The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (22 page)

We left for Rumtek as planned, taking the road to Siliguri. The same road turned right to join a new road that went straight up to Rumtek. Both roads passed through picturesque villages and green and gold maize fields. I found the ride thoroughly enjoyable, despite the fact that the sun had disappeared and the sky had started to turn grey.

Our driver was driving very cautiously. Feluda and I sat with him in the front. Helmut and Mr Sarkar sat at the back, facing each other. Helmut’s foot, he said, was now a lot better. The pain had gone, thanks to a German pain balm he had used. Mr Sarkar seemed much more cheerful. I Could hear him humming a Hindi song. Only Feluda was totally silent and withdrawn. I knew he was trying very hard to find answers to those six questions. If we hadn’t already planned this trip, he would have spent the afternoon scribbling in his notebook.

Our jeep turned right, bringing into view new houses and buildings, and rows of what looked like bunting. I learnt later that Tibetans hung square pieces of cloth from ropes outside their houses in the belief that they ward off evil spirits.

A few minutes later, a faint noise that had already reached my ears grew louder. It was a mixture of the deep and sombre sound of a horn, clanking of cymbals and a shrill note from a flute. This must be the music for the Lama dance, I thought, as our jeep pulled up outside the huge gate of the monastery. ‘The Lamas are dan-dancing,’ informed Mr Sarkar, possibly for Helmut’s benefit. All of us climbed out.

Passing through the gate, we found ourselves in a large open courtyard. A beautiful blue and white embroidered shamiana stood over it. The audience sat under the shamiana. About ten men, wearing bright costumes and rather grotesque masks, were dancing before this audience, jumping and swaying to the music. The musicians were all dressed in red. Small boys—barely ten years old—were blowing the horns, each one of which was several feet long. I had never seen anything like it.

Helmut started taking photos. He was carrying three cameras today.

‘Would you like to sit down?’ asked Mr Sarkar.

‘What do you want to do?’ Feluda said.

‘I have seen this kind of thing before, in Kalimpong. I’m going to have a look at the temple behind this courtyard. Its inside walls are supposed to be beautifully carved.’

Mr Sarkar left. Feluda and I sat down on the floor. ‘Tradition is a strange thing,’ remarked Feluda. ‘A traditional dance like this can make you forget you’re living in the twentieth century. I don’t think this form of dance has changed at all in the last thousand years.’

‘Why is this place called a gumpha?’

‘No, this isn’t a gumpha. A gumpha is a cave. This is a monastery. See those little rooms on the other side? That’s where the monks stay. All these little boys with shaved heads, wearing long Tibetan robes are being trained to become monks. In a monas—’ Feluda broke off. I looked at him quickly to find him frowning, his mouth hanging open. Now what was the matter? What had he suddenly thought of? ‘It’s this mountain air,’ he said finally, shaking his head. ‘It’s affecting my brain. I’ve stopped thinking. Why did it take me so long to work out what that telegram meant? It’s so simple!’

‘How is it simple? I still can’t—’

‘Look, it said “sick”. That means Sikkim. And “monster” is monastery.’

‘Hey, that makes sense! What does the whole thing say?’

‘
YOUR
SON
MAY
BE
IS
A
SICK
MONSTER
. If you read “
IN
” for “
IS
”, it says
YOUR
SON
MAY
BE
IN
A
SIKKIM
MONASTERY
.’

‘Does that mean Mr Shelvankar’s son, who left home fifteen years ago, is here right now?’

‘That’s what Pritex said. If Shelvankar had managed to figure out the meaning of this telegram, he might well have started to feel hopeful. From what I’ve heard, he loved his son and wanted him back.’

‘Perhaps he was going to that gumpha the day he died only to look for his son.’

‘That’s entirely possible. And if his son was really somewhere in Sikkim, the chances of . . .’ Feluda broke off again. Then I heard him mutter under his breath, ‘Will . . . will . . . if Shelvankar made a will leaving everything to his son, he stood to gain a lot.’ Feluda rose and made his way out of the crowd. I followed quickly. He was
obviously feeling restless, having just discovered what the telegram had really meant. I saw him look around. Was he looking for an Indian among the Tibetans?

