by Satyajit Ray
‘OK, OK, we’ll see everything worth seeing. Let’s spend a couple of weeks in Kashmir, shall we? I can’t think of a plot unless I travel. I have to write a new novel before Durga Puja, don’t forget.’
‘That shouldn’t worry you. Do what everyone else is doing—pinch ideas and events from foreign thrillers.’
‘Never. You would be the first one to make fun of me if I did. Don’t deny it, Felu Babu, you know you would. Your jibes are sharper than a knife.’
‘Very well then, shall we stay in a houseboat?’
‘In Srinagar?’
‘You can’t stay in houseboats anywhere else. We could take one on Dal Lake. But it will be expensive, let me warn you.’
‘Who cares? Let’s just have some fun.’
‘All right, we’ll stay in a houseboat in Srinagar, a tent in Pahalgam and a log cabin in Gulmarg.’
‘Splendid!’
The idea of going to Kashmir had clearly appealed to Feluda. He went to the tourist office after Lalmohan Babu left and brought back a number of leaflets.
‘Since we’ve made the decision to go there, let’s not waste any time,’ he said. ‘Today’s Monday, isn’t it? We could leave on Saturday.’
‘It’ll be cold in Kashmir, won’t it?’
‘Yes, so we must be adequately prepared for it. Lalmohan Babu ought to be warned—he’d feel the cold much more than either of us!’
Our warm clothes were duly fetched from the dry cleaners. We decided to spend the first week in Srinagar. The tourism department booked a houseboat for us. It was large enough for a whole family, so it would suit us perfectly. I tried to imagine what it might feel like to stay in a luxury boat. Perhaps it would be the same as the ‘baujras’ or pleasure boats zamindars had used in Bengal many years ago. I saw in the leaflets that they looked like little cottages. There were also pictures of smaller boats that carried people from one end of the lake to the other. The houseboats remained stationery.
‘There’s such a lot to see in Srinagar!’ I said to Feluda, having read all the literature. ‘Look, there are the Mughal gardens, and the river Jhelum, and lakes, and poplars, eucalyptuses and rows of chinar . . . have you seen these pictures, Feluda? It’s truly beautiful, and so are Pahalgam and Gulmarg. If we can climb up to Khilanmarg at eleven thousand feet, I believe it’s possible to get a wonderful view of Nanga Parvat. Can we see everything in two weeks?’
‘Oh yes!’ Feluda laughed.
We left by air the following Saturday, as planned. This time, we were given seats in different rows. I saw Lalmohan Babu talking animatedly with the gentleman sitting next to him.
‘Who was that man?’ I asked him curiously when we reached the airport in Delhi.
‘He’s called Sushant Som. He works as a secretary. His boss is a retired judge. They’re both going to Srinagar, with some other people, and will also stay in a houseboat. He recognized your cousin, and asked me if we were working on a case. I was tempted to say we were, but then I changed my mind and told him the truth.’
Our flight to Srinagar was not going to leave for another three hours. So we went to the restaurant for a cup of tea. Here we ran into Mr Som. He smiled as he saw us and walked over to our table. ‘My name is Sushant Som,’ he said, shaking hands with Feluda. ‘I am very pleased to meet you. I am one of your many admirers, you see. I’m sure my boss would like to meet you, too.’
Four other men had just walked into the restaurant. Mr Som approached this group, whispering something to the oldest of them. The old gentleman glanced at us, then walked across. Feluda stood up.
‘Please, please, there’s no need to get up,’ said the gentleman. ‘I am Siddheshwar Mallik. I have spent virtually all my life dealing with crime, but this is the first time I have come face to face with a real-life private detective!’
‘Dealing with crime? You mean—?’
‘I used to be a judge. I have sent a lot of men to the gallows. Now I’ve retired. My health isn’t what it used to be and I have to travel with a doctor in tow. But this time I am also accompanied by my son, a bearer and my secretary. Sushant is a most efficient man. I really don’t know what I’d do without him.’
‘Will you be staying in Srinagar?’
‘Yes, but we’d like to visit a few other places.’
‘We have a similar plan. Are you going to take a houseboat?’
