani cap to protect his bald dome. We stopped briefly in Agastyamuni to slip our warm clothes on. As we were doing so, an American tourer went past us. Pavandeo put a hand out to wave, so we were obliged to wave back at him. We were on our way once more, ready to fight the cold. Mandakini could be seen occasionally on our left; but, in the next instant, it would go way down below a gorge. The sound of its waves was drowned at times by Lalmohan Babu’s voice. He kept reciting a line from a poem; ‘Do you know why/The waves do rise so high?’ From the way he said it, over and over, it was obvious that was the only line he knew. Finally, a stern look from Feluda made him stop.
It was ten o’clock by the time we reached Guptakashi. We were all rather hungry by this time, so we decided to stop at a tea stall. Its owner provided hot jalebis, kachauris and steaming tea, to which we did full justice. Joginder said one of his brothers lived close by, so he’d take just five minutes to go and meet him.
‘Ah, that gives me the chance to see those temples,’ said Lalmohan Babu, trotting off in the direction of the temples of Chandrasekhar Mahadev and Ardhanarishwar.