We began walking in the direction of the temple, where Mr Sarkar had disappeared a few minutes ago. There were fewer people on the other side of the courtyard. As we passed the rooms in which the monks lived, we saw a couple of very old monks sitting outside in the corridor, turning a prayer wheel silently, their eyes closed. If their heavily wrinkled faces were anything to go by, they must have been a hundred years old.

Behind the rooms was a long veranda. Its walls were covered with pictures depicting scenes from the Buddha’s life. The veranda led to a dark hall. Inside it, flickering oil lamps stood in rows. A huge wooden door, painted red, had been thrown open, but there was no one at the door. Feluda and I stepped in quietly.

The dark, damp hall was filled with a strange scent of incense. Incredibly long lengths of bright silk, heavily embroidered, hung from the high ceiling. Benches, draped in colourful fabrics, stood in corners, as did what looked like very large drums. These were supported by bamboo rods. Behind these, in the darkest corner of the hall, were a number of tall statues, chiefly of the Buddha. Flowers had been arranged in a number of vases, and the oil lamps I had seen from outside were placed under the statues.

I was totally engrossed in looking at these things when suddenly Feluda placed a hand on my shoulder. I looked up swiftly and found him staring at a side entrance to the hall. A much smaller door on one side was open.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said, speaking through clenched teeth, and started to move towards the door.

We emerged from the hall to find a flight of stairs going up. ‘I can’t tell where he went, but let’s go upstairs, anyway,’ Feluda said.

‘Where who went?’ I whispered, running up the stairs.

‘A man in red. He was peeping into the hall. Ran away the moment he realized I had seen him.’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘No, it was too dark.’

We found a room on the first floor, but its door was closed. Perhaps this was the senior Lama’s room, who had recently returned from Tibet. On the left was an open terrace. Here again, pieces of cloth hung from ropes. Strains of the music from the courtyard down
below reached my ears. A dance like this could go on for seven or eight hours.

We walked across the terrace and stood by a railing, overlooking a green valley. A mist had started to rise, slowly engulfing everything that was visible. ‘If Shelvankar’s son was here—’ Feluda began, but was interrupted by a loud scream.

‘Help me! Oh God . . . save! . . . help . . . help!’

It was Mr Sarkar’s voice.

We ran back to the stairs. It took us less than a minute to get down and find the rear exit from the monastery. We rushed out to find that the shrieks for help were coming from the bottom of a hill. The area was uneven, dotted with bushes and shrubs, one end leading to a steep drop of about a hundred feet. It was here that Mr Sarkar was hanging from a bush, right at the edge of the hill. Our appearance made him shout even louder. ‘I am d-d-dying . . . save me, please save me!’

It wasn’t too difficult to pull him up to safety. But the instant his feet touched solid ground, he rolled his eyes and fainted. Then we had to carry him back to the jeep and splash cold water on his face. He came round in a few moments and sat up slowly.

‘What happened?’ asked Feluda.

‘D-don’t remind me!’ Mr Sarkar whimpered. ‘After that long journey, I n-n-needed to . . . I mean . . . relieve myself, you see . . . so I thought I’d better go out of the monastery, and I found this place that seemed quite suitable, but . . . but who knew I had been followed?’

‘Did someone give you a push from the back?’

‘Absolutely. It was h-horrible! If I hadn’t found that bush to hang on to, that Tibetan warning would have come t-true, in no t-time!’

‘Did you see the man?’

‘No, of course not! He stole up behind me, didn’t he?’

There was no point in staying on in Rumtek after an incident like this. We decided to go back to Gangtok immediately. Helmut, who had seen us coming back to the jeep, agreed to return with us, although I suspect he was disappointed at not being able to take more photos.

Feluda had sunk into silence once more. But he spoke suddenly as our driver started the jeep. ‘Mr Sarkar,’ he said, ‘surely you realize
you have a certain responsibility in this whole business?’

‘Res-responsibility?’ croaked Mr Sarkar.

‘There’s no way we can figure out who’s trying to frighten you unless you tell us what—or who—you are after.’

Mr Sarkar sat up, looking profoundly distressed. ‘I swear, sir—I promise—I’ve never caused anyone any harm. Not knowingly, anyway.’

‘You don’t happen to have an identical twin, do you?’

‘No, no. I am the only child of my parents.’

‘Hm. I assume you’re telling the truth. Mind you, it you tell me a lie, it is you who is going to be in trouble.’

