by Satyajit Ray
The train stopped at Burdwan. We called a chaiwalla to have tea from small earthen pots. Tom Maxwell took photos of the chaiwalla.
Soon, the train pulled in to Bolpur station. The sight of dozens of rickshaws outside the main gate made Tom want to stop for photos again, but this time Peter was firm and said they mustn’t waste time.
We had to hire four rickshaws for ourselves and our luggage. Peter and Tom were also booked at the tourist lodge. By the time we reached it, it was ten minutes past one.
Three
Lalmohan Babu’s friend, Shatadal Sen, had come to the station to meet us. He accompanied us back to the lodge. A man of about the same age as Lalmohan Babu, he seemed to know him pretty well. After a long time, I heard someone call him ‘Lalu’.
We sat chatting in the lobby before going to our rooms.
‘You’re expecting your car at three, did you say?’ Mr Sen asked. ‘You can come to my house when your car gets here. Anybody in Pearson Palli will show you my house. I’ll take you to see the complex at Uttarayan.’
‘Thank you. May we bring two foreign visitors with us?’ Feluda asked.
‘Yes, of course. They’d be most welcome.’
Mr Sen left. We moved into our rooms. I was struck immediately by the peace and quiet of our surroundings. This should do Feluda a lot of good. He had just finished solving two complex cases of murder and fraud. He needed a break.
A little later, we found Peter and Tom in the dining hall. Feluda told them of our plans for the evening. Peter seemed delighted, but Tom didn’t say anything. ‘By the way,’ said Peter, ‘I received a call from a businessman in Dubrajpur. That’s not far from here, I gather. He got his son to call me since his spoken English, his son said, isn’t all that good. Anyway, he said he had heard about my ruby and wanted to buy it. When I told him I would never sell it, he said that was fine, but he’d like to see it once, so would I be kind enough to visit his house? I agreed.’
‘What is this man called?’
‘G.L. Dandania.’
‘I see. When do you have to meet him?’
‘At ten tomorrow morning.’
‘May we go with you?’
‘Certainly. In fact, I’d be quite grateful for your company. You could act as an interpreter, couldn’t you? After we finish our business with Dandania, we could go and have a look at the terracotta temples in Dubrajpur and Hetampur. McCutcheon wrote about those.’
‘There are many other things in Dubrajpur worth seeing. We could look at those, too, if we have the time,’ Feluda told him.
Lalmohan Babu’s driver arrived with the car at 3.45 p.m. ‘I stopped for lunch in Burdwan,’ he said, ‘and I don’t think I need a rest. If you want to go out, sir, I can take you any time.’
We left for Mr Sen’s house almost immediately. Only a few minutes later, we found ourselves in Uttarayan. Peter said he had never seen a building like it. ‘It looks like a palace out of a fairy tale!’ he exclaimed. Then we went to Udichi and Shyamali, which were as beautiful. Tom, I noticed, did not take out his camera even once, possibly because there was no evidence of poverty anywhere.
Lalmohan Babu looked at everything with great interest. In the end, however, he shook his head sadly and said, ‘No, sir, in a serene atmosphere like this, I could never think up a plot for a thriller. I’d need to go back to Calcutta to do so.’
On our way back, Peter and Tom got into a rickshaw. ‘Someone told us there’s a tribal village near here. Tom would like to take some pictures,’ Peter said. They were obviously off to a Santhal village. We waved them off and returned to the lodge, where we spent the rest of the evening playing antakshari.
‘Look, I nearly forgot!’ said Mr Sen before taking his leave. ‘Lalu, I brought this book for you—Life and Work in Birbhum. It was written by a priest a hundred years ago. He was called Reverend Pritchard. It’s full of interesting information. You must read it.’
‘I certainly will, even if your friend doesn’t. Thank you, Mr Sen,’ said Feluda.
We finished breakfast by eight-thirty the next day. Dubrajpur was only twenty-five kilometres away. Mr Dandania’s son had given us excellent directions, and told us that theirs was the largest house in the area.
