The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (59 page)

We chatted in Niranjan Babu’s room for a while, then went for a walk. Niranjan Babu came with us.

We came out of the hotel and began walking towards the river. The road turned right and a slope began, to join the steps of the ghat. Beggars lined the steps and amidst them, a large number of goats
roamed freely.

‘What a nose you must have, Felu Babu!’ exclaimed Jatayu. ‘I recognize the smell now, but how could I have forgotten it?’

A strange noise rose above the general noise of the traffic. It was simply the din that came from Dashashwamedh Ghat. Hundreds of people milled around, doing hundreds of different things. ‘Spectacular’ was the word that automatically came to my mind, but I didn’t dare mention it.

I could see the railway bridge from the steps of the ghat. Across the river lay Ram Nagar, where the Maharajah had his palace.

We walked over to Man Mandir Ghat, which was adjacent to Dashashwamedh. There was a building here that contained some astronomical instruments designed nearly three hundred years ago. It was a mini ‘Jantar Mantar’, like the one in Delhi. Feluda began walking towards this building, possibly with a view to looking at these instruments, when something happened.

It was much more quiet here. All that could be heard were strains of a Hindi song being played somewhere on a loudspeaker, and the noise of people washing clothes at the ghat, a few feet below. On our right was a banyan tree. Its top branches leant towards the roof of a yellow two-storey house. A shout from the roof made us all glance up quickly.

A boy was standing on the parapet on top of the roof, facing a red house just opposite. There was obviously someone on the roof of the red house as well, though he was hidden from sight. It was this unseen figure the boy was shouting at.

‘Shaitan Singh!’ he shouted again, like a film hero.

‘That child’s from the Ghoshal family,’ whispered Niranjan Babu. ‘A reckless devil!’

My stomach began to churn. If the boy lost his balance just once, he’d drop straight to the concrete pavement. No one could save him.

‘There is no point in hiding any more!’ he yelled. ‘I know where you are!’

Lalmohan Babu spoke this time. His voice sounded hoarse. ‘Shaitan Singh is a creation of my rival writer Akrur Nandi.’

‘I am coming to get you!’ said the boy. ‘Get ready to surrender.’ The boy disappeared. An instant later, a long bamboo pole appeared from one corner of the roof of the yellow house, stretching to that of the red one, making a bridge between the two.

‘What is he trying to do?’ Feluda said softly.

‘Shaitan Singh, I’ll grab you before you can finish counting up to ten!’ What followed made us break into a cold sweat.

The boy climbed over the railing, and began swinging from the bamboo pole.

‘One . . . two . . . three . . . four. . .’

Shaitan Singh was counting from the red house. The boy started making his way to his adversary, still hanging from the pole.

‘Do something!’ urged Niranjan Babu. ‘My colic pain’s coming back!’

‘Sh-h-h,’ hissed Feluda. There was nothing we could do, except watch breathlessly what happened next.

‘ . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. . . nine . . .’

The boy had reached the opposite house. Now he swung himself over the wall and dropped on to the roof. This was followed by a piercing scream from Shaitan Singh and gleeful laughter from our hero.

‘Did he actually kill him, do you think?’ Lalmohan Babu asked anxiously. ‘I thought I saw something like a dagger hanging from his waist.’

Feluda began striding towards the red house. ‘God knows what the villain is like, but the hero is clearly remarkably brave,’ he said.

‘We must tell the child’s father,’ observed Niranjan Babu.

We didn’t actually have to enter the red house. Just as we reached its front door, we heard footsteps coming down a flight of stairs, and the voice of the first boy.

‘. . . Then he’ll fall into the river with a loud splash, and the river will carry him straight to the sea. Then a shark will come and swallow him. But when this shark charges at Captain Spark, Captain Spark will strike it with a harpoon, and . . .’

He couldn’t finish, for the two boys had come out of the door and seen us. They stopped abruptly, staring. The first one was a very good-looking child, about ten years old. The other seemed a bit older, and clearly not from a Bengali family. Both had chewing gum in their mouth.

Feluda said to the first boy, ‘I can see that your friend is Shaitan Singh. Who are you?’

‘Captain Spark,’ said the boy sharply.

‘Don’t you have another name? What does your father call you?’