The rest of the journey was made in total silence. Feluda spoke again only when our jeep stopped at the dak bungalow and Helmut tried to pay his share.

‘No, no,’ Feluda said, ‘we invited you, didn’t we? Besides, you are a guest in our country. We cannot allow you to pay a single paisa.’

‘All right.’ Helmut smiled. ‘Will you at least allow me to offer you a cup of tea?’

This seemed like a very good idea, so all of us got out. Feluda and Mr Sarkar paid the driver. Helmut then took us to his room.

We had just found three chairs for ourselves, and Helmut had placed his cameras on the table, when a strange man walked into the room and greeted Helmut with a smile. A thick beard—flecked with grey—covered most of his face. Long hair came down to his shoulders. He was clad in loose flannel trousers and a shapeless orange jacket with a high neck. In his hand was a stout walking-stick.

Helmut smiled back, and turned to us. ‘Allow me to introduce you,’ he said. ‘This is Dr Vaidya.’

‘Are you from Bengal?’ Dr Vaidya asked. He spoke with a funny accent.

‘Yes,’ Feluda replied. ‘Helmut has told us about you.’

‘Helmut is a nice boy,’ Dr Vaidya nodded, ‘but I’ve had to warn him about one thing. People here don’t normally like being photographed. You see, it is their belief that if a part of a person is represented somewhere else in a different form, it reduces the vital
force—the ability to live—of that person.’

‘Do you believe this yourself?’

‘What I believe is of no consequence, at least not to Helmut. He hasn’t stopped taking pictures, has he? Why, I have been captured in his camera, too! What I say is this: one cannot disregard anything in life without studying it, or examining it thoroughly. I still have a lot to learn.’

‘But there’s such a lot you know already! I’ve heard you can see the future and even speak to the dead.’

‘No, not always.’ Dr Vaidya gave a slight smile. ‘A lot depends on the immediate surroundings. But there are certain things that are fairly easy to tell. For instance, I can tell that this gentleman here is under a lot of stress,’ he pointed at Mr Sarkar, who licked his lips nervously.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Feluda said. ‘Somebody is trying to threaten him. He thinks his life is in danger. Can you tell us who is doing this?’

Dr Vaidya closed his eyes. He opened them a few seconds later and stared out of the window absently. ‘Agent,’ he said.

‘Agent?’

‘Yes. A man must be punished for his sins. Sometimes he is punished by the Almighty. At other times, God sends His agents out to do this job.’

‘Enough!’ shouted Mr Sarkar. His voice shook. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

Dr Vaidya smiled again. ‘I am saying all this only because your friend asked me. If you can learn something yourself, there’s no need to go looking for a teacher. But one thing I must tell you. If you wish to live, you will have to tread most carefully.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Mr Sarkar.

‘I can’t say anything more than that.’

The tea arrived. Helmut poured it out and passed the cups around.

‘I believe you met Mr Shelvankar,’ said Feluda, sipping his tea. ‘Yes. It’s all very sad. I did warn him about a rough patch he might have to go through. But death? No, that’s a different matter altogether, and no one has any control over it.’

No one spoke after this. We drank our tea in silence. Helmut sorted a few papers out on his table. Mr Sarkar stared absently into space, apparently unaware that his tea was getting cold. Only Feluda
seemed totally at ease, happily finishing the biscuits that had arrived with the tea. After a while, Helmut rose to switch on a light. Daylight had almost gone by this time. But it turned out that there was a power cut. ‘I’ll get some candles,’ said Helmut and went out to look for the bearer.

Feluda turned to Dr Vaidya again. ‘Do you really believe Mr Shelvankar’s death was accidental?’

Dr Vaidya took a moment to reply. Then he said, ‘Only one person knows the answer to that question.’

‘Who?’

‘The person who died. Only he knows the truth. We who are living look upon this world and this life through eyes that take in every irrelevant and unnecessary detail. Just look out of that window. All those mountains and trees and rivers are irrelevant. They stand as a screen between ourselves and the truth. But death opens an inner eye that sees nothing but what is real and of true significance.’

Most of this speech went over my head, but I was sure Feluda had understood every word. ‘You mean it is only Mr Shelvankar who could tell how he died?’ Feluda asked.

‘Yes. He couldn’t have known the truth when he died. But now . . . yes, now he knows exactly what happened.’

