The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (26 page)

‘Is this Hemanga Hajra a famous parapsychologist?’

‘Yes, one of the best known. He’s been abroad, given lectures, and I think even formed a society.’

‘Do you believe in such things?’

‘What I believe is simply that it is foolish to accept or reject anything without sufficient evidence. If you don’t keep an open mind, you’re a fool. One look at history would show you plenty of examples of such stupidity. There was a time when some people thought that the earth was flat. Did you know that? They also thought that the earth came to an end at one particular point, and you couldn’t travel beyond that. But when the navigator Magellan began his journey round the world from one place and returned to the same spot, all those who thought the earth was flat began scratching their heads. Then there have been people who thought the earth was fixed, and other planets, even the sun, moved around it. Some thought the sky was like a huge bowl turned upside down. All the stars were fixed on it like jewels, they thought. It was Copernicus who proved that the sun remained stationary, and the earth and other planets in the solar system orbited the sun. But Copernicus thought this movement
followed a circular motion. Then Kepler came along and proved that everything moved in elliptic curves. After that, Galileo . . . but anyway, there’s no point in talking about all that. Your mind is too young, and too immature to grasp such things!’

Clever detective though he was, Feluda did not seem to realize one simple thing. None of his jibes and jeers was going to spoil my excitement because my heart was already telling me that the holidays were going to be spent in Rajasthan. We would see a new place, and unravel a new mystery. What remained to be tested was the strength of my own telepathy.

Feluda had told Mr Dhar that he would take a day to make up his mind. But within an hour of Mr Dhar’s departure, he decided that he would go to Rajasthan. When he told me about it, I asked, ‘I am going with you, aren’t I?’

‘If you can name five places in Rajasthan that have forts—all within a minute—then you might stand a chance.’

‘Jodhpur, Jaipur, Chittor, Bikaner and . . . and . . . Bundi!’ Feluda glanced at his watch and sprang to his feet. It took him exactly three and a half minutes to change from a kurta pyjama into a shirt and trousers. ‘It’s Sunday, so Fairlie Place will stay open till twelve o’clock. Let me go quickly and make our reservations,’ he said.

It was one o’clock by the time Feluda returned. The first thing he did upon his return was to look up Hemanga Hajra’s phone number in the directory and ring him. When I asked him why he was calling someone who was out of town, Feluda said, ‘I needed proof that what Mr Dhar told us was true.’

‘And did you get it?’

‘Yes.’

After lunch, Feluda spent the whole afternoon stretched on his bed, a pillow tucked under his chest, going through five different books. Two of them were Pelican books on parapsychology. Feluda said he had borrowed them from a friend. Of the others, one was Todd’s book on Rajasthan, the second was called A Guide to India, Pakistan, Burma and Ceylon, and the third was a book on Indian history, but I can’t remember who wrote it.

In the evening, when we’d had our tea, Feluda said, ‘Get ready, we’re going out. We need to visit Mr Dhar.’

By this time, I had told Baba about our plans. He was very pleased to hear that we were going to Rajasthan. He had been there twice in his childhood with my grandfather. ‘Don’t miss Chittor,’ he told me. ‘The fort in Chittor is quite awe-inspiring. It’s easy enough to guess what made the Rajputs such brave warriors.’

We arrived at Mr Dhar’s house at around half past six. When he heard that Feluda was prepared to go to Rajasthan, Mr Dhar looked both relieved and grateful. ‘I do not know how to thank you!’ he exclaimed.

‘It isn’t yet time to start thanking me, Mr Dhar. You must assume that we are going purely as tourists, not because you asked us to. Anyway, we have very little time. There are two things we need. One is a photo of your son. The other is a chat with Neelu, that boy who was kidnapped.’

‘Let me see what I can do. Usually, Neelu is never at home in the evenings, especially now that Puja is round the corner. But I don’t think that today he’ll be allowed to go out on his own. Wait, I’ll get that photo.’

Shivratan Mukherjee, the solicitor, lived only three houses away, on the same side of the road. We found him at home, having a cup of tea in his living room with another gentleman. Mr Mukherjee’s visitor seemed to have a skin disease—there were white patches on his face. When Mr Dhar explained why we were there, Mr Mukherjee remarked, ‘My grandson seems to have become quite famous, thanks to your son! Please sit down. Manohar!’