We arrived a little before ten o’clock at a large house with a very high boundary wall. The name plate on the tall iron gate said ‘G L Dandania’. A chowkidar quickly opened the gate for us. He had clearly been warned about our visit. Our car passed through the gate and the long driveway, before coming to a halt at the front door.
A young man in his mid-twenties was tinkering with a scooter just outside the door. He left the scooter and came forward to greet us as we got out of our car. ‘My name is Peter Robertson,’ said Peter, shaking his hand. ‘You must be Kishorilal.’
‘Yes, I am Kishorilal Dandania. My father would like to see you. Please come with me.’
‘Can my other friends come, too’
‘Of course.’
We followed Kishorilal through a courtyard, up a flight of stairs, past a couple of rooms before he finally stopped outside the open door of their drawing room.
‘Should we take off our shoes?’ asked Feluda.
‘No, no, there’s no need.’
The drawing room was large, furnished partly with sofas and chairs. One end was covered by a thick mattress. Mr G.L. Dandania sat in one corner of the mattress, leaning on a bolster. He was a pale, thin man with a huge moustache that looked quite incongruous. Besides him in the room was another man of about fifty, wearing grey trousers and a brown jacket. He stood up as we entered. Peter looked at the thin man with the moustache and folded his hands.
‘Namaste,’ he said. ‘Mr Dandania, I presume?’
‘Yes, and this is my friend, Inspector Chaubey,’ replied Mr Dandania.
‘How do you do? Meet my friend, Tom Maxwell. And here are my other friends, Mr Pradosh Mitter, Lalmohan Ganguli and Tapesh.’
‘Glad to meet you all. Please be seated. Kishori, inke liye mithai aur sharbat mangwao (send for sweets and sherbet for them).’
Kishori disappeared and returned in a few moments. ‘I realize you made an appointment to see Mr Robertson,’ Feluda said when we were all seated. ‘If you have any objection to our presence, we shall leave the room.’
‘No, no, please don’t worry. All I want to do is take a look at that ruby. Your presence makes no difference to me.’
Tom spoke unexpectedly. ‘May I take some pictures?’
‘What pictures?’
‘Of this room.’
I noticed for the first time that there were innumerable pictures of Hindu gods and goddesses hanging on the walls. It reminded me of Maganlal Meghraj’s room in Benaras.
‘Theek hai.’
‘He says you may,’ Feluda translated.
‘Lekin pehle woh cheez to dikhaiye.’
‘He wants to see the ruby first.’
‘I see.’
Tom Maxwell brought out the blue velvet box from his leather bag. Then he opened the lid and passed it to Mr Dandania. For some strange reason, my heart suddenly started to flutter.
Mr Dandania held the ruby in his hand and stared at it for a few seconds, his face impassive, before passing it to his friend, Inspector Chaubey. Chaubey glanced at it with open admiration in his eyes, then handed it back to Dandania.
‘What price in England?’ Mr Dandania asked.
‘Twenty thousand pounds,’ Peter replied.
‘Hm. Dus lakh rupaye . . .’ He put the ruby back in its box and returned it to Maxwell. ‘Hum denge dus lakh,’ he added.
‘He says he’ll pay you a million rupees for it,’ Feluda said obligingly.
‘But surely he knows that’s out of the question? I’m not here to sell it.’
Mr Dandania switched to English again, thereby revealing that he could understand and speak it well enough.
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Because my ancestor wanted it to return to India. I came simply to fulfil his w
ish. The last thing I want to do is set a price on it and give it to someone else for money. It will go to the Calcutta Museum, and that’s that!’
‘You are being foolish, Mr Robertson. In a large museum like that it will simply lie in a corner gathering dust. People will forget all about it.’
‘And if I sold it to you? Would it not lie hidden in a chest somewhere, totally out of sight?’
‘Nonsense! Why should I allow that to happen? I’d open a private museum of my own, like the Salar Jung in Hyderabad. Ganesh Dandania Museum. Your ruby will get special attention. Everyone will see it. I will put up a plaque outside its case, explaining its history. It will include your own name.’
Before Peter could reply, a bearer came in with sweets on a large plate and glasses of sherbet. We began helping ourselves. Only Tom Maxwell dropped a tablet in his glass before drinking from it.
