by Satyajit Ray
‘Do you know why I came here?’ Mr Mallik interrupted in a loud voice.
‘I learnt something from your mother. She said your father had been killed in an accident. The man under whose car he was crushed got away with it. All he did was offer her five thousand rupees as compensation. He was never arrested.’
‘No, he wasn’t!’ shouted Radhakanta Mallik. ‘I saw his face clearly then, and after almost twenty-five years, I saw it again in the Telegraph. That’s when I decided he had to die. Can you imagine what I have had to go through? I was only twelve when my father died. A twelve year old child climbs down from a tram, only a few paces behind his father, and . . . and . . . before his eyes, his father disappears under the wheels of a car. It was such a horrible sight! Even now, when I think about it, I can feel my flesh creep. Day after day, I asked my mother, “Ma, what about the man who did it? Isn’t he going to be punished?” And my mother said, “No, son, the rich don’t ever get punished.” . . . Then, after so many years, there he was. It took me only a second to make up my mind. This man was going to get what he deserved, and I was going to give it to him.’
‘Is that why you came here pretending to be suffering from persecution mania?’
‘Yes, but who knew killing a man could be so difficult? I realized I needed to prepare myself, to steel my heart. At long last, after many weeks, I felt I could do it. I even found the right weapon. It was a sharp paper knife which was kept in Munshi’s office. I had seen my father’s body covered in blood. I wanted to see Munshi in exactly the same way. Or it wouldn’t be a just punishment, I thought. But. . .’
‘But what, Mr Mallik?’
‘It was amazing, absolutely incredible! I crept into his room, clutching the knife. Moonlight came in through an open window and fell on his face. His mouth was open, his eyes half closed. His body was still. How could I kill him? He was already dead, dead, dead!’
Something fell with a thud even before Mr Mallik could finish speaking. It was Dr Munshi’s brother-in-law, Chandranath Basu. He had fainted and slipped from his chair onto the floor. Inspector Shome rushed forward to attend to him.
Feluda spoke quietly. ‘Mr Munshi, look carefully at that man lying on the ground. He is your father’s killer. Yes, the murderer is none other than your stepmother’s twin.’
This remark was greeted by an amazed silence. It was Lalmohan Babu who broke it by saying, ‘What do you mean? What possible motive could he have had?’
Feluda glanced at Shankar Munshi. ‘Couldn’t you tell us, Mr Munshi?’ he asked. ‘You read the diary, didn’t you?’
Shankar Munshi nodded slowly.
‘It isn’t easy to get to know a person, Mr Munshi,’ Feluda went on. ‘The real difference between a man and an animal is that an animal does not know how to hide its feelings, or put on an act . . . Dr Munshi was not indifferent towards your stepmother at all. If he was, he would never have allowed her to read his diary, or dedicate his book to her. The truth is just the opposite. It was Dr Munshi’s wife who did not care for him. In fact, she did not care for anyone except her useless, good-for-nothing brother, on whom she chose to shower all her love and affection. Her thoughts were only for him, her concern only for his future . . . now can you tell us what the motive behind the murder was?’
Shankar Munshi’s voice sounded flat and lifeless. He spoke like a robot, ‘It was my father’s will. He spoke about it in his diary. One-fourth of his assets was to go to institutions involved in psychological research, one-fourth was to come to me, and . . . and my stepmother was to get the rest.’
Mr Basu had regained consciousness in the meantime. Feluda looked straight at him.
‘Was the murder your own idea?’ he asked.
Mr Basu shook his head and sighed. He could not raise his eyes. When he spoke after a short pause, his voice sounded so faint that I had to strain my ears to hear his words.
‘No,’ he said, ‘the idea was Dolly’s. That’s . . . that’s my sister. It was she who got that iron rod and handed it to me.’
‘I see.’
Feluda sat down at last, suddenly looking tired. ‘That clears up the murder,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I have only one regret. A very deep regret. If that diary got published, Dr Munshi’s name would have become well-known in literary circles. He had a wonderful style. But that diary is now immersed in the lake, lost for ever.’
‘Attention! Spotlight!’
