Mushkil opened the doors to the buggy. Although there were four seats for passengers inside, the van was stuffed full of empty crates. It was evident that every morning, these crates brought greens and vegetables from Golap Colony to the station and sent them on their way to Calcutta; the empty crates from the previous day were sent back from the other end. The staff and workers too probably used the van as transport.
The sun was growing hot overhead. Deciding it was wiser to take refuge in the shade of the buggy than to stand around in the heat, we boarded the van.
Mushkil Mian was quite a chatterbox; he loved talking when he got the chance. ‘So, gentlemen,’ he asked. ‘I suppose you will be staying here for a few days?’
Byomkesh replied, ‘We’ll be returning to Calcutta this evening. You’re Mushkil Mian, aren’t you?’
Mushkil grimaced and said, ‘Well, you know, sir, my name is actually Syed Nuruddin. But the problem is that the gentlemen have fondly renamed me Mushkil Mian.’
‘So where’s the problem? How long have you been in Golap Colony?’
‘Nearly seven or eight years now. At the time, only the big boss was here. I am an old employee.’
‘Hmm. Your buggy and horse seem to be quite old too.’
Mushkil lamented, ‘Old is not the word for it. The horse is really on its last legs and it’s just by force of habit that it still draws the carriage. I have advised the mistress time and again to get rid of the van and the horse and to buy a new motor van. But the problem is that the mistress says there’s no money.’
‘The mistress? Nishanathbabu’s wife?’
‘Yes. She’s a gem of a lady.’
‘Is she the one who looks after the farm?’
‘That the boss does too. But the mistress is in charge of the finances and accounts.’
‘But why does Mrs Sen say there is no money? Isn’t the farm doing well for itself?’
A gleam appeared in Mushkil Mian’s unfocussed eyes, hinting at things unsaid. He said, ‘It is doing well all right—where are the ghee, butter, eggs, fruits and flowers going? But you know how it is, sir—the hand that sows the seed is not the one that reaps the harvest.’ He glanced at us conspiratorially.
Byomkesh may have gleaned more classified information from Mushkil Mian but at this point a train pulled into the station from the south. Within a few minutes, a gentleman was hurriedly approaching the buggy. This, clearly, was Rashikbabu.
The man looked to be close to thirty-five, but his appearance was pale and emaciated. On the wiry, wooden stake of his frame, the longcloth kurta hung most oddly; his cheeks were sunken and the jaws protruded; beneath the brows that were joined in the middle, his eyes were set close and his face wore an air of fretful discontentment. When he saw us sitting in the buggy, his expression became even more disgruntled. He asked, ‘And you are …?’
Byomkesh introduced himself and said, ‘Nishanathbabu sent for us …’
A fleeting shadow of apprehension seemed to zip across Rashikbabu’s closely set eyes; I felt he knew who Byomkesh was. He sprang into the buggy and said, ‘Mushkil, get going. It’s late already.’
Mushkil had taken his place in front. He gave the horse a taste of the whip and the buggy set off. Rashikbabu now introduced himself. His name was Rashiklal De and he lived in Golap Colony. He was in charge of the vegetable stall at the Hogg Market.
At this point, my eyes fell on his right hand and I started. Except for the thumb, the hand had no other fingers—as if they had been chopped off with a single stroke.
Byomkesh had also noticed the hand and asked in a calm voice, ‘Were you employed in a factory earlier?’
Rashikbabu drew his hand into his pocket and said with greater despondency, ‘I was a machine man in a cotton mill; it paid well too. But then I lost my fingers in the hand-saw machine. I did get some compensation—a pittance, really, when compared to my loss—but I couldn’t get a job again. So here I am, in Nishanathbabu’s human pen, for the last two years.’ His face became withdrawn and morose.
We remained silent. The van left the narrow confines of the tiny town and continued through open fields. I began to ponder over the various names that Golap Colony seemed to have accrued. Some called it a zoo, others called it a pen. I wondered what the rest of the inmates there were like. From the two specimen samples, I would say both its names were well-suited.
4
The road was in good condition. Telephone poles ran alongside. During the war, the British had built these roadways and telephone lines for their own use, then left it all behind when hostilities ceased.
