The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (33 page)

‘Not now. If I decide to take a case, I expect an advance payment of a thousand rupees. This is non-refundable. If the case turns out to be successful, I take another thousand.’

‘Very well. Please think it over, Mr Mitter. I am staying at the Park Hotel. Let me know what you decide by four o’clock this afternoon. If your answer is yes, I will come back with your advance payment.’

I knew Feluda would agree to take the case. He had recently started to record conversations with his clients on a microcassette recorder, which he had bought in Hong Kong. With Mr Puri’s permission, his conversation with Feluda had been recorded as well. In the afternoon, Feluda played the whole thing back and listened to every word carefully. Then he switched the machine off and said, ‘This case is quite different from what I usually get. That is reason number one why I think I ought to take it. Reason number two is the chance to visit Haridwar and Hrishikesh again. After all, isn’t that where I spent some of my early days as a detective?’

Yes, indeed. How could I ever forget it was in Haridwar that the case of the stolen Emperor’s ring took a new turn?

He rang Mr Puri and told him of his decision. Mr Puri returned in just half an hour and paid him his advance. When he had gone, Feluda spoke to our travel agent and told him to book three seats on the Doon Express, as soon as possible.

Two days later, something totally unexpected happened. Mr Puri sent us a telegram from Rupnarayangarh. It said:
REQUEST DROP

CASE
.
LETTER FOLLOWS
.

Drop case? Why? No client had ever done this to us before. A couple of days later, Mr Puri’s letter arrived. What it said briefly was that Pavandeo Singh had changed his mind. He would still find and
interview Bhavani Upadhyaya, but would only show how he spent his time treating the sick. He would mention that Upadhyaya had once treated and cured the Raja of Rupnarayangarh, but would say nothing about the pendant. There was therefore no need for Feluda to travel all the way to Haridwar.

Feluda replied to Mr Puri by sending another telegram:
DROPPING

CASE
,
BUT GOING AS PILGRIMS
. His curiosity had been aroused. He would go simply as a tourist all right, but would certainly keep his eyes and ears open. To be honest, I was very pleased by this, for I wanted to meet both Bhavani Upadhyaya and Pavandeo.

All this had happened a few days ago. We were, at this moment, sitting in a four-berth compartment of the Doon Express. The train had stopped at Faizabad, and we were sipping hot tea from clay pots.

‘You said you had once visited Haridwar,’ Feluda said to Lalmohan Babu. ‘When was that?’

‘Oh, when I was only a child, just about two years old. I have no memory of the place at all.’

‘Are you going only to Haridwar, or do you intend to see other places as well?’

This question came from our fellow passenger, an elderly gentleman who was sitting next to Lalmohan Babu. His thin hair was mostly white, but his skin wasn’t wrinkled, and his strong white teeth appeared to be his own. There were a few laughter lines around his eyes, and from the way his eyes twinkled, it seemed he was ready for laughter any time.

‘We have some work in Haridwar,’ Feluda answered. ‘When that gets done, we might try and see other places. We haven’t really thought about it yet.’

The gentleman raised his eyebrows. ‘What! You don’t mean to say you haven’t thought about going to Kedar and Badrinath? You must never miss those places, if you are travelling all that distance, anyway. You can go to Badrinath by bus. Buses don’t go right up to Kedar, and you have to walk the last few miles, but at your age that shouldn’t be a problem. And for your friend, there would be dandis and ponies. Have you ever ridden a pony?’ he asked, looking at Lalmohan Babu.

Lalmohan Babu finished his tea, threw the pot out of the window and said gravely, ‘No, but I have ridden a camel in the Thar desert. Have you had that experience?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ the gentleman shook his head, smiling, ‘I have never been anywhere near a desert. My field for roaming is restricted to the mountains. I have been to Kedar and Badri twenty-three times. It’s got nothing to do with religious devotion. I go back just to look at their natural beauty. That itself is a spiritual experience, I can tell you. If I didn’t have a family, I’d quite happily live there. I have also been to Jamunotri, Gangotri, Gomukh, Panchakedar and Vasukital. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Makhanlal Majumdar.’

Feluda said ‘namaskar’ and introduced us.

‘Very pleased to meet you,’ said Mr Majumdar. ‘A lot of people are going to all these place now, thanks to road transport. They are not pilgrims, they are picnickers. But, of course, buses and taxis can do nothing to spoil the glory of the Himalayas. The scenic beauty is absolutely incredible.’

We reached Haridwar at 6 a.m.

This time, there didn’t seem to be as many pandas as last time. We stopped at the railway restaurant for a cup of tea and snacks. Feluda asked its manager about Upadhyaya. What he told us came as a shock.