Jatayu’s voice rang out, startling everyone considerably. Finding every eye fixed on him, he smiled triumphantly and pulled out a folder from his shoulder bag. Then he held it over his head like a trophy and shouted, ‘Not lost, sir! Not immersed, either. Here it is!’
‘Dr Munshi’s manuscript?’ Feluda sounded openly astonished. ‘How can that be?’
‘Yes, sir. Thanks to the recent advances made by modern technology. I knew I could not finish reading the whole thing in just a day, so I had it photocopied. That’s right, X-E-R-O-X! Here you are, Mr Chakravarty, you can start typing it straightaway, and then send it to the North Pole.’
Here he made a typical Jatayu-like mistake. But looking at his jubilant face, none of us had the heart to point out that penguins are to be found at the South Pole, not the North.
The Mystery of Nayan
One
Feluda had been quiet and withdrawn for many days. Well, I say he was withdrawn. Lalmohan Babu had used at least ten different adjectives for him, including distressed, depressed, lifeless, listless, dull, morose and apathetic. One day he even called him moribund. Needless to say, he didn’t dare address his remarks directly to Feluda. He confided in me, but like him, I had no idea why Feluda was behaving so strangely.
Today, quite unable to take it any longer, Lalmohan Babu looked straight at Feluda and asked, ‘Why do you seem so preoccupied, Felu Babu? What’s wrong?’
Feluda was leaning against a sofa, his feet resting on a small coffee table. He was staring at the floor, his face grim. He said nothing in reply to Lalmohan Babu’s question.
‘This is most unfair!’ Lalmohan Babu complained, a trifle loudly. ‘I come here only to have a good chat, to laugh and to spend a few pleasant moments with you both. If you keep behaving like this, I’ll have to stop coming. Do give us at least a hint of what’s on your mind. Who knows, maybe I can help find a remedy? You used to look pleased to see me every day. Now you just look away each time I enter your house.’
‘Sorry,’ said Feluda softly, still staring at the floor.
‘No, no, there’s no need to apologize. I am concerned about you, that’s all. I really want to know why you’re so upset. Will you tell me, please?’
‘Letters,’ said Feluda, at last.
‘Letters?’
‘Yes, letters.’
‘What letters? What was written in them that made you so unhappy? Who wrote them?’
‘Readers.’
‘Whose readers?’
‘Topshe’s. Readers who read the stories Topshe writes, all based on the cases I handle. There were fifty-six letters. Each one said more or less the same thing.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Feluda’s stories do not sound as interesting as before, they said. Jatayu can no longer make people laugh. Topshe’s narrative has lost its appeal, etc. etc.’
I knew nothing about this. Feluda received at least six letters every day. But I had never bothered to ask what they said. His words surprised me. Lalmohan Babu got extremely cross.
‘What do they mean? I can’t make people laugh? Why, am I a clown or what?’
‘No, no. That’s not what they mean. No one tried to insult you. They just . . .’
Lalmohan Babu refused to be pacified. ‘Shame on you, Felu Babu!’ he said, standing with his back to Feluda. ‘I am really disappointed. You read all these stupid letters, you stored them away, and you let them disturb you so profoundly. Why? Why didn’t you just throw them away?’
‘Because,’ Feluda replied slowly, ‘these readers have given us
their support in the past. Now if they tell me the Three Musketeers have grown old much before their time, I cannot ignore their words.’
‘Grown old?’ Lalmohan Babu wheeled around, his eyes wide with anger and amazement. ‘Tapesh is only a young boy, you are as fit as ever. I know you both do yoga regularly. And I . . . why, I managed to defeat my neighbour in an arm wrestle only the other day! He is seventeen years my junior. Now is that a sign of old age? Doesn’t everyone grow older with time? And doesn’t age add to one’s experience, improve one’s judgement, sharpen one’s intelligence, and . . . and . . . things like that?’
‘Yes, Lalmohan Babu, but obviously the readers haven’t found any evidence of all this in the recent stories.’
‘Then that itself is a mystery, isn’t it? Do you think you can find an answer to that?’
Feluda put his feet down on the floor and sat up straight.
