The Bandits of Bombay: Adventures of Feluda (5 page)

‘My father ran a business in Canning Street. I was a student in Don Bosco for three years. Then my father died, and I came to Bombay to live with my uncle. I've been here ever since. But this is my first venture in film-making,’ Mr Gore told us.

Perhaps because he was impressed by Mr Gore's Bengali, Lalmohan babu told him all that had happened, starting from Sanyal's visit and ending with his chat with Inspector Patwardhan. Mr Gore clicked his tongue in sympathy and said, ‘No one can be trusted these days, Mr Ganguli. You are an eminent writer; I am ashamed to think that
you
were used to cart smuggled goods!’

Feluda now joined the conversation.

‘You live in Shivaji Castle, I hear?’ he said.

‘Yes. I've been there for the last couple of months. Horrible murder. I returned by the evening flight yesterday, and got home at about eleven. Even at that time there was a large crowd in the street. If there's a murder in a high-rise building, it's always a big problem.’

‘Er … do you know who lives on the seventeenth floor?’

‘Seventeenth … seventeenth …’ Mr Gore failed to remember. ‘I know someone who lives on the eighth floor—N.C. Mehta; and there's Dr Vazifdar on the second. My flat is on the twelfth floor.’

Feluda asked nothing more. In any case, Mr Gore seemed to want to leave. ‘I have a lot of things to see to,’ he said, ‘Producing a film is a complicated business, you see. There are always problems.’ From what we'd heard, the shooting planned for the next day was really going to be a complex affair. A train had been hired. It would start from Matheran and arrive at the level crossing between Khandala and Lonavala. Mr Gore had to go to Matheran to pay the railway company. Apparently, the train had an old-fashioned first-class compartment. Mr Gore would get into it and travel by the same train to the shooting spot. ‘I'd be delighted if you came along and had lunch with me on the train,’ he invited. ‘Are you vegetarians?’

‘No, no. Non-veg, non-veg!’ said Lalmohan babu.

‘What would you like? Chicken or mutton?’

‘We had chicken yesterday. Let's have mutton tomorrow. What do you say, Felu babu?’

‘As you wish,’ Feluda replied.

Although Feluda was listening to Mr Gore's conversation with Lalmohan babu, his eyes were straying frequently to the group practising kung-fu. Victor Perumal's patience and perseverance were remarkable. It was clear that he wouldn't give up until every movement was perfect. One or two trainees were already performing extremely well.

Victor was also glancing at Feluda from time to time, possibly encouraged by the admiration in Feluda's eyes. When Mr Gore had gone, Victor beckoned Feluda and asked him to come closer. Feluda put out his cigarette and went over to Victor and his men.

‘Come on, Mr Mitter. Try it. It's not so difficult!’ said Victor.

The trainees moved away. Victor gave a slight jump, raising his right leg above his head before kicking it forward in a peculiar fashion. Had someone been standing in front of him, he would certainly have been hit and possibly knocked down. Feluda stepped onto the mattress, and jumped around a few times to get ready. Victor stood at a distance of about six feet, and said, ‘Try and kick your leg towards me!’

What Victor did not know was that, after seeing
Enter the Dragon
, Feluda had spent about a month at home, kicking his legs high in the air, every now and then, exactly as he had seen it being done by kung-fu fighters. He had done it purely for fun, but it had given him a certain amount of experience.

‘One - two - three!’ shouted Victor. At once, Feluda's leg shot out horizontally, and Victor took a step back, falling on the mattress. I knew, however, that Feluda's leg had not made contact with Victor's body.

Over the next five minutes, everyone watched a kung-fu demonstration between Victor Perumal and Pradosh Mitter. I couldn't help looking from time to time at Victor's trainees, who had spent over six weeks learning how to jump, kick and fall. They knew how much effort it took to do all that. What was reassuring was that their faces registered more admiration than envy. When, at the end of those five minutes, the two participants shook hands and thumped each other on the back, their audience broke into spontaneous applause.

C
HAPTER
6

A
round two o'clock, we walked into the Copper Chimney restaurant in Worli to have lunch with Pulak Ghoshal and Tribhuvan Gupte, the dialogue writer. The place was packed, but Mr Ghoshal had reserved a table for us.