‘My name is Captain Spark. Shaitan Singh killed my father in the jungles of Africa with a poisoned arrow. I was seven then. My eyes
sparkle with the light of revenge. That’s why I am called Captain Spark.’

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Lalmohan Babu. ‘This boy seems to have memorized every word Akrur Nandi ever wrote!’

The boy glared at him, then walked away with his friend with infinite dignity. Soon they were both out of sight.

‘A born actor,’ remarked Lalmohan Babu.

‘Do you happen to know the Ghoshals?’ Feluda asked Niranjan Babu.

‘Of course. Everyone in Kashi knows them. They have been living here for nearly a hundred years. That little boy’s grandfather, Ambika Ghoshal, lives here permanently. He used to be a solicitor, but has retired now. The boy’s father, Umanath Ghoshal, lives in Calcutta. He runs a business of his own. He comes here with his family every year before Durga Puja. They have the puja in their own house. Theirs is an old aristocratic family. I believe they once used to be zamindars in East Bengal.’

‘Would it be possible to meet Umanath Babu, do you think?’

‘Why, certainly. We might see him this evening where Ebony Baba is staying. I heard something about Umanath wanting to be initiated as well.’

One look at Ebony Baba told us why Niranjan Babu had chosen the name. I had never seen anyone quite so dark. But that was not all. His skin was so smooth that it seemed as though he was wearing a tight-fitting black costume. His wavy hair rippled down to his shoulders; his beard came down to his chest. Both were jet black. He was well-built, and he didn’t appear to be older than thirty-five. Naturally, he could not swim so much if he wasn’t young and strong. He wore a scarlet lungi, and around his shoulders was draped a red silk scarf. This made him a particularly impressive figure.

The four of us were standing behind a group of devotees. Babaji was sitting on a mat spread on the veranda that faced the courtyard. Behind him were two bolsters covered with yellow velvet. On his left sat an old man with folded hands, his eyes closed. This must be Abhaycharan Chakravarty, I thought. Another man was sitting in one corner of the veranda, singing a Hindi bhajan. Machchli Baba sat in padmasan, swaying his body gently to the rhythm of the song.

He was not going to give out fish scales today. We were to witness
something quite different. Today, the Baba’s followers would tell him how long he was to stay in Varanasi. No one appeared to know quite how this was going to be accomplished.

Lalmohan Babu seemed to have turned quite religious since his arrival here. This morning I had heard him shout ‘Jai Baba Vishwanath!’ more than once at the ghat. Now the very sight of the Baba had made him fold his hands. How did he hope to think up a plot for a thriller if he let his religious fervour carry him away? Or was he hoping the Baba would appear in his dream and reveal a suitable idea for a story?

At this point, a young man came in and joined us. He looked at the crowd, perhaps wondering how he could push his way forward. Niranjan Babu leant towards him and asked, ‘Hasn’t Mr Ghoshal come with you?’

‘No,’ replied the young man. ‘Some guests arrived from Calcutta today, so he decided not to come.’ The man had a polished, smart appearance.

‘Allow me to introduce you,’ Niranjan Babu said. ‘This is Vikas Sinha, Umanath Ghoshal’s secretary. And this is Pradosh Mitter, who’s visiting with his cousin Tapesh here and friend, Lalmohan Ganguli.’

Vikas Sinha frowned. ‘Pradosh Mitter? You mean the Pradosh Mitter, the investigator?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Niranjan Babu raised his voice in excitement, none other. Of course, Mr Ganguli here is also—’

He pointed at Lalmohan Babu, but Mr Sinha continued to stare at Feluda. It seemed as though he wanted to say something, but didn’t know how to begin.

‘Where are you staying?’ he asked at last.

‘In my hotel,’ Niranjan Babu answered for Feluda.

‘All right, I mean . . .’ Vikas Sinha still hesitated. ‘It might be wise . . . never mind, I’ll contact you tomorrow.’ He said ‘namaskar’ to all of us and disappeared into the crowd. At this precise moment, Machchli Baba spoke.

‘One!’ he shouted. The bhajan stopped. Everyone in the crowd fell silent. I noticed for the first time that opposite Abhaycharan was sitting another man with a brightly designed bag in front of him. Next to the bag, lying in a heap, were some strange black objects.