Manohar turned out to be his servant. ‘Bring more tea,’ Mr Mukherjee told him, ‘and see if you can find Neelu. Tell him I’ve sent for him.’

We found ourselves three chairs placed by the side of a large table. The walls on both sides were covered by very tall bookcases, almost reaching the ceiling. They were crammed with fat tomes. Feluda had once told me that no one needed to consult books as much as a lawyer.

While we were waiting for Neelu, I had a look at Mukul’s photo. It had been taken on their roof. The little boy was standing in the sun, frowning straight at the camera. There was no smile on his face.

Mr Mukherjee said, ‘We asked Neelu a lot of questions, too. At
first, he was in such a state of shock that he wasn’t talking at all. Now he appears more normal.’

‘Have the police been told?’ Feluda asked.

‘Yes, we told the police when he went missing. But he came back before the police could do anything.’

The servant returned with Neelu. Mr Dhar was right. Neelu did bear a strong resemblance to the boy in the photo. He looked at us suspiciously. Clearly, he had not yet got over his ordeal.

Suddenly, Feluda asked him, ‘Did you hurt your hand, Neelu?’ Mr Mukherjee opened his mouth to say something, but Feluda made a gesture and stopped him. Neelu answered the question himself. ‘When they pulled my hand, it burned a lot.’

There was a cut over his wrist, clearly visible.

‘They? You mean there was more than one person?’

‘One man covered my eyes and my mouth. Then he picked me up and put me in a car. Another man drove the car. I felt very scared.’

‘So would I,’ Feluda told him. ‘In fact, I would have felt much more scared than you. You are very brave. When they caught you, what were you doing?’

‘I was going to Moti’s house. They have a Durga Puja in their house. I wanted to see the idol. Moti is in my class.’

‘Was it very quiet in the streets? Not many people about?’

‘The day before yesterday,’ Mr Mukherjee informed us, ‘we had some trouble here. A bomb went off. So, since last evening, there have been fewer people out in the streets.’

Feluda nodded and said, ‘Hmm.’ Then he turned to Neelu once more. ‘Where did they take you?’

‘I don’t know. They tied a cloth over my eyes. The car drove on and on.’

‘And then?’

‘Then they made me sit in a chair. One of them said, “Which school do you go to?” I told him. Then he said, “We’re going to ask you a few questions. Tell us exactly what you know. If you do, we’ll drop you in front of your school. Can you go home from there?” So I said, “Yes.” Then I said, “You must hurry, my mother will scold me if I get late!” Then he said, “Where is the golden fortress?” I said, “I don’t know, and nor does Mukul. He only knows there’s a fort, that’s all.” Then the two men began talking with each other in English. I heard them say, “Mistake!” One man said to me, “What’s
your name?” I said, “Mukul’s my friend, but he’s gone to Rajasthan.” He said, “Do you know where in Rajasthan he’s gone?” I told him, “Jaipur!”’

‘You said Jaipur?’ Feluda asked him.

‘N-no, no. Jodhpur. Yes, that’s what I said. Jodhpur.’

Neelu stopped. All of us remained silent. The servant had placed tea and sweets before us, but no one seemed interested in them.

‘Can you think of anything else?’ Feluda prompted Neelu. Neelu thought for a minute. Then he said, ‘One of them was smoking a cigarette. No, no, it was a cigar.’

‘Do you know how a cigar smells?’

‘Yes, my uncle smokes them.’

‘All right. Where did you sleep at night?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? What do you mean?’

‘Well, they said, “Here’s some milk. Drink it.” Then someone handed me a very heavy glass. I drank the milk, then fell asleep. I was still sitting in the chair!’

‘And then? When you woke up?’

Neelu looked uncertainly at his grandfather. Mr Mukherjee smiled. ‘He woke up only after he was brought home,’ he explained. ‘They left him outside his school, possibly very early this morning. He was still asleep. The man who delivers our newspaper every day happened to be passing by a little later, and saw him. It was he who came and told us. Then I went with my son and brought him back. Our doctor has seen him. He said Neelu was given a sleeping draught—probably a heavier dose than what might normally be given to a child.’

Feluda looked grave. He picked up his cup of tea and muttered under his breath, ‘Scoundrels!’ Then, he patted Neelu’s back and said, ‘Thank you, Neelu Babu. You may go now.’