‘I say, Pulak,’ Lalmohan babu asked, ‘what is the name of your film?’

I, too, had wondered about the name, but hadn't found the chance to ask Mr Ghoshal. All I knew for sure was that the film was not going to be called
The Bandits of Bombay
.

‘You cannot imagine, Laluda,’ said Mr Ghoshal, ‘the trouble we've had over the name. Whatever we chose had either already been used, or registered by some other party. You can ask Gupteji here how many sleepless nights he's spent, puzzling over an appropriate name. Only three days ago—suddenly, out of the blue—it came. A high-voltage spark!’

‘High-voltage spark? Your film is called
A High-Voltage Spark
?’ Lalmohan babu asked in a low-voltage voice.

Mr Ghoshal burst out laughing, making those sitting at neighbouring tables turn their heads and stare. ‘Are you mad, Laluda? You think a name like that would work? No, I was talking about a sudden flash of inspiration, a brain wave. It's
Jet Bahadur
.’

‘Eh?’

‘
Jet Bahadur
. You'll be able to see hoardings go up all over the city, even before you leave. You couldn't find a better name for your story. Just think. Action, speed, thrill … you'll find all three in the word “jet”. Plus you've got “bahadur”. We've sold the film—on all circuits—on the strength of that name and casting alone!’

Lalmohan babu had started to smile, but the joy on his face faded a little as he heard Mr Ghoshal's explanation. Perhaps he was thinking: name and casting? Did only those things matter? Did no one appreciate the story?

‘Have you seen any of my previous films?’ asked Mr Ghoshal. ‘
Teerandaj
is running at the Lotus. You could catch the evening show today. I will tell the manager, he will keep three tickets for you in the Royal Circle. It's a good film, it did a silver jubilee.’

None of us had seen any of his films. Lalmohan babu was naturally curious, so we accepted Mr Ghoshal's offer. If one didn't have friends in Bombay, the evenings sometimes became long and boring. The car would remain with us. It would take us to the Lotus whenever required.

While we were eating, one of the men from the restaurant came and said something to Mr Ghoshal. Judging by the warm smile on every waiter's face since we arrived, Mr Ghoshal was a frequent visitor here. Clearly, in a place like Bombay, a successful director was a welcome figure.

Mr Ghoshal turned quickly to Lalmohan babu. ‘You're wanted on the telephone, Laluda.’

Lalmohan babu had justed lifted a spoonful of pulao. Thank goodness he hadn't yet put it in his mouth. If he had, he'd certainly have choked. As it happened, when he gave a start, a few grains of rice jumped out of the spoon and landed on the tablecloth; but there was no further damage.

‘Mr Gore wants to speak to you,’ Mr Ghoshal explained, ‘He may have some good news for you.’

Lalmohan babu left, and returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Mr Gore asked me to go to his house at four o'clock,’ he told us, picking up his knife and fork, ‘Looks like I'm about to come into some money—heh heh!’

That meant ten thousand rupees would make their way to Lalmohan babu's pocket by the evening. ‘You're buying us lunch tomorrow!’ Feluda told him, ‘And a copper chimney won't do, let me tell you. We should look for a golden one!’

By the time we finished our meal of rumali roti, pulao, nargisi kofta and kulfi, and left the restaurant, it was a quarter to three. Mr Ghoshal and Mr Gupte returned to the studio. Some of the dialogue still remained to be written. Writing the dialogue always took time, Mr Ghoshal informed us, as every word had to shine and sparkle. Mr Gupte simply smiled, without removing the cigar from his mouth. I noticed that although he wrote all the dialogue in a film, he spoke very little himself.

We bought some paan and climbed back into the car. ‘Shalimar?’ asked our driver.

‘It would be silly,’ Feluda remarked, ‘to return to Calcutta without having seen the Gateway to India. Please take us to the Taj Mahal Hotel.’

‘Very well, sir,’ the driver replied. He could tell we had all the time in the world, and were interested only in seeing the place. So he drove around the city and showed us Victoria Terminus, Flora Fountain, the television station and the Prince of Wales Museum, before reaching the Gateway to India at around half past three. We got out of the car.