‘Yes. I stayed in one in nineteen sixty-four; it’s a unique affair. Er . . . I didn’t quite catch your name? . . .’ Mr Mallik looked enquiringly at Lalmohan Babu.
‘Lalmohan Ganguli,’ he replied. ‘In a way, I am also involved with crime. I write thrillers.’
‘Really? Well then, all that’s missing here is a criminal! Very well, we shall see you again in Srinagar.’
Two
The aerial view of Srinagar was quite different from the one that greeted my eyes as we climbed out of the plane. Both were beautiful, but in different ways. It also became instantly clear that Srinagar was not like Darjeeling, Simla, or even Kathmandu, which I had seen before. When I saw the lake and the river Jhelum on our way to the city, I realized just how unique Srinagar was, both in its location and appearance.
Our destination was the Boulevard, the road which ran by the southern side of Dal Lake. Small steps went down to the water, where little boats called shikaras were waiting to take passengers. Just as Venice has its gondolas, Srinagar is famous for its shikaras. Our houseboat was called The Water Lily. A special shikara was waiting to take us to it. We climbed into it, taking our luggage with us. Several houseboats stood in a row, at a distance of fifty yards. Then the lake became much wider and I couldn’t see any more houseboats. They were all parked on the western side of the lake.
It was not difficult at all to climb up to the boat from the shikara. There was an open area in front of the rooms. One could sit there, or take the stairs that went up to the upper deck for a better view of the surroundings. The first room as we entered the boat was the living room. It was well furnished with flowers in a vase, paintings on the wall and a small library. Behind this was the dining room, two bedrooms and a bathroom. The kitchen was in a smaller boat, attached to the rear. In short, it provided every comfort on the lake that one might find in a private bungalow in town.
‘You have to thank me for this!’ Lalmohan Babu declared, grinning broadly. ‘It was really my idea to come here, wasn’t it?’
‘Sure. You are a writer, Lalmohan Babu. All good ideas ought to come from you. Anyway, let’s have a cup of tea and then go for a ride in our shikara.’
There were two bearers in the houseboat to look after us. They were called Mahmudia and Abdullah.
By the time we finished our tea and got into the shikara, the sun was about to set. Although it was May, it was quite cool. We had to wear our warm clothes when we went out. Feluda said, ‘I don’t think we’ll have time for anything but a tour of the lake. We’ll start our sightseeing from tomorrow. See that hill behind the Boulevard? Its height is 1000 feet. There’s a temple at its top—the temple of Shankaracharya. It is said to have been built by Emperor Ashok’s son. To the east of the lake are the Mughal gardens. We must see Nishad Bagh, Shalimar and Chashma Shahi. I believe there’s a spring in Chashma Shahi. Its water is supposed to be like nectar, both in taste and in its power to improve one’s appetite.’
‘What is that little island in the middle of the lake?’ I asked.
‘It’s called Char Chinar. There are four chinar trees on it, one in each corner.’
Mahmudia and Abdullah began rowing. We passed about ten houseboats on our left and were soon at the spot where the lake widened. The retired judge, Mr Mallik, and his team had taken two houseboats. Mr Sushant Som waved from the lower deck of one of these and shouted: ‘Do drop in on your way back for a cup of tea!’
When I saw the lake properly, it took my breath away. I haven’t got words to describe its beauty. Its water was as clear as crystal. There was no wind, so like a mirror, its surface reflected the mountain
s. Lotuses bloomed everywhere. Our shikara made its way through these. Lalmohan Babu, deeply moved, first began reciting poetry, then stopped abruptly and started humming under his breath. When I asked him what he was singing, he replied, ‘An Urdu ghazal.’ I had to turn my face away to hide a smile.
The sun had set, but at this time of the year, it stayed light for quite some time. When we began our return journey, it was nearly half past seven; but it wasn’t yet totally dark.
Sushant Som was still standing on the deck of their houseboat which was called Rosemary. He waved again. We stopped our shikara and went up.
‘Welcome!’ said Mr Som. ‘Let’s have some tea.’