When we had said goodbye to Mr Mukherjee and were out in the street once more, Mr Dhar asked, ‘Do you think there’s reason for concern?’

‘What I can see is that some greedy and reckless people have become unduly curious about your son. What’s difficult to say is whether they’ll really go all the way to Rajasthan. By the way, I think you should write to Dr Hajra, just to introduce me. After all, he doesn’t know me. So if I can show him your letter, it will help.’

Mr Dhar wrote the letter, handed it to Feluda and offered to pay for our travel once more. Feluda paid no attention. As we approached
our bus stop, Mr Dhar said, ‘Please let me know, sir, when you get there and find them. I’ll be ever so worried. Dr Hajra has promised to write as well. But even if he doesn’t, you must . . . at least one letter . . .!’

On reaching home, Feluda took out his famous blue notebook (volume six) before either of us began packing. Then he sat down on his bed and said, ‘Let’s get some dates sorted out. When did Dr Hajra leave with Mukul to go to Rajasthan?’

‘Yesterday, 9 October.’

‘When was Neelu kidnapped?’

‘Yesterday, in the evening.’

‘And he returned this morning, that’s 10 October. We are leaving tomorrow morning, the 11th. We’ll reach Agra on the 12th. Then we’ll have to change trains there, and catch one in the evening that goes to Bandikui. Leave Bandikui at midnight, and reach Marwar the same day . . . that’ll be the 13th evening . . . 13th . . . 13th . . .’.

Feluda continued to mutter and did some funny calculations. Then he said, ‘Geometry. Even here you’ll find geometry. A single point . . . and there are various lines converging to meet that point. Geometry!’

Half an hour ago, we boarded a train at the Agra Fort station to go to Bandikui. We had about three hours to kill in Agra. So we went to see the Taj Mahal again—after ten years—and Feluda gave me a short lecture on the geometry of the building.

Yesterday, before leaving Calcutta, we had to attend to some important business. Perhaps I should mention it here. Since the Toofan Express left at 9.30 in the morning, we were both up quite early. At around six o’clock, after we’d had tea, Feluda said, ‘We ought to visit Uncle Sidhu before we go. If he can give us some information, it will really help.’

Uncle Sidhu lives in Sardar Shankar Road, which is only five minutes from our Tara Road. Uncle Sidhu is a strange character. He spent most of his life doing various kinds of businesses, earning a lot of money, and then losing much of it. Now he has retired. His main passion is books. He buys them in large numbers, and spends some of his time on reading, and the rest on playing chess all by
himself. Sometimes, he consults a book on chess in between making moves.

His other passion is food—or rather, experimenting with food. He likes mixing one item with another. According to him, yoghurt mixed with an omelette tastes like ambrosia. To tell the truth, he is not related to us. He used to live next door to us back in our ancestral village (which I have never seen). So he’s like an elder brother to my father, and we call him ‘uncle’.

When we reached his house, he was seated on a low stool, blocking the entrance through his front door, and having his hair cut by his barber, although he has no hair except for some around the back of his head. Upon seeing us, he moved his stool a little and allowed us to go through. ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ he said. ‘Yell for Narayan, he’ll give you some tea.’

Uncle Sidhu’s room was very simply furnished. There was only a divan, two chairs and three very large bookcases. Books covered half the divan. We knew that the little empty space on it was where Uncle Sidhu liked to sit, so we took the two chairs. Feluda had remembered to bring the book he’d borrowed, which was still covered with newspaper. He slipped it back into an empty slot on a shelf.

The barber continued to work on Uncle Sidhu’s hair. ‘Felu,’ said Uncle Sidhu, ‘you are a detective. I hope you’ve read up on the history of criminal investigation? It doesn’t matter what you specialize in. If you know something about the history of your profession, you’ll gain more confidence and find your work much more interesting.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Feluda replied politely.

‘Who was the first to discover the technique of identifying a criminal through his fingerprints? Can you tell me?’

Feluda winked at me and said, ‘I can’t remember. I did read about it somewhere, but now . . .’.

I could tell that Feluda knew the answer all right, but was pretending that he didn’t, just to please Uncle Sidhu.

