A Killer in Kailash: Adventures of Feluda (4 page)

‘I think he wants to keep the yakshi's head with him at all times. If he went by air, his baggage might be searched by security men. No one would bother to do that on a train, would they?’

Feluda stood up suddenly.

‘What did you decide?’ Uncle Sidhu asked anxiously.

‘We must go by air,’ Feluda replied.

The look Uncle Sidhu gave him at this was filled with pride and joy. But he said nothing. All he did was get up and select a slim book from one of his bookcases. ‘This may help you,’ he said. I glanced at its title.
A Guide to the Caves of Ellora
, it said.

Feluda rang his travel agent, Mr Bakshi, as soon as we got back home.

‘I need three tickets on the flight to Bombay tomorrow,’ I heard him say. This surprised me very much. Why did he need three tickets? Was Uncle Sidhu going to join us? When I asked him, however, Feluda only said, ‘The more the merrier. We may need an extra pair of hands.’

Mr Bakshi came back on the line. ‘I’ll have to put you on the waiting list,’ he said, ‘but it doesn't look too bad, I think it’ll be OK.’

He also agreed to make our hotel bookings in Aurangabad and Ellora. The flight to Bombay would get us there by 9 a.m. Then we’d have to catch the flight to Aurangabad at half past twelve, reaching there an hour later. This meant we would arrive in Aurangabad on Friday, and Mr Mallik would get there on Saturday.

Feluda rang off and began dialling another number. The doorbell rang before he could finish dialling. I opened it to find Lalmohan Babu. Feluda stared, as though he had seen a ghost, and exclaimed, ‘My word, what a coincidence! I was just dialling your number.’

‘Really? Now, that must mean I have got a telepathetic link with you, after all,’ Lalmohan Babu laughed, looking pleased. Neither of us had the heart to tell him the correct word was ‘telepathic’.

‘It's so hot and stuffy … could you please ask your servant to make a lemon drink, with some ice from the fridge, if you don't mind?’

Feluda passed on his request to Srinath, then came straight to the point.

‘Are you very busy these days? Have you started writing anything new?’

‘No, no. I couldn't have come here for a chat if I had already started writing. All I've got is a plot. I think it would make a good Hindi film. There are five fights. My hero, Prakhar Rudra, goes to Baluchistan this time. Tell me, how do you think Arjun Mehrotra would handle the role of Prakhar Rudra? I think he'd fit the part very well—unless, of course, you agreed to do it, Felu Babu.’

‘I cannot speak Hindi. Anyway, I suggest you come with us to Kailash for a few days. You can start thinking of Baluchistan when you get back.’

‘Kailash? All the way to Tibet? Isn't that under the Chinese?’

‘No. This Kailash has nothing to do with Tibet. Have you heard of Ellora?’

‘Oh, I see, I see. You mean the temple? But isn't that full of statues and rocks and mountains? What have you to do with those, Felu Babu? Your business is human beings, isn't it?’

‘Correct. A group of human beings has started a hideous racket involving those rocks and statues. I intend to put a stop to it.’

Lalmohan Babu stared. Feluda filled him in quickly, which made him grow even more round-eyed.

‘What are you saying, Felu Babu? I had no idea stone statues could be so valuable. The only valuable stones I can think of are precious stones like rubies and emeralds and diamonds. But this—!’

‘This is far more precious. You can get diamonds and rubies elsewhere in the world. But there is only one Kailash, one Sanchi, and one Elephanta. If these are destroyed, there would be no evidence left of the amazing heights our ancient art had risen to. Modern artists do not—they cannot—get anywhere near the skill and perfection these specimens show. Anyone who tries to disfigure any of them is a dangerous criminal. In my view, the man who took that head from the statue of the yakshi is no less than a murderer. He has got to be punished.’

This was enough to convince Lalmohan Babu. He was fond of travelling, in any case. He agreed to accompany us at once, and began asking a lot of questions, including whether or not he should carry a mosquito net, and was there any danger of being bitten by snakes? Then he left, with a promise to meet us at the airport.