‘Inko kahiye yehan ke paani ko shudh karne ki zaroorat nahin hai,’ said Mr Dandania, glaring. I looked at Feluda with interest, to see how he might tell Tom there was no need to purify the water; but Feluda only smiled and said nothing.
It took us only a few minutes to finish the sweets.
‘Well?’ Mr Dandania said in his deep voice. Like his moustache, his voice came as a surprise.
‘Very sorry, Mr Dandania,’ said Peter. ‘I told you before I wouldn’t sell it under any circumstances. I showed it to you only because you had made a special request.’
Inspector Chaubey spoke suddenly. ‘Look, Mr Robertson,’ he said, ‘whether or not you wish to sell the ruby is your business. What concerns me is that your friend is roaming around with that ruby in his bag. I don’t like this at all. If you like, I can arrange to send a constable with you wherever you go. He’ll be in plain clothes, you won’t even realize he’s with you. But he’ll be able to ensure your safety.’
‘No,’ Tom Maxwell said firmly. ‘I am quite capable of taking care of it, thank you. Should anyone try to steal it, I’d know how to deal with him. I can use a gun myself, and I can do without any help from the police.’
Inspector Chaubey gave up. ‘Very well. If you are so utterly confident of yourself, there is nothing more to be said.’
‘How long are you here for?’ Mr Dandania asked.
‘Another five days, I should think.’
‘All right. Please think this over, Mr Robertson. Think carefully, and come to me again in two days.’
‘OK. Thinking can’t hurt, can it? I’ll consider your proposal very seriously, and let you know what I decide.’
‘Good,’ Mr Dandania replied, looking grave. ‘And goodbye.’
Four
‘Unbelievable! This is really incredible, isn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu whispered. I found myself in full agreement. All that stretched before our eyes was an ocean of rocks. Stones and boulders of various shapes and sizes lay scattered on the ground, covering a total area of at least one square mile. Some lay flat, others on their side. Some were huge—as high as three-storeyed buildings—but others were relatively small. A few had large cracks running right across, possibly the result of an earthquake hundreds of years ago. It might have been a scene from prehistoric times. If a dinosaur had peeped out from behind a boulder, I would not have been surprised.
This was one of the sights Dubrajpur was famous for. We had already seen the well-known pair called ‘Mama-Bhagney’. Soon after leaving Ganesh Dandania’s house, Feluda had suggested we saw these famous rocks. Inspector Chaubey, who had accompanied us, agreed that it was a good idea. Peter seemed absolutely overwhelmed. ‘Fantastic! Fantastic!’ I heard him mutter more than once. Tom, too, seemed a lot happier. I saw him smile for the first time, possibly because he had found a new subject for photography. Right now, he was sitting atop a huge rock, running a fine comb through his beard. How he had got there, I could not tell.
‘Tell me,’ said Peter, ‘how come there are so many stones lying around at this particular spot, when there are no mountains or hills nearby? Isn’t there a story or a legend behind this?’
Before Feluda could say anything, Lalmohan Babu piped up most unexpectedly. ‘Do you know of the god Hanuman?’ he asked.
‘I have heard of him,’ Peter said, smiling.
‘Well, when Hanuman was flying through the air with Mount Gandhamadan on his head, some rocks from the mountain fell here in Dubrajpur.’
‘How interesting!’ Peter nodded.
Feluda gave Jatayu a sidelong glance and said under his breath, ‘You just made that up, didn’t you?’
‘No, sir!’ Jatayu protested loudly. ‘I heard that story from the manager of the lodge this morning. Everyone in this region believes in it. Why should I have made it up?’
‘Because, my friend, the story I read in my guide book is different. According to it, it was Ram who had dropped these stones here accidentally, when he was gathering stones to build a bridge across the ocean.’
‘I don’t care what you’ve read, Felu Babu! I think my story is much better.’ Lalmohan Babu walked away in a huff.
By this time, Tom had climbed down from his rock and joined us.
Now he was looking a little bored. Perhaps the stones and rocks weren’t photogenic enough for him. His real chance came a few minutes later when we made our way to an old and well-known Kali temple. This was probably the first time he was seeing Hindu devotees having a puja in a temple. His camera didn’t stop clicking.