‘It’s a wonderful thing to be popular among readers. But such popularity and fame often demand a price. You know that, don’t you? Don’t your publishers put pressure on you?’
‘Oh, yes. Tremendous pressure.’
‘Then you should understand. But at least your stories and your characters are entirely fictitious. You can create events and people to satisfy your readers. Topshe cannot do that. He has to rely on what really happens in a case. Now, although I admit truth can sometimes be stranger than fiction, where is the guarantee that all my cases would make good stories? Besides, you mustn’t forget that Topshe’s readers are mainly children between ten and fifteen. I have handled so many cases that may well have had the necessary ingredients for a spicy novel, but in no way were they suitable for children of that age.’
‘You mean something like that double murder?’
‘Yes. That one was so messy that I didn’t let Topshe anywhere near it, although he is no longer a small child and is, in fact, quite mature for his age.’
‘Does that mean Tapesh hasn’t been choosing the right and relevant cases to write about?’
‘Perhaps, but he is not to be blamed at all. The poor boy has to deal with impatient and unreasonable publishers. He doesn’t get time to think. But even that is not the real problem. The real problem is that it is not just children who read his stories. What he writes is read by parents, uncles, aunts, grandparents, and dozens of other adults in a child’s family. Each one of them has a particular taste, and a particular requirement. How on earth can all of them be satisfied?’
‘Then why don’t you give Tapesh a little guidance? Tell him which cases he should write about?’
‘Yes, I will. But before I do that, I’ll have to have a word with the publishers. They ought to be told that a Feluda story will be ready for publication only if a suitable case comes my way. If it doesn’t, too bad. They’ll just have to give the whole thing a miss occasionally, and hold their horses. They’re hardcore businessmen, Lalmohan Babu. Their only concern is sales figures. Why should they worry about my own image and reputation? I myself will have to take care of that.’
‘And your readers? All those who wrote those awful letters to you? Shouldn’t you have a word with them as well?’
‘No. They’re not fools, Lalmohan Babu. What they have said is neither unfair nor incorrect. Now, if Topshe can provide what they expect from him, they’ll stop feeling disappointed in me.’
‘Hey, what about me?’
‘And you, my dear friend. We complement each other, don’t we? You’ve been with us throughout, ever since our visit to Jaisalmer. Why, I don’t suppose any of our readers could think of me without thinking of you, and vice versa!’
This finally seemed to mollify Lalmohan Babu. He turned to me and said seriously, ‘Be very careful in choosing your stories, Tapesh.’
‘It’s going to be quite simple, really,’ Feluda said to me. ‘Don’t start writing at all until I give you the go-ahead. All right?’
‘All right,’ I replied, smiling.
Two
I made this long preamble to show my readers that I am going to write about the mystery of Nayan with full approval from Feluda. In fact, even Lalmohan Babu seemed to agree wholeheartedly.
‘Splendid! Splendid!’ he said, clapping enthusiastically. ‘What a good idea to write about Nayan! Er . . . I hope my role in it is going to remain the same? I mean, you do remember all the details, don’t you?’
‘Don’t worry, Lalmohan Babu. I noted everything down.
But where should I start?
‘Start with Tarafdar’s show. That really was the beginning, wasn’t it?’ Feluda said.
Mr Sunil Tarafdar was a magician. His show was called ‘Chamakdar Tarafdar’. Magicians were growing like mushrooms nowadays. Some of them were serious about their art, but the stiff competition made many of them fade into oblivion. Those who stayed on had to maintain a certain standard. Feluda had once been interested in magic. In fact, it was I who had revealed this a long time ago. As a result, many up and coming magicians often invited Feluda to their shows. I accompanied Feluda to some of these, and was seldom disappointed.
Sunil Tarafdar was one of these young magicians on the way up. His name had started to feature in newspapers and journals a year ago. Most reports spoke favourably about him. Last December, he turned up in our house one morning and greeted Feluda by touching his feet. Feluda gets terribly embarrassed if anyone does this, so he jumped up, saying, ‘No, no, please don’t do that . . . there’s no need . . .’ Mr Tarafdar only smiled. He was a young man in his early thirties, tall and slim. He sported a thin, carefully trimmed moustache.