Mr Som was sharing this boat with Mr Mallik’s son, Vijay. The old Mr Mallik, his doctor Harinath Majumdar, and their bearer, Prayag, were in the next boat, called Miranda.
We climbed to the top deck after tea had been ordered.
‘Are you any good at cards? Poker or rummy?’ Mr Som asked Feluda.
‘I haven’t played for a long time. But yes, I can play most games. Why do you ask?’
‘People are hard at it downstairs, in the living room.’
‘People?’
‘Vijay met two other men in the plane from Delhi. One of them is called Sarkar. I don’t know the name of the other man. All three are gamblers.’
We were offered comfortable chairs. I still found it difficult to take everything in. Calcutta seemed to have faded away in the far distance. I might have been on a different planet. Some foreign tourists had moved into the boat on our right. Through an open window, I could see men and women dancing to western music.
Feluda turned to Mr Som. ‘How long ago did Mr Mallik retire?’ he asked.
‘Five years ago, when he turned sixty.’
‘But judges don’t have to retire at sixty, do they?’
‘No, but his health wasn’t very good. He has angina, you see. He didn’t really wish to retire, but his doctor was most insistent. Actually, his ailment may be a result of a psychological dilemma.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He has sentenced many people to death. Sometimes he tells me, “I am going to pay for this in my old age.” I suppose if one knows one has taken a life—even if it’s in the interests of law and justice—that is bound to affect one’s mind. He used to keep diaries. I have got all his diaries now, for I am writing the story of his life, although it will be published as an autobiography. Every time he passed a death sentence, he put a red cross against that date in his diary. Sometimes these crosses are accompanied by a question mark. That shows he wasn’t always convinced that he had done the right thing. Do you know what he’s been doing lately? His doctor—Dr Majumdar—is a good medium. Mr Mallik uses him to speak to the spirits of the people who he condemned, and asks them if they had really committed a murder. If they say yes, Mr Mallik feels reassured. So far, no one has found fault with his judgement.’
‘Really? Are you going to hold seances here in Srinagar?’
‘No, not straightaway, perhaps. But they’ll start in a day or two. Why, are you interested?’
‘I certainly am,’ Feluda replied, ‘but whether my presence would be welcome or not is a different matter.’
‘I can ask him. I don’t think he’ll refuse, for he was very pleased to meet you. Besides, his seances are no secret. Everything that’s disclosed will go into the book. I am keeping a record of every minute detail.’
‘In that case, I’d be grateful if you’d ask him about me.’
‘Certainly.’
We finished our tea, chatted for a few more minutes, then returned to The Water Lily. Lalmohan Babu flopped down on a sofa and said, ‘Highly interesting man, this judge sahib.’
‘True,’ Feluda agreed, ‘but he isn’t the first judge to have reacted like this. I have read of other cases, both here and abroad, where ex-judges have questioned their own verdicts.’
‘I see. But I hope you’ll remember to include me, Felu Babu, when you seek his permission. I’ve never witnessed a seance. I can’t miss this opportunity!’
Three
The next four days passed quickly. We saw the various sights of Srinagar. Lalmohan Babu, who had brought a Hotshot camera, started taking photos of almost everything he saw. Then he took his finished roll to the local branch of Mahatta & Co. and had it developed. The photos had come out pretty well, I had to admit, but when Lalmohan Babu called his effort ‘highly professional’, I could not agree with him.
Mr Mallik and his party accompanied us one day to see Nishad Bagh, Shalimar and Chashma Shahi. This gave us the chance to get to know him better. ‘Sushant tells me you are interested in seances,’ he said to Feluda. ‘Is that true? Do you believe in such things?’
‘I have an open mind on the subject,’ Feluda replied. ‘I have read a lot on spiritualism. Plenty of well-known and learned people have said it is possible to contact the dead. So I see no reason to scoff at the whole idea without examining it thoroughly. However, I am fully aware of the fraud and deception that often takes place in this particular area. It all depends on the genuineness of the medium, doesn’t it?’
‘Dr Majumdar is a first rate medium. Why don’t you come and watch us one day?’
‘I’d like to, thanks. May I bring my cousin and my friend?’