‘There is only one sun, and one moon. One!’ Babaji continued. ‘Two ears and two eyes and two hands and two feet. Two!’

This sounded like pure nonsense to me. There was no way of telling whether anyone else could make head or tail of it. But the Baba was still speaking. ‘The past, present and future—three! The east, west, north and south—four! Water, air, fire, earth and the sky—five! One, two, three, four, five!’ He stopped. Every eye was fixed on him. ‘Thrilling!’ whispered Lalmohan Babu into my ear. The Baba went on counting in this rather cryptic manner until he reached ten, referring to the six seasons, the seven stars in the Great Bear, the eight metals considered pure and very special, the nine planets and, finally, the ten incarnations of Vishnu. Then he stopped and nodded at the man with the bag, who whispered something to him and turned to face the crowd.

‘This bag contains blank pieces of paper,’ said the man in a thin, squeaky voice. ‘You are requested to take a piece of paper and a piece of charcoal from here and write any number from one to ten. Please return the paper to me with your chosen number on it.’

Feluda turned to Niranjan Babu.

‘Will the number that’s written by most people determine the length of his stay?’ he asked.

‘Maybe. He didn’t say, did he?’

‘If that is the case, I don’t think he’s going to be here for more than seven days.’

‘Are you going to write a number?’

‘No. I’m not interested in the Baba’s stay. What I am curious about is something quite different. Tell me, are all these people just stooges, or are there a few well-known people present here?’

‘What are you saying, sir?’ Niranjan Babu raised his eyebrows. ‘Many of these people might be called the cream of Kashi. Look, see that man over there in a white shirt? He’s Srutidhar Mahesh Vachaspati, a Sanskrit scholar of renown. And there’s a well-known doctor, and a bank manager. The man with the bag over there is Abhaycharan’s nephew. He’s a professor of English in Aligarh. You’ll find somebody from every profession, I can tell you. Look at how many women are here. Some of them are well-known and highly qualified, too. And look, look—’ he nodded towards a rather large man, clad in a white kurta, a white zari cap on his head. He was sitting with his back to us.

‘Do you know who he is? That’s Maganlal Meghraj. The richest and most powerful man in Banaras.’

‘Maganlal Meghraj? That seems to ring a bell.’

Niranjan Babu lowered his voice. ‘The police raided his house twice. His office in Calcutta was raided, too.’

‘But nothing was found, I take it?’

‘No, of course not. A man like him knows how to protect himself and keep the police happy.’

We started walking towards the exit. Just as we reached it, Mr Sinha emerged from the crowd. ‘Are you leaving?’ he asked Feluda anxiously. Then continued before Feluda could reply, ‘Do you think you could come to our house right away? I think Mr Ghoshal would be pleased to meet you.’

Feluda glanced at his watch. ‘There’s no reason why we can’t go with you. Only Niranjan Babu may have to return to the hotel.’

‘That’s right,’ said Niranjan Babu. ‘You three go along. But don’t be late getting back if you want your dinner served hot. I’ve ordered a special chicken curry for you!’

‘I have certainly heard of you,’ said Umanath Ghoshal.

Feluda smiled as modestly as he could. Umanath Babu was a mart in his forties. His complexion was as fair as that of his son, and he had light hazel eyes. He now turned these on us and asked, ‘Er . . . these are . . . ?’

‘My cousin, Tapesh,’ said Feluda quickly, ‘and this is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli. He writes stories of adventure under the pseudonym of Jatayu.’

‘Jatayu?’ Umanath Ghoshal raised an eyebrow. ‘I seem to have heard the name. I think Ruku has a number of your books. Isn’t that so, Vikas?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Vikas Sinha. ‘I think so.’

‘You should know! You are the one who buys all those books for him.’

‘I have to, sir. He doesn’t read anything other than adventure and mystery stories.’

‘That’s natural,’ Jatayu piped up, ‘especially at his age.’ I was glad to note that Lalmohan Babu had perked up a little. He had been looking decidedly morose ever since our encounter with Captain Spark. Akrur Nandi was clearly a popular writer and liable to cause Jatayu pangs of envy.