At the end of the road, more wartime relics met our eyes; at one spot stood numerous military vehicles arranged in neat rows; rusty and with their paint peeling, they still maintained their orderly line-up. At a cursory glance, the place looked like a mechanical mausoleum.
Golap Colony’s peripheries began where this cemetery ended. A wire fence encircled roughly fifteen or twenty acres of land. All along the fence ran bushes of indigenous shrubs. Within the enclosure lay the gardens, dotted with tiny huts with red-tiled roofs. The gardeners were watering the grounds with rubber hoses. Amid the scorched surroundings, Golap Colony stood out like a verdant oasis.
We arrived at the farm gates. There was no doorway at the entrance, just a latch to fasten the gate shut. On either side, flowering creepers had entwined the columns and formed an archway overhead. The van rolled in through the portals.
Within a few feet of the entrance stood a habitation. It had tiled roofs and was built like a bungalow; this was Nishanathbabu’s home. From within the buggy, we could see a woman standing by the house and watering some plants. At the sound of the vehicle approaching, she looked up; we had a moment’s glimpse of a beautiful young woman. But as soon as she saw us, she put down the watering can and went into the house.
We had all noticed the young lady. Byomkesh threw an inquiring glance at Ramenbabu. The latter didn’t speak, but he pursed his mouth and shook his head uncertainly. I had noticed that after setting foot outside Calcutta, Ramenbabu seemed to have lost his tongue. City slickers often feel like a fish out of water once they step outside their familiar domain.
The van halted in front of the door, and we got down. Nishanathbabu was at the door to greet us. He was wearing loose pyjamas and a linen kurta. With a smile on his face, he said, ‘Welcome! I am sure the sun has taken its toll on you.’ His eyes fell on Rashik De. He had got down from the van with us and was making his way to his own hut, unobserved. On spotting him, Nishanathbabu’s smile vanished and he asked, ‘Rashik, have you got the figures with you?’
Rashik seemed to wither as he licked his lips and replied, ‘Well, sir, I couldn’t get them today. But you will have them in a day or two …’
Without another word, Nishanathbabu led us into the house.
The drawing room was of moderate size; the furniture was not ostentatious, but tastefully discreet. A round coffee table stood in the centre and a few upholstered chairs were grouped around it. The wall was lined with bookshelves. The telephone was placed on a stool in one corner and a roll-top desk stood beside it. There were two windows; dark green curtains hung at both to keep the sun out.
We introduced Ramenbabu and seated ourselves. Nishanathbabu observed, ‘You must be very hot from your trip. Rest a while, then we can take a tour of the gardens. You can also meet the people who live here.’ He switched on the fan.
Byomkesh looked up at the ceiling and commented, ‘I see that you have electricity here.’
‘Yes, I have my own dynamo,’ Nishanathbabu explained. ‘We need to pump the water from the wells in order to irrigate the gardens, not to mention, of course, the domestic comforts of light and air.’
I too looked up and noticed that wooden beams ran beneath the tiles. A thick iron rod penetrated the beams and from the curved hook at the end of it hung the fan. The light bulbs were fixed in the same manner.
When the fan was switched on, a few dry blades of grass wafted
to the ground. ‘Sparrows,’ Nishanathbabu explained. ‘They never give up trying to build their nest on top of the fan. They don’t tire, they don’t lose heart—as many times as we take it down, they start again from scratch.’ He picked up the blades of grass and threw them out of the window.
Byomkesh laughed and said, ‘Stubborn birds, eh?’
An acerbic smile appeared at the corners of Nishanathbabu’s lips as he quipped, ‘If only humans were capable of this level of determination!’
Byomkesh observed, ‘Humans are more intelligent; so, they have less perseverance.’
Nishanathbabu said, ‘Is that so? I feel that humans are mentally weaker by nature—hence, their lack of steadfastness.’
Byomkesh’s eyes crinkled with amusement as he said, ‘I do suspect you have little esteem for the human species.’
After a moment’s pause, Nishanathbabu spoke in a lighter vein. ‘Aren’t the present times all about loss of respect?’ he asked. ‘Those who have fallen in their own eyes can scarcely spare any respect for others.’
Byomkesh had just parted his lips to reply when, suddenly, the curtains to the inner section of the house swished. The woman we had seen earlier, watering the plants, came out. She carried a tray bearing glasses of sherbet.