Neither of us knew how long we might have to stay in Aurangabad, but decided to pack enough clothes for a week. Since Feluda was often required to travel, he always had a suitcase packed with essentials such as a fifty-foot steel tape, an all-purpose knife, rail and air timetables, road maps, a long nylon rope, a pair of hunting boots, and several pieces of wire which came in handy to unlock doors and table-drawers if he didn't have a key. None of this took up a lot of space, so he could pack his clothes in the same suitcase.

He also had guide books and tourist pamphlets on various parts of the country. I leafed through the ones I thought might be relevant for this visit. Feluda set the alarm clock at 4 a.m. before going to bed at 10 p.m., then rang 173 and asked for a wake-up call, in case the alarm did not go off for some reason.

Ten minutes later, Mr Mutsuddi rang again. ‘Mallik received a trunk call from Bombay,’ he said. ‘The words Mallik spoke were these: “The daughter has returned to her father from her in-laws. The father is taking her with him twenty-seventy-five.” The caller from Bombay said: “Carry on, best of luck.” That was all.’

Feluda thanked him and rang off. Mallik's words made no sense to me. When I mentioned this to Feluda, he simply said, ‘Even the few grey cells you had seem to be disappearing, my boy. Stop worrying and go to sleep.’

The flight to Bombay was delayed by an hour. It finally left at half past seven. There were quite a few cancellations, so we got three seats pretty easily.

Lalmohan Babu had flown with us for the first time when we had gone to Delhi and Simla in connection with Mr Dhameeja’s case. This was possibly the second time he was travelling by air. I noticed that this time he did not pull faces and grip the arms of his chair when we took off; but, a little later, when we ran into some rough weather, he leant across and said, ‘Felu Babu, this is no different from travelling in a rickety old bus down Chitpur Road. How can I be sure the whole plane isn't coming apart?’

‘It isn't, rest assured.’

After breakfast, he seemed to have recovered a little, for I saw him press a button and call the air hostess. ‘Excuse please Miss, a toothpick,’ he said smartly. Then he began reading a guide book on Bombay. None of us had been to Bombay before. Feluda had decided to spend a few days there with a friend on our way back—provided, of course, our business in Ellora could be concluded satisfactorily.

When the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign came on just before landing, there was something I felt I had to ask Feluda. ‘Will you please explain what Mr Mallik's words meant?’

Feluda looked amazed. ‘What, you mean you really didn't understand it?’

‘No.’

‘The daughter has returned to her father from her in-laws. “The daughter” is the yakshi's head, the “in-laws” refers to Silverstein who had bought it, and the “father” is Mallik himself.’

‘I see … What about “twenty-seventy-five”?’

‘That refers to the latitude. If you look at a map, you'll see that's where Aurangabad is shown.’

We landed at Santa Cruz airport at 10 a.m. Since our flight to Aurangabad was at half past twelve, we saw no point in going into the town, although an aerial view of the city had impressed me very much. We remained in the airport, had chicken curry and rice for lunch at the airport restaurant, and boarded the plane to Aurangabad at quarter to one. There were only eleven passengers, since it was not the tourist season.

This time, Lalmohan Babu and I sat together. Feluda sat on the other side of the aisle, next to a middle-aged man with a parrot-like nose, thick wavy salt-and-pepper hair brushed back and wearing glasses with a heavy black frame. We got to know him after landing at the small airport at Aurangabad. He was expecting to be met, he said, but no one had turned up. So he decided to join us to go to town in the bus provided by the airline.

‘Where will you be staying?’ he asked Feluda.

‘Hotel Aurangabad.’

‘Oh, that's where I shall be staying as well. What brings you here? Holiday?’

‘Yes, you might call it that. And you?’

‘I am writing a book on Ellora. This is my second visit. I teach the history of Indian art in Michigan.’

‘I see. Are your students enthusiastic about this subject?’

‘Yes, much more now than they used to be. India seems to inspire young people more than anything else.’