Feluda said, ‘We were going to call on you anyway. You see, we met your son this morning. I don’t know what his real name is, but I’ve learnt the name of the character he was playing.’

‘He does that all the time. In fact, he even gets others to join him. Aren’t you playing a special character for him, Vikas? He calls you by a different name, doesn’t he?’

‘It isn’t just a single name or a single role, sir. I am quite versatile!’ Vikas Sinha laughed.

‘Anyway, where did you meet my son?’

Feluda told him as briefly as he could. Umanath Babu nearly fell off his chair. ‘I don’t believe this! My God, he might have been killed! Vikas, ask Ruku to come here at once!’

Mr Sinha left the room.

‘What is Ruku’s real name?’ asked Feluda.

‘Rukmini Kumar. He’s my only child. So you can imagine how upset I’m feeling. I knew he was naughty, but this—!’

I looked around while we waited for Ruku to turn up. From one corner of the living room I could see a portion of the veranda where artists were working on an idol of Durga. Puja was only a few days away.

A bearer came in with a tray. We were handed cups of tea and plates of sweets.

‘You went to see Machchli Baba, I believe,’ said Mr Ghoshal. ‘What did you think of him?’

‘We didn’t stay very long. You, too, were supposed to go, weren’t you?’

‘Well, I have been to see him once. I have no wish to go back. If only I hadn’t gone out that evening, we might have been spared the disaster.’

‘Disaster?’

‘Yes,’ Mr Ghoshal sighed. ‘Last Wednesday, when I went to visit Machchli Baba, an extremely valuable object was stolen from my father’s room. If you can get it back for me, Mr Mitter, I shall be eternally grateful. And, of course, I will pay you adequately.’

A familiar race began in my heart.

‘May I ask what it was?’ said Feluda.

‘Ganesh. It was a small figure of Ganesh,’ Mr Ghoshal spread his fingers slightly to indicate its size, ‘made of gold and studded with precious stones. It was only about two-and-a-half inches high.’

‘How did you get it?’

‘I’ll tell you. It might sound like a fairy tale, but I can assure you it’s true.’ He lit a cigarette and began. ‘My great-grandfather, Someshwar Ghoshal, was a great traveller. He travelled all over the country, using whatever mode of transport he could get, ranging from bullock carts to trains. When he could get nothing, he simply walked. Once, when he was in south India, he happened to be going through a heavily wooded area near Madurai in a bullock cart. It was dark, and the path was a narrow one. Three robbers attacked him. But Someshwar was exceptionally strong. He used a heavy bamboo rod, and managed to knock one of his attackers unconscious. The other two ran away, leaving behind a bag that contained, among other things, this little figure of Ganapati. He returned home with the statuette, and things changed dramatically in our family. Don’t think I am old-fashioned and superstitious, but I have heard it said that the Ganesh brought us good luck. Two years after its arrival, there was a devastating flood. Our house was quite close to the river, but was miraculously saved. There are other instances, too, which I needn’t go into. My main concern is that we had had the Ganesh for a hundred years. Now it has been taken from us. Puja will start in a few days, the house is full of guests, but no one can relax and enjoy themselves. You do see my predicament, don’t you?’

Mr Ghoshal leant back, sighing wearily.

‘When did you visit Machchli Baba?’ Peluda asked.

‘Three days ago, on Wednesday. We arrived from Calcutta about: ten days ago. My wife was very keen to see the Baba, so I took her and Ruku that evening.’

‘Did your son really want to go?’

‘Yes, I guess he was intrigued by the name. He told me he had read about a man who had swum seventy miles through a shark-infested sea. But when he actually saw the Baba, he didn’t seem too impressed. He began to fidget and, only about ten minutes later, we left. We returned to find the Ganesh missing.’

‘This little figure of Ganesh was kept in a chest, I presume? In your father’s room, did you say?’

‘Yes, but I have the key. Normally, it stays with my wife. That evening, since she was coming with me, I took it from her and put it in a drawer in my father’s room. It was a foolish thing to do, of course, for my father is an opium addict and usually sleeps in the evening. Anyway, I pushed the drawer shut firmly, but when I got
back, it was open by about an inch. This made me suspicious, so I looked into the drawer immediately. The key was where I had left it, but the Ganesh had gone.’