The woman, on closer scrutiny, didn’t appear to be as young as she had seemed at first, but she certainly wasn’t a day over thirty. A graceful way of carrying herself, an attractive face and a fair complexion—even in the autumn of her youth, she seemed to have lost none of her comeliness. Enhancing it all was a noticeable aura of refinement.
We had no idea who she was; yet all three of us stood up respectfully. In a monotone, Nishanathbabu introduced her: ‘My wife Damayanti.’
Nishanathbabu’s wife!
We were quite taken aback. We had assumed, naturally, that Nishanathbabu’s wife would be an elderly lady; it hadn’t occurred to us that this could be his second marriage. The look of incredulity on our faces must have bordered on the uncivil. We hastily joined our palms in greeting. Damayanti Devi put the tray of refreshments down on the table, brought her hands together and returned our greeting. Nishanathbabu told her, ‘They will be having lunch here this afternoon.’
Damayanti Devi acquiesced with a nod and a slight smile and moved back into the house at a gentle pace.
We sat down again. Nishanathbabu handed us our glasses of sherbet and conversationally informed us, ‘We do not have domestic help around here; everyone does their own chores.’
A trifle apprehensively, Byomkesh said, ‘That is very nice indeed. But I hope we aren’t causing Mrs Sen any trouble by arriving in this manner—having to cook for us all over again …’
Nishanathbabu said, ‘I had already informed her about your visit; it is no trouble at all. There is a girl called Mukul who is in charge of the kitchen. My wife lends a hand when necessary. There are no separate cooking arrangements here; there’s just one kitchen where everybody’s meals are cooked.’
‘Your arrangements here truly resemble those of an ashram,’ Byomkesh remarked.
Nishanathbabu merely smiled his wry smile again. Byomkesh took one sip from his glass and said, ‘Oh, this is wonderfully cool, but without ice, I notice. You have a fridge here, do you?’
Nishanathbabu replied, ‘Yes, we do. Now, let me show you the broken motor parts. Let me see if you can identify my obscure benefactor as swiftly as you could deduce the existence of a fridge on the premises!’
Byomkesh smiled and remarked, ‘Nishanathbabu, if every mystery on the face of this earth were as easily unravelled as the existence of your fridge, thinking souls like me would be left without an occupation. By the way, yesterday you gave me sixty rupees instead of fifty.’
A trifle abashed, Nishanathbabu said, ‘Is that so? Thank goodness I gave you more rather than less! Anyway, let that remain with you and you can give me an account for it all later.’
Byomkesh never was able to present his account, as it happened.
Nishanathbabu opened the roll-top desk, took out a few broken motor parts and laid them out before us. There were spark plugs, worn rubber motor horns, a red tin toy car and so on. Byomkesh took one look at the items, but did not evince much interest in them. He did, however, pick up the toy car carefully and inspect it from all angles. Then he said, ‘There don’t seem to be any fingerprints on this—it’s squeaky clean.’
‘I had looked for fingerprints too,’ Nishanathbabu averred, ‘but there weren’t any. My benefactor is an extremely cautious man.’
‘Hmm,’ said Byomkesh. ‘These motor parts, of course, have been collected by the donor from the junkyard nearby. One inference may be drawn from all this.’
‘And what is that?’
‘This particular bestower of largesse lives close by. Is there any habitation in the immediate vicinity?’
‘No. If you proceed for another mile or so, you’d come to Mohanpur village. My gardeners come from there.’
‘Are there any educated people in Mohanpur?’
‘Perhaps a family or two here and there, but they are mainly farmers. And I don’t even know any of them, apart from my labourers, of course.’
‘So there is no chance of the gifts being bestowed from that quarter, because this benefactor is a “gentleman”. Come on, let us take a look at the farm.’
Although each of us was well aware that ‘looking at the farm’ would also mean scrutinizing its inhabitants, especially the women, no one actually said it in so many words. Nishanathbabu had already procured three umbrellas for us and we set off, keeping under their shade. He himself donned a felt hat and dark, protective glasses were already perched on his nose.
At this point I would like to present a map of Golap Colony for my readers. It would save the necessity of lengthy explanations.