Bhavani Upadhyaya had left Haridwar more than three months ago, and gone to Rudraprayag.

‘Who can talk to us about him? Is there anyone here who knew him well?’

‘You can try talking to Kantibhai Pandit. He used to be Upadhyaya’s landlord.’

‘Does he live in Laxman Mohalla?’

‘Yes, yes. He and Upadhyaya were next-door neighbours. Go there, and ask anyone. They’ll take you to Kantibhai’s house.’

Feluda thanked him and paid the bill. We decided to go to Laxman Mohalla immediately.

Kantibhai Pandit turned out to be a man in his mid-sixties, with a clear complexion and sharp features. He had heavy stubble on his face, and he peered at us through bifocal lenses. He seemed quite surprised on being told we wanted to ask him about Upadhyaya.

‘What is going on?’ he asked. ‘Why this sudden interest in Upadhyaya, I wonder? Someone else came to ask about him only about three days ago.’

‘Do you remember what he looked like?’

‘Yes, certainly.’

‘See if it was this man.’ Feluda took out Pavandeo Singh’s photograph and showed it to Mr Pandit.

‘Yes, yes, this is the man who came to see me. I gave him Upadhyaya’s address in Rudraprayag.’

‘I’d be very grateful if you could give it to me, too.’ Feluda offered him one of his cards. One look at it brought about a marked change in Mr Pandit’s behaviour.

‘Oh, do please sit down,’ he said busily. ‘I’m sorry I made you stand all this while.’ When we were all seated, he added, ‘Is anything wrong, Mr Mitter? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing has happened yet,’ Feluda smiled, ‘but there is a chance that something might. I am going to ask you a straight question, Mr Pandit. I’d appreciate a straight answer.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did Mr Upadhyaya have something of great value among his personal possessions?’ Mr Pandit smiled back at Feluda. ‘I have already had to answer this question. I will tell you the same thing that I told Mr Singh. Mr Upadhyaya had given me a small bag and asked me to keep it in my safe. I locket it away, but I have no idea what it contained. He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.’

‘Did he take it with him to Rudraprayag?’

‘Yes, sir. But there is something else that I think you should know. About six months ago, before Upadhyaya left, two men came to see him one day. One of them was probably a Marwari, he looked like a rich man. They spent nearly an hour with him, talking and arguing. I don’t know what exactly was said, but after they had gone, Upadhyaya came to me. He said, “Panditji, today I have conquered one of the deadly sins. Mr Singhania tried to tempt me—oh, he tried very hard—but I didn’t give in.” Those were his words.’

‘Did you ever tell anyone else about Upadhyaya’s possession?’

‘Look, Mr Mitter, a lot of people knew that he had something to hide. Some even used to make fun of him behind his back, about this great secret. I . . . I sometimes sit with my friends and have a drink in the evening, so something may have slipped out when I wasn’t completely sober—I really don’t know. But most people here respected Upadhyaya so much that no one would have tried to find out what he had hidden in a safe.’

‘Was there any particular reason why he left for Rudraprayag?’

‘He told me he had met a sadhu at a ghat. Talking to him had brought about a serious change in Upadhyaya. He became more
withdrawn. I often found him sitting quietly in his room, lost in thought.’

‘Did he take all his medicines with him?’

‘There wasn’t much to take. All he had were a few jars of herbs and roots, some pills and ointments, that was all. Yes, he took them with him. But I think eventually he’ll give up ayurveda altogether and become a full-fledged sanyasi.’

‘He was not married, was he?’

‘No. He had no attachments at all. He told me the day he left, “Two, paths were open to me. One meant indulgence and running after comforts and luxuries. The other meant sacrifice and austerity. I decided to choose the latter.”’

‘Did he give you his new address before he left?’

‘Oh no. I got it from the postcard he sent me from Rudraprayag.’

‘Do you have it with you now?’

‘Yes.’ Mr Pandit went inside and came back with a postcard, which he handed to Feluda. I couldn’t read what was written on it, but could see that it had been written in Hindi. Feluda read it quickly, said, ‘Most interesting,’ and returned it to Mr Pandit. God knew what was so interesting in the card.

Finally, Mr Pandit himself arranged a taxi for us. It would take us first to Rudraprayag, and then we could go wherever we liked. The Garhwali driver was called Joginder Ram. He seemed very friendly and cheerful. All of us took an instant liking to him. Feluda told him we’d have an early lunch in Hrishikesh and leave for Rudraprayag at twelve o’clock. Hrishikesh was fifteen miles from Haridwar. There was nothing to see in Haridwar itself. The river looked dirtier than it had when I saw it last. Every quiet corner in the town seemed to have been filled by new buildings; all the walls were covered with handwritten advertisements. It was necessary for us to go to Hrishikesh, since we’d need to arrange our accommodation in Rudraprayag. We could stay in a dharamshala. Every town in the vicinity had the old and famous Kalikamli dharamshalas, but we were sure Pavandeo would not be staying in one of them.