Feluda frowned. ‘May I ask who was present in the house at the time?’

Feluda had not brought his notebook. But I had no doubt that he would be able to remember everything Mr Ghoshal was saying, and would write it down later in our hotel room.

‘Well,’ said Mr Ghoshal, ‘you saw Trilochan, our chowkidar, at the gate. He’s been with our family for thirty-five years. There are a couple of servants and maids—all have been with us for a long time. Shashi Babu, the artist, is working on the idol of Durga, together with his son. I’ve known him for thirty years. He’s a most gifted artist. Apart from these people in the house, there was our mali, and Vikas, who brought you here.’

‘How long have you had him as your secretary?’

‘About five years. But he’s spent virtually all his life in our house. His father used to work on our estate in Bengal. He died when Vikas was small. One of my uncles brought Vikas home to look after him, and he stayed on. He’s no different from a family member. He’s an intelligent man, did well in school and college.’

‘Didn’t you inform the police about the theft?’

‘Of course. I rang them the same evening. But they haven’t been able to do anything yet.’

‘Did anyone outside your family know about the Ganesh?’ Before Mr Ghoshal could make a reply, Ruku arrived with Vikas Babu. I looked at Ruku’s father, expecting him to explode. But Mr Ghoshal showed admirable control, going only so far as to give his son a sidelong glance and say in a steely voice, ‘You are forbidden from stepping out of the house until puja is over. You can play in the garden and the terrace, but unless I personally take you out, you are to remain indoors at all times. Is that understood?’

‘What about Shaitan Singh?’ asked Ruku sharply.

‘Who on earth is that?’

‘He’s broken out of the prison. He must be caught!’

‘Never mind, I’ll track him down for you,’ said Vikas Babu lightly. Ruku gave him a grateful look, and went quietly out of the room with him, without saying another word about his punishment.

‘As you’ve seen, Mr Mitter,’ Mr Ghoshal said, ‘this child is exceptionally imaginative. But anyway, let me answer your
question. Yes, a lot of people knew about the Ganesh, especially when we were still living in our ancestral home. The story of Someshwar’s fight with the robbers had spread like a legend. But that was long before I was born. When we moved to Calcutta, there weren’t many people left to talk about it. While I was in college in Calcutta, I mentioned it casually to a few friends. One of them—but mind you, I don’t consider him a friend any more—now lives here in Banaras. His name is Maganlal Meghraj.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Feluda, ‘I know who you mean. We saw him this evening at Machchli Baba’s meeting.’

‘Yes, I know. He was there last Wednesday as well. There is a reason why he keeps going back for the Baba’s help. He’s going through a bad time, you see. His plywood factory got burnt down last year. Then there were rumours about certain shady dealings. So the police raided his house and office both here and in Calcutta. He came to see me two days after I arrived. He told me straightaway that he wanted to buy the Ganesh. He knew we kept it here in my father’s room. He offered me thirty thousand rupees, but I refused. In the end, he left saying he’d get it by hook or by crook. Five days after his visit, the Ganesh vanished.’

Mr Ghoshal fell silent. Feluda was silent, too. He sat quietly, a deep crease between his brows. Something told me his three-month-long vacation had come to an end. Lalmohan Babu’s prophecy was going to come true. Here in Kashi was a case, but the cash, of course, depended on . . .

‘We’re very fortunate to have you here at this time,’ Mr Ghoshal broke the silence. ‘Now, if only you’d accept. . .’

‘Yes, of course. Certainly.’ Feluda rose to his feet. ‘I’d like to come back tomorrow, if I may, and talk to your father. Would that be possible?’

‘Why not? My father isn’t always very easy to talk to, but his aggressive air is just a pretence. Come at around eight. I’ll make sure you find Father ready and waiting. Besides, if you wish to walk around in the garden or elsewhere in our compound, please feel free to do so. I’ll tell Trilochan to let you in whenever you wish to visit. Vikas can help you, too.’

We took our leave soon after this. On our way back to the hotel, I noticed a man following us. He was wrapped up in a blanket. I could not see his face. But when I tried to warn Feluda we were being followed, he didn’t pay any attention at all and continued to
hum—quite tunelessly—a song from a Hindi film.