1 Nishanath’s house 2 Bijoy’s hut 3 Bonolokkhi’s hut 4 Bhujangadhar’s hut and pharmacy 5 Brojodas’s hut 6 Rashik’s hut 7 Well 8 Stable and Mushkil’s hut 9 Cowshed and Panu’s hut 10 Mukul and Nepal’s cottage 11 Dining room and kitchen 12 Abandoned greenhouse 13 The mechanical mausoleum of wartime relics
After leaving the house, we took the road on the left. It was narrow, but gravelled and well-maintained, meandering its way ahead as it connected each of the huts in the farm.
The first hut we passed was a structure that stood beside the main gateway. It had glass panes set into the tiles on the roof at regular intervals and huge windows as well. But the building was dilapidated, with most of its windows and glass panes broken. Like a blind man’s eyes, its gaping windows revealed nothing but wells of darkness.
‘What is this place?’ Byomkesh inquired.
‘It used to be a green house,’ Nishanathbabu replied. ‘Now, it’s fallen into disuse. When extreme conditions prevail during harsh winters or summers, we move the saplings here.’
As we passed the structure, I peeped in through one of the broken windows and saw some grimy wooden benches lying around. A few wicker baskets loaded with soil sat on the ground. They held some newly blossomed saplings.
From here, we walked for a while along the edge of the outer wall and arrived at the cowshed. A sizeable portion of the land had been fenced off by bamboo shafts tied together. Towards the far end stood an elongated, thatch-roofed structure; within this shed had been housed several cows and calves. Bales of hay had been stacked high on the cowshed’s mud floor.
Next to the cattleshed stood a tiny hut with a tiled roof. When we finally paused before the cowshed, a tall, robust youth hurried out to meet us. He had worn his dhoti well above the knee, like most men of his class, and he had a vest on. He approached us, grinning broadly.
Although the young man had a muscular physique, his face wore the look of a halfwit. Once he had come up to us, he extracted some cotton wool from each of his ears and continued to gape at us, grinning stupidly. But his laughter was silent; not a sound emerged from his throat.
‘His name is Panu,’ Nishanathbabu offered by way of explanation
. ‘Since he looks after the cattle, he is called Panugopal after his divine counterpart, Krishna, the cowherd. He is hard of hearing.’
Panugopal continued to laugh; he didn’t seem to have heard what Nishanathbabu said. Raising his voice a little, Nishanathbabu asked, ‘Panugopal, how are your cows and heifers doing? Is everything going well?’
In response, a shrill goat-like bleating came from Panugopal’s throat. Startled, I looked up at his face and realized that he was straining to speak, but no sounds emerged. Nishanathbabu raised his hand in a gesture meant to stop him from making further attempts and muttered under his breath, ‘It’s not as if Panu is completely incapable of speech; but whenever he is a little excited, he loses this faculty entirely. He is a good lad, but God has been unfair to him.’
We went on our way, leaving Panugopal standing there. Having walked a few paces ahead, I turned to see Panugopal tucking the cotton wool back into his ears again. ‘Why does Panugopal stuff cotton wool in his ears?’ I asked.
‘He has ulcers in his ears,’ Nishanathbabu explained.
Walking further ahead, we came to a road branching off to the left. It passed behind Nishanathbabu’s house. A row of florid crotons ran between the two. To the right, almost in the middle of the road, stood a narrow, rectangular structure. Nishanathbabu turned towards it and said, ‘Come, let me show you our dining room and kitchen.’
We had already been told that a girl called Mukul was in charge of the farm’s kitchen. It was my hunch that Nishanathbabu was leading us this way so that we could take a look at Mukul.
Once we were there, we found that one long room had been divided into three sections. The first was the kitchen; next to it lay the dining room. Finally came the bathhouse. Sounds of frying and cooking could be heard from the kitchen and Nishanathbabu made his way towards it.
Damayanti Devi heard us approach and came to the door of the kitchen. The end of her sari tucked securely around her waist, a ladle in hand—in these new surroundings, she seemed nothing like the lady we had met earlier, as if she were a different person altogether. At first glance and from a distance, she had seemed someone else, then, with the tray of refreshments in her hands, she had changed into another woman, and here was a totally new look, yet again. But each of the three personas had its own appeal.
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 3