Behind the Gateway was the Arabian Sea. I counted eleven ships in it, big and small. The road here was very wide. To the left, facing the Gateway, was a statue of Shivaji, astride his horse. To our left was the world-famous Taj Mahal Hotel. We could hardly leave without seeing it from inside. From the outside it was just awesome.

My head began reeling as we stepped into the cool lobby. Where had I come? I had never seen so many people from so many different communities. Arabs seemed to outnumber other foreign visitors. But why? When I asked Feluda, he said it was because they could not travel to Beirut. So they had all come to Bombay to have a holiday. Thanks to the oil in their country, money was not a problem for them.

We roamed in the lobby for about five minutes before returning to the car. By the time we finally reached Shivaji Castle and were pressing the button for the lift, it was two minutes past four.

We emerged on the twelfth floor. There were three doors on different sides. The one in the middle had a sign saying, ‘G. Gore’. On our ringing the bell, a bearer wearing a uniform opened the door.

‘Please come in!’ he said. Obviously, we were expected.

As we stepped in, we heard Mr Gore's voice before he could be seen. ‘Come in, come in!’ his voice greeted us. Then we saw him coming down a narrow passage with a smile on his face. ‘How was your lunch?’

‘Very, very good!’ Lalmohan babu replied.

Mr Gore's living room was amazing. It was so large that I think almost the entire ground floor of our house in Calcutta would have fitted into it. On one side was a row of windows through which one could watch the sea. All the furniture was expensive—each piece had probably cost two or three thousand rupees. Apart from those, there was wall-to-wall carpeting, paintings on the wall, and a chandelier hung from the ceiling. A huge bookcase took up one side of the room. The books in it looked so glossy that it seemed as if they had only just been bought.

Feluda and I took a settee with a soft, thickly padded seat. Lalmohan sat on a similarly padded chair. At once, a very large dog came into the room and stood in its centre, turning its head to look first at the chair, and then at the settee. Lalmohan babu turned visibly pale. Feluda stretched a hand and snapped his fingers. The dog went to him immediately. I learnt later that it was a Great Dane.

‘Duke! Duke!’

The dog left Feluda and went towards a door. Mr Gore had waited until we were seated, then he had left us for a few moments. Now he returned to the room with an envelope in his hand, and sat on another chair by Lalmohan babu's side.

‘I had meant to keep this ready for you,’ he said to Lalmohan babu, ‘but I had to take three trunk calls, so I didn't get the time.’

He offered the envelope to Lalmohan babu, who managed to steady his shaking hand and took it casually. Then he slipped his hand into it and took out a wad of hundred-rupee notes.

‘Please count them,’ Mr Gore advised.

‘C-count them?’

‘Of course. You must. There should be one hundred notes there.’

By the time Lalmohan babu finished counting, a silver tea service had been placed before us. One sip told me that it was the best quality Darjeeling tea.

‘I haven't really learnt anything about you,’ Mr Gore turned to Feluda.

‘There's nothing to learn. I am Mr Ganguli's friend, that's all.’

‘No, sir. That is not enough. You are no ordinary person. Your eyes, your voice, your height, walk, body—nothing is ordinary. If you don't want to tell me about yourself, that's fine. But if you say you are no more than Mr Ganguli's friend, I cannot believe that!’

Feluda smiled, sipped his tea and changed the subject. ‘I see that you have a lot of books,’ he said.

‘Yes, but I do not read them. Those books are only for show. The Taraporewala Book Shop has a standing order … they send me a copy of every good book that comes out.’

‘I can even see a Bengali book there!’

Goodness, how sharp Feluda's eyes were! Even from a distance he had spotted a solitary Bengali book amongst the rows of books in English.

Mr Gore laughed. ‘Not only Bengali, Mr Mitter, I have books in Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati—everything. I know a man who can read Hindi, Bengali and Gujarati. He reads novels in all those languages, and makes synopses for me. I have even read the outline of Mr Ganguli's novel. You see, Mr Mitter, in order to make a film …’