This seemed to upset Inspector Chaubey. ‘Look, Mr Maxwell,’ he said, ‘people here don’t like to see photographs taken of religious rituals. You’ll have to be a little more discreet.’
‘Why?’ Tom shot back angrily. ‘I am not doing anything illegal or unethical. I am merely taking photos of a public event, openly in front of everyone.’
‘Yes, but people can sometimes be extremely sensitive. A foreigner may well find our customs and traditions strange and difficult to accept. Some may object to his taking these photos back home, misrepresenting our values and ideas.’ Maxwell started to protest again, but this time Peter looked at him sternly, which made him shut up.
By the time we finished seeing all the sights of Dubrajpur, we were all quite thirsty. So we found a roadside tea stall and sat down at two of the long benches that were placed outside.
Inspector Chaubey sat between Feluda and me. ‘I realized who you were the minute I heard your name,’ I heard him say to Feluda, ‘but I didn’t say anything since I thought you might not wish to reveal your profession to all and sundry.’
‘You were absolutely right.’
‘Are you here on holiday?’
‘Yes, purely.’
‘I see.’
‘You are from Bihar, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. But the last five generations of my family had lived here in Birbhum. By the way, has that boy called Maxwell got an Indian connection?’
‘Yes. His great-great-grandfather used to own an indigo factory here. I think his name was Reginald Maxwell.’
‘I see. My own grandfather used to talk about a Mr Maxwell, who was also a factory owner. Although he had lived many years ago, his name had not been forgotten. From what little I have seen of Tom Maxwell, it is obvious that this other Maxwell was his ancestor.’
‘How is it obvious?’
‘Reginald Maxwell hated Indians. He was unbelievably cruel to his workers. Tom Maxwell seems to have inherited his arrogance. But Mr Robertson seems just the opposite. He’s clearly genuinely fond of this country.’
Feluda made no reply. We had finished our tea. Peter and Tom joined us, and we set off for Hetampur, which was famous for its terracotta temples. The carvings on these enthralled Peter, particularly that of a European lady on a temple wall. It was two hundred years old, we were told. Tom wasn’t interested in temples or carvings. He began taking photos of a child being given a bath by its mother at a tubewell.
Just before getting back into our car to return to the tourist lodge, Feluda turned to Inspector Chaubey to bid him goodbye. ‘You seemed to know
Dandania pretty well,’ he said. ‘What sort of a man is he?’
‘Very clever. I know him, but I certainly do not regard him as a friend. He tries to keep himself in my good books. He’s involved in a lot of shady dealings, so he thinks if he knows someone in the police it might help. I go to his house occasionally, but I keep my eyes and ears open. If I catch him doing anything wrong, I shall not spare him. But he is extremely wealthy. He could quite easily buy that ruby for ten lakhs.’
‘Does his son look after his father’s business?’
‘Kishori? No, he doesn’t really want to. He wants to start something of his own. Ganesh is fond of his son. I think he’ll agree in the end and let Kishori go his own way.’
‘I see.’
‘Oh, by the way, what are your plans for tomorrow?’
‘We might go to see the mela in Kenduli.’
‘Are you all planning to go together? I mean, would Robertson and Maxwell go with you?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I would like you to keep an eye on Maxwell, Mr Mitter. His behaviour worries me.’
‘Very well, Inspector. I’ll do my best.’
We returned to the lodge in Bolpur a little before 2 p.m. Soon after our return, two men turned up to meet Peter and Tom. One of them was Aradhendu Naskar, a well-known businessman from Calcutta. The other was called Jagannath Chatterjee, a historian who had specialized knowledge of the temples in Birbhum. Both had read Peter’s article in the Statesman and decided to meet him. Peter said he’d be very grateful for Mr Chatterjee’s help, and asked him to stay in touch. Mr Chatterjee agreed happily.
Mr Naskar took much longer. ‘What can I do for you?’ Peter asked politely, shaking his hand.
Mr Naskar pulled up a chair and sat down, facing Peter.
‘First of all, I want you to confirm one thing.’
‘Yes?’