‘Hmm. Most people would immediately tell you that it was Alphonse Bertillon. But that’s wrong. The correct name is Juan Vucatich. Remember that. He was from Argentina. He was the first to emphasize the importance of thumbprints. Then he divided those prints into four categories. A few years later, Henry from England strengthened the system.’

Feluda glanced at his watch and decided to come straight to the
point. ‘You may have heard of Dr Hemanga Hajra, the parapsychologist—?’

‘Certainly,’ said Uncle Sidhu, ‘Why, I saw his name in the papers only the other day! What’s he done? Something fishy? But he’s not the kind of man to get mixed up in funny business. On the contrary, he has exposed others . . . cheats and frauds.’

‘Really?’ Feluda looked up. We were about to hear an interesting story.

‘Yes, don’t you know about it? It happened about four years ago, and was reported in the press. A Bengali gentleman—no, I should not call him a gentleman, he was actually a scoundrel—started a centre for spiritual healing in Chicago. Bang in the city centre. Clients poured in every day. The Americans have plenty of money, and are easily impressed by new ideas. This Bengali claimed that he could use hypnotism and cure even the most complex diseases. The same sort of thing that Anton Mesmer did in Europe in the eighteenth century. Perhaps the Bengali managed to cure a couple of patients— that’s not unusual; a few stray cases would be successful. But, around the same time, Hajra arrived in Chicago on a lecture tour. He went to see things for himself, and caught the man out. Oh God, it was a scandal! In the end, the American government forced him to leave the country. Yes, yes . . . I can remember his name now . . . he called himself Bhavananda. That man, Hajra, though, is a solid character. At least, that’s the impression one gets from his articles. I’ve got two of them. See in the right hand corner of that bookcase on your left. You’ll find three journals of the Parapsychological Society.’

Feluda borrowed all three journals. Now, sitting on the train, he was leafing through them. I was looking out of the window and watching the scenery. A little while ago, we had left Uttar Pradesh and entered Rajasthan.

‘The sun here has a different brilliance. No wonder the men are so powerful!’

These words in Bengali came from the bench opposite us. It was a four-berth compartment, and there were four passengers. The man who had spoken those words looked perfectly meek and mild, was very thin and probably shorter than me by at least two inches. And I was only fifteen, so it was likely that I’d grow taller with time. This man was at least thirty-five; there was no chance that his height would ever change. As he was dressed in a bush shirt and trousers, I had been unable to guess from his clothes that he was another Bengali.

He glanced at Feluda, smiled and said, ‘I’ve been listening to your conversation for a long time. I’m lucky to have found fellow Bengalis so far away from home. In fact, I’d assumed that for a whole month I’d be forced to boycott my mother tongue!’

Feluda asked, possibly purely out of politeness, ‘Are you going far?

‘Up to Jodhpur. Then I’ll decide where else I might go. What about yourselves?’

‘We are going to Jodhpur, too.’

‘Oh, wonderful. Are you also a writer?’

‘Oh no,’ Feluda smiled, ‘I am only a reader. Do you write?’

‘Are you familiar with the name of Jatayu?’

‘Jatayu?’ I asked. ‘The writer of all those thrillers?’ I had read one or two of his books—Shivers in the Sahara and The Ferocious Foe. I had borrowed them from our school library.

‘You are Jatayu?’ Feluda asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ the man flashed his teeth, his head bent in a bow. ‘I am Jatayu. At your service. I write under that pseudonym. Namaskar.’

‘Namaskar. My name is Pradosh Mitter. And this is Sreeman Tapeshranjan.’

How could Feluda keep a straight face? I could feel laughter bubbling up inside me, threatening to burst forth. This was Jatayu? And I used to think a writer who could write such tales would have looks to match—perhaps even James Bond would be put in the shade!

‘My real name is Lalmohan Ganguli. But please don’t tell anyone. A pseudonym—like a disguise—must never be revealed. I mean, if it is, then it loses its impact, don’t you think?’

We had bought a packet of sweet gulabi rewri in Agra. Feluda offered the packet to Jatayu and said, ‘You seem to have been on the move for some time!’

‘Yes, that’s . . .’ Jatayu picked up a rewri and suddenly broke off, looking a bit confused. Then he threw a startled glance at Feluda and asked, ‘How can you tell?’

Feluda smiled. ‘The strap on your wristwatch slips at times. When it does, it exposes the only part of your arm that isn’t sunburnt.’