I shivered suddenly. There was something eerie in the atmosphere, in so much talk about death, and the way Dr Vaidya smiled in the dark. It gave me goose-pimples.

The bearer came in at this moment. He cleared the table and placed a candle on it. Feluda took out a packet of Charminar, offered it to everyone else in the room, then lit one himself. ‘It may be a good idea to consult Mr Shelvankar and see what he thinks,’ he remarked, blowing out a smoke ring. I knew he had read a lot on seances and most things supernatural. He kept an open mind on every subject, never hesitating to read or hear about other people’s views, even if he didn’t believe in something himself.

Dr Vaidya closed his eyes. A few moments later, he opened them and said, ‘Shut the door and windows.’ There was something authoritative in his tone. Mr Sarkar got up like a man hypnotized and obeyed silently. We were left sitting around the table in the faint flickering light of the candle. On my right was Dr Vaidya. On my left sat Feluda. Mr Sarkar sat next to him. Helmut finished the circle.

‘Place your hands, palms down, on this table. Your fingers must
touch your neighbour’s,’ commanded Dr Vaidya. We did as we were told. Dr Vaidya placed his own hands between mine and Helmut’s, and said, ‘Look straight at that candle and think of the death of Shelvankar.’

The candle was burning steadily. A few drops of wax had fallen on the table. A small insect, trapped in the room, began buzzing around the flame. God knows how long we sat in silence. I did cast a few sidelong glances at Dr Vaidya, but he couldn’t have seen me for his own eyes were closed.

After a long time, he spoke. His voice sounded very faint as though he was speaking from a great distance. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked. Feluda answered him. ‘Did Mr Shelvankar die in an accident?’

‘No,’ said that faint, strange voice.

‘How did he die?’

Silence. All of us were now gazing at Dr Vaidya. He was leaning back in his chair. His eyes were shut tight. Lightning flashed outside, lighting up our room for a second. Feluda’s question was answered the same instant.

‘Murder,’ said Dr Vaidya.

‘Mu-h-h-u-rder?’ Mr Sarkar gasped.

‘Who killed him?’ Feluda wanted to know. He was staring at Dr Vaidya’s hands. Dr Vaidya sighed. Then he began breathing hard, as though the act of breathing was causing him a great deal of pain. ‘Virendra!’ he finally whispered. Virendra? Who was he? Feluda started to speak, but Dr Vaidya opened his eyes unexpectedly and said, ‘A glass of water, please.’

Helmut rose and poured him water from his flask. Feluda waited until Dr Vaidya had finished drinking it. Then he asked, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of finding out who this Virendra is?’

Helmut answered him this time. ‘Virendra is Mr Shelvankar’s son. He told me about him.’

It was now time for us to leave. All of us stood up. Helmut opened the door and windows. The power came back a second later.

‘You get nervous rather easily, don’t you?’ said Dr Vaidya, placing a hand on Mr Sarkar’s shoulder. Mr Sarkar tried to smile. ‘Anyway, I don’t think you are in any danger now,’ Dr Vaidya told him reassuringly. This time, Mr Sarkar smiled more naturally, looking visibly relieved.

‘How long are you here for?’ Feluda asked Dr Vaidya.

‘I’d like to go to Pemiangchi tomorrow, if it doesn’t rain. I’ve heard they’ve got some ancient valuable manuscripts in the monastery there.’

‘Are you making a study of Tibet and the Tibetan culture?’

‘Yes, you might call it that. It’s the only ancient civilization that’s left in the world. Egypt, Iraq, Mesopotamia . . . each one of those got destroyed. But for that matter, what is left in India, tell me? It’s all a great hotch-potch. It’s only Tibet that’s managed to retain most of what it had. Luckily, some of the old monasteries in Sikkim have got pieces of their art and culture, so one doesn’t have to go all the way to Tibet to find them.’

We came out, to find that the sky was covered by thick, dark clouds, being frequently ripped by lightning. It was certain that it would start raining again.

‘Why don’t you go to Pemiangchi as well?’ Dr Vaidya asked. ‘Yes, we might do that. I’ve heard a lot about the place.’

‘If you do, don’t forget to take a bag of salt with you.’

‘Salt? Whatever for?’

‘Leeches. There’s nothing like salt to get rid of them.’