‘I believe the Vaishnavas have got a strong hold over there?’ Feluda asked lightly. The other gentleman laughed. ‘Are you talking of the Hare Krishna people?’ he asked. ‘Yes, their presence cannot be ignored. They are, in fact, very serious about what they do and how they dress. Have you heard their keertan? Sometimes it is impossible to tell they are foreigners.’

It took us only fifteen minutes to reach our hotel. It was small, but neat and tidy. We checked in and were shown into room number eleven. Lalmohan Babu went to room fourteen. Feluda had bought a newspaper at Bombay airport. I had seen him read it in the plane. Now he sat down on a chair in the middle of our room, spread it once more and said, ‘Do you know what “vandalism” means?’

I did, but only vaguely. Feluda explained, ‘The barbarian invaders who sacked Rome in the fifth century were called Vandals. Any act related to disfiguring, damaging, or destroying a beautiful object has come to be known as vandalism.’ Then he passed the newspaper to me and said, ‘Read it.’

I saw a short report with the heading, ‘More Vandalism’. According to it, a statue of a woman had been broken and its head lifted from one of the walls of the temple of Kandaria Mahadev in Khajuraho. A group of art students from Baroda who were visiting the complex were the first to notice what had happened. This was the third case reported in the last four weeks. There could be no doubt that these statues and other pieces of sculpture were being sold abroad.

As I sat trying to grasp the full implications of the report, Feluda spoke. His tone was grim.

‘As far as I can make out,’ he said, ‘there is only one octopus. It has spread its tentacles to various temples in different parts of the country. If even one tentacle can be caught and chopped off, it will make the whole body of the animal squirm and wriggle. It should be our aim here to spot that one tentacle and seize it.’

C
HAPTER
5

A
urangabad was a historical city. An Abyssinian slave called Malik Ambar had been brought to India. In time, he became the prime minister of the king of Ahmednagar and built a city called Khadke. During the time of Aurangzeb, Khadke changed its name and came to be known as Aurangabad. In addition to Mughal buildings and structures, there were about ten Buddhist caves—thirteen hundred years old—that contained statues worth seeing.

The gentleman we had met at the airport—whose name was Shubhankar Bose—came to our room later in the evening for a chat. ‘You must see the caves here before going to Ellora,’ he told us. ‘If you do, you'll be able to see that the two are similar in some ways.’

Since it was drizzling outside, we decided not to go out immediately. Tomorrow, if the day was fine, we would see the caves and the mausoleum built in the memory of Aurangzeb’s wife, called Bibi ka Makbara. We would have to remain in Aurangabad until the next afternoon, anyway, since Jayant Mallik was supposed to get here at 11 a.m. He would probably go to Ellora the same day, and we would then follow him.

After dinner, Feluda sat down with his guide book on Ellora. I was wondering what to do, when Lalmohan Babu turned up.

‘Have you looked out of the window, Tapesh?’ he asked. ‘The moon has come out now. Would you like to go for a walk?’

‘Sure.’

We came out of the hotel to find everything bathed in moonlight. In the distance was a range of hills. Perhaps that was where the Buddhist caves were located. A paan shop close by had a transistor on, playing a Hindi song. Two men were sitting on a bench, having a loud argument. They were probably speaking in Marathi, for I couldn't understand a word. The road outside had been full of people and traffic during the day, but was now very quiet. A train blew its whistle somewhere far away, and a man wearing a turban went past, riding a cycle. I felt a little strange in this new place—there seemed to be a hint of mystery in whatever I saw, some excitement, and even a little fear. At this moment, Lalmohan Babu suddenly brought his face close to my ear and whispered, ‘Doesn't Shubhankar Bose strike you as a bit suspicious?’

‘Why?’ I asked, considerably startled.

‘What do you think his suitcase contains? Why does it weigh 35 kg?’

‘Thirty-five?’ I was very surprised.

‘Yes. He was before me in the queue in Bombay, when we were told to check in. I saw how much his suitcase weighed. His was thirty-five, your cousin's was twenty-two, yours was fourteen, and mine was sixteen kilograms. Bose had to pay for excess baggage.’

This was news to me. I had seen Mr Bose's suitcase. It wasn’t very large. What could have made it so heavy?