‘Sure. I have no objection to anyone, provided they have enough faith. Why don’t you come to our boat this evening? Do you know what kind of people I am trying to contact?’
‘People you sentenced to death?’
‘Yes. I want to find out if my judgement was wrong at any time. So far there’s been no such indication.’
‘Do you speak to just one dead person at a session?’
‘Yes. The doctor finds it quite strenuous to handle more than one.’
‘What time should we call on you?’
‘Ten o’clock at night. We could all sit down together after dinner. There shouldn’t be any noise at that time.’
We went over to Mr Mallik’s boat straight after dinner. Five chairs had been arranged around a table in the living room. We took our seats and got to work without wasting another minute. ‘Tonight,’ Mr Mallik told us, ‘we shall try to speak to a Bihari boy called Ramswarup Raaut. He was hanged for murder ten years ago. Despite certain misgivings and doubts, I passed the sentence because the jury found him guilty, and the murder had been a brutal one. But in these ten years, I have often wondered if I had made a mistake. Did I send an innocent man to his death? The case against him had been very cleverly prepared and it seemed he was indeed the culprit, yet . . . anyway, are you ready, doctor?’
‘Yes.’
All the curtains had been drawn. The room was totally dark. To my right sat Feluda, and on my left was Lalmohan Babu. To Feluda’s right Mr Mallik was seated and beside him was Dr Majumdar, who completed the circle.
‘Ramswarup Raaut was only nineteen,’ Mr Mallik went on. ‘His features were sharp, his complexion fair. He had a thin moustache. The deceased had been stabbed to death in a small alley in Calcutta. Raaut did not look like a vicious killer. You must try to picture him and concentrate on the image. I will ask the questions; the answers will come in Raaut’s voice, through Dr Majumdar.’
We sat in silence for fifteen minutes. Then, suddenly, I felt the table move. The movement increased, until it began to rock violently. We waited with bated breath.
A minute later, Mr Mallik asked his first question: ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Ramswarup Raaut.’
Dr Majumdar spoke. But his voice sounded totally different. I gave an involuntary shiver. Mr Mallik went on, ‘Were you hanged in 1977?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you aware that I was responsible for the sentence passed on you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill that man?’
‘No.’
‘Who did?’
‘Chhedilal. He was a most cunning man. He framed me. The police arrested me, not him.’
‘I could tell when I saw you in court that you could not have planned a murder like that. Yet, I had to pass the death sentence on you.’
‘There’s no point in worrying about it now.’
‘Can you forgive me?’
‘Oh yes. I can forgive you easily. But many of my relatives and friends are still alive. They may continue to hold you responsible for my death.’
‘I am not concerned with them. It’s your forgiveness that matters.’
‘Then you have it. Death wipes out anger, jealousy, desire for revenge—everything.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
Mr Mallik rose and switched on the lights. Dr Majumdar appeared to be unconscious. It took us a few minutes to rouse him.
What a strange experience! I looked at Feluda, but his face told me nothing.
‘I feel a lot better now,’ Mr Mallik said. ‘I knew my verdict had been wrong in Raaut’s case. Now that I know I have been forgiven, my heart feels lighter.’
‘Do you hold seances only to reassure yourself?’ Feluda asked. ‘Partly. Do you know what I really think? Sometimes I seriously wonder whether one man has any right at all to send another to his death.’
‘What about murderers? I mean real criminals, not people like Raaut. Shouldn’t they be punished?’
‘Of course. They may be given long and hard prison sentences, but death? No, I no longer think that’s fair. Everyone—even criminals—should be given the chance to mend their ways.’
It was nearly eleven o’clock. We rose to go back to our own boat. ‘We are going to Gulmarg the day after tomorrow,’ Mr Mallik said before we left. ‘Why don’t all of you come with us?’
‘We should like that very much, thank you. Are you going to stay there?’
‘Just for a night. We could go to Khilanmarg from Gulmarg. It’s only three miles away—you can walk, or go by horse. Then you can come back with us and spend the night in Gulmarg. Our travel agent will make all the arrangements for you. Shall I ask Sushant to speak to him?’