Jatayu’s eyes grew round. ‘Oh my God, what terrific powers of observation you have got! Yes, you’re right. I left home about ten days ago, and travelled to Delhi, Agra and Fatehpur Sikri. So far, I’ve only written about adventures in foreign lands.

‘I live in Bhadreshwar. So I thought I should travel a bit, see new
places, it would help me in my writing. Besides, these areas are much better suited to adventure stories, aren’t they? Look at those barren hills, rising high like biceps and triceps. Our Bengal has no muscles— except, of course, for the Himalayas. You can’t have a successful adventure on the plains!’

The three of us continued to eat the rewri. Then I caught Jatayu casting sidelong glances at Feluda. Finally, he asked, ‘What is your height? Please don’t mind my asking.’

‘Nearly six feet,’ Feluda replied.

‘Oh, that’s a very good height, the same as my hero’s. Prakhar Rudra—you do know his name, don’t you? Prakhar is a Russian name, but it suits a Bengali, too, don’t you think? The thing is, you see, I’ve got my hero to be everything I could never be myself. God knows I tried hard enough. When I was in college, I saw advertisements of Charles Atlas in British magazines. There he was, standing proudly, his chest and all his muscles expanded, his hands on his waist. He looked like a lion! There was not even an ounce of fat on his body. His muscles rippled like waves, from head to toe. And the advertisement said, “If you follow my system, you will look like me within a month!” Well, that may be true of Europeans. In Bengal, that kind of thing is impossible. My father was well off, so I wasted some of his money, sent for their lessons and followed them religiously.

‘Nothing happened. I remained just the same. Then an uncle said, “Try swinging from a curtain rod. You’ll grow taller in a month.” A month? For several months, I swung from a rod until, one day, it came off and I fell down. That dislocated my knee, but my height remained stuck at five feet and three-and-half inches. That told me plainly that even if I were pulled in different directions by two teams— as they do in a tug-of-war—I would never grow any taller. So, eventually, I thought enough was enough. There was no point in thinking about the muscles in my body. I decided to pay more attention to the muscles in my brain. And increase my mental height. I began writing thrillers. But I knew Lalmohan Ganguli was not a name that would help sell books. So I took a pseudonym. Jatayu. A fighter. Just think of the fight he put up with Ravan!’

Although our train was called a ‘fast passenger’, it was stopping at so many stations that it was not able to run for more than twenty minutes at a stretch. Feluda left the journals on parapsychology and began reading a book on Rajasthan. It had pictures of all the forts.
Feluda was looking at those very carefully and reading the descriptions.

On the upper berth opposite us was a man whose moustache and clothes proclaimed clearly that he was not a Bengali. He was eating oranges—one after another—and collecting the peel and other debris on a sheet of a Urdu newspaper spread in front of him.

Feluda was marking a few places in his book with a blue pencil, when Lalmohan Babu said, ‘May I ask you something? Are you a detective?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘No, I mean . . . you could tell so easily about my travelling!’

‘Well, I am interested in that kind of thing.’

‘Good. You’re also going to Jodhpur, didn’t you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘In connection with a mystery? If so, I am going to join you . . . I mean, if you don’t mind, that is. I’ll never get such a chance again.’

‘I hope you wouldn’t object to riding a camel?’

‘A camel? Oh my God!’ Lalmohan Babu’s eyes began to glint. ‘Ship of the desert! It’s always been my dream. I have written about Bedouins in one of my novels—Bloodbath in Arabia. And I’ve mentioned camels in Shivers in the Sahara. It’s a fascinating creature. Just picture the scene. An entire row of camels, travelling through an ocean of sand, mile after mile, carrying their own water supply in their intestines. How romantic—oh!’

‘Er . . . when you wrote your novel, did you mention that bit about the intestines?’

Lalmohan Babu began looking uncertain. ‘Why, is that incorrect?’ Feluda nodded. ‘Yes. You see, the source of the water is actually in a camel’s hump. The hump is really an accumulation of fat. A camel can oxidize that fat and turn it into water. So it can survive without drinking any water for ten to fifteen days. But, once they do find water, camels have been known to drink as much as twenty-five gallons at one go.’

‘Thank goodness you told me all this,’ said Lalmohan Babu. ‘I must correct that mistake in the next edition.’