‘Sir,’ he said, straightening himself, ‘I am a great fan of yours. I know you are interested in magic. I am going to hold my next show in Mahajati Sadan on Sunday. I have had three tickets reserved for you in the front row. The show begins at 6.30 p.m. I’ll be delighted if you come.’
Feluda did not say anything immediately. ‘I am inviting you, sir,’ Mr Tarafdar continued, ‘because the last item in my show is going to be absolutely unique. I am very sure no one has ever shown anything like this on stage before.’
Feluda agreed to go. Lalmohan Babu arrived at 5.30 in his green Ambassador the following Sunday. We chatted for a while over a cup of tea, and left for Mahajati Sadan at six. We got there just five minutes before the show was to start. The hall was packed. Obviously, the large advertisement that had appeared in the press recently had worked. We found our seats in the front row. ‘Did you see the ad in the paper?’ asked Lalmohan Babu.
‘Yes,’ Feluda replied.
‘It said something about a totally new attraction . . . something called “Jyotishka”. What could it be?’
‘I don’t know, Lalmohan Babu. Just be patient, all will be revealed shortly.’
The show began on the dot of six-thirty. I saw Feluda glance at his watch as the curtain went up, raise his eyebrows and smile approvingly. Punctuality was something he felt very strongly about. He had obviously given Mr Tarafdar a bonus point for starting on time.
The few items we saw in the first half of the programme were, sadly, nothing out of the ordinary. It also became obvious that apart from a costume made of brocade, Sunil Tarafdar had not been able to pay much attention to glamour and glitter in his show, which was unusual for a modern magician.
The show took a different turn after the interval. Mr Tarafdar came back on the stage and began to hypnotize people from the audience. Very soon, it was established beyond any possible doubt that hypnotism was indeed his forte. Certainly, I had never seen anyone with such skill. The applause he got was defeaning.
But then, Mr Tarafdar made a sudden false move. He turned towards Feluda and said, ‘I would now request the famous sleuth, Mr Pradosh Mitter, to join me on stage.’
Feluda rose, pointed at Lalmohan Babu and said politely, ‘I think it would be a better idea to have my friend join you instead of me, Mr Tarafdar. Having me on the stage might lead to difficulties.’
But Mr Tarafdar paid no attention. He smiled with supreme confide
nce and insisted on Feluda going up on the stage. Feluda obeyed, and it became clear in a matter of minutes why he had warned about difficulties. The magician tried his utmost to hypnotize Feluda and turn him into a puppet in his hands, but failed miserably. Feluda remained awake, alert and in full control of his senses. In the end, Mr Tarafdar turned to the audience and said the only thing he could possibly say to save the situation.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he declared, ‘you have just witnessed what tremendous powers Mr Mitter is in possession of. I have no regret at all in admitting defeat before him!’
The audience burst into applause again. Feluda came back to his seat. ‘Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked, ‘your entire physiology is different from other men, isn’t it?’ Before Feluda could respond to this profound observation, Mr Tarafdar announced his last item. The unique, hitherto unseen and unheard of ‘Jyotishka’ turned out to be a good-looking boy of about eight. What he performed a few minutes later took my breath away.
Mr Tarafdar placed a chair in the middle of the stage and invited the boy to sit down. Then he took the microphone in his hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this child is called Jyotishka. He, too, is in possession of a highly remarkable gift. I admit I have nothing to do with his power, it is entirely his own. But I am proud to be able to present him before you.’ Then he turned to the boy. ‘Jyotishka, please look at the audience.’
Jyotishka fixed his gaze in front of him.
‘All right. Now look at that gentleman on the right . . . the one over there, wearing a red sweater and black trousers. Do you think he’s got any money in his wallet?’
‘Yes, he has,’ the boy replied in a sweet, childish voice.
‘How much?’
‘Twenty rupees and thirty paise.’
The gentleman slowly took out his wallet and brought out its contents.
‘My God, he’s absolutely right!’ he exclaimed.