Luckily, before we left Hrishikesh, we could book a double room in the rest house run by the Garhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam in Rudraprayag. They agreed to put an extra bed in the same room for Lalmohan Babu. We had a quick lunch, and left for Rudraprayag as planned. A few miles later, I saw Laxmanjhoola on our right. Like Haridwar, it had been spoilt by hideous new structures, but even so,
memories of our adventure regarding the Emperor’s ring gave me goose pimples.

Rudraprayag was famous for two reasons. The first was Jim Corbett. Anyone who has read
The Man-eating Leopard of Rudraprayag
will always remember the patience, perseverance and courage with which Corbett had hunted down the man-eater fifty-five years ago. Our driver Joginder said he had heard his grandfather talk of Corbett. He cared very deeply for the local Garhwalis, and they loved him just as much.

The second thing that made Rudraprayag important was that it was possible to go to both Kedarnath and Badrinath from here. Two rivers—Mandakini and Alakananda—met in Rudraprayag. If one followed Alakananda, one could get to Badrinath; Mandakini would take one to Kedar. Buses went to Badrinath. But to get to Kedarnath, one had to walk, or ride in either a dandi or on horseback the bus route finished in Gaurikund, 14 km before Kedar.

Rudraprayag was 140 km from Hrishikesh. Even if we could go at 30 km an hour, we couldn’t reach there before dark. We would pass through three towns on the way, Devprayag, Keertinagar and Srinagar. The last was the capital of the Garhwal district, it had nothing to do with the capital of Kashmir.

The road, built through forests and hills, was going up and down. Occasionally, the trees parted to reveal green plateaus in the distance, on which stood sweet little villages, like picture postcards.

However, I could not concentrate on the scenery. My mind kept going back to Bhavani Upadhyaya and the valuable pendant in his possession. If a sanyasi, who had no other earthly possessions, decided to hang on to just one thing, there was bound to be trouble. Someone somewhere would want to take it from him. Besides, I was still puzzled about why Mr Puri told Feluda to forget the whole thing. He did provide an explanation in his letter, but was that really the truth? Or was I reading too much into it, just because such a thing had never happened before?

Lalmohan Babu broke the silence. ‘I was never good in either geography or history,’ he confessed. ‘You have often pointed this out, haven’t you, Felu Babu? So will you now kindly explain where we are? I mean, which part of the country is it, exactly?’

Feluda took out his large map, produced by the Bartholomew Company.

‘Look, here is Haridwar, and we are on our way to Rudraprayag. Here it is, can you see it? That means, on the east is Nepal and on the west is Kashmir. We are in the middle. Now do you understand?’

‘Ye-es. It’s all quite clear to me now, absolutely crystal clear.’

By the time we reached Rudraprayag, after a brief stop in Srinagar to have a cup of tea, it was nearly five o’clock. Rudraprayag was a fairly large town, with its own school, college, hospital and post office. A signboard used to hang over the spot where Corbett had killed that famous leopard. ‘But it broke a few years ago, and nobody replaced it,’ Joginder informed us.

We went straight to the rest house. It was just outside the main town, in a quiet and peaceful spot. The first thing we heard on our arrival was that the road to Kedar had reopened and buses were running again. Apparently, it had been blocked for many days due to a landslide. As things turned out, this was a stroke of luck, but we did not realize it until much later.

The manager of the rest house, Mr Giridhari, had not heard of Feluda, but that did not stop him from being most kind and hospitable. He said he had read many Bengali authors in translation, Bimal Mitra and Shankar among them. ‘They are my favourite authors,’ he beamed.

A few minutes later, we met another guest, who had got stuck in Rudraprayag because of the landslide. Unlike Mr Giridhari, he recognized Feluda instantly. ‘I am a journalist, I have heard of many of your cases,’ he said. ‘Your photograph was published in the newspapers in northern India after the Sukhtankar murder case in Allahabad. That’s how I could recognize you. My name is Krishnakant Bhargav. I am very proud to meet you, sir.’

The man was about forty years old, of medium height and had a thick beard. Mr Giridhari naturally became curious on learning that Feluda was an investigator.

‘There is no trouble here, I hope?’ he asked anxiously.

‘There can be trouble anywhere, Mr Giridhari, but we haven’t come here to look for trouble. Actually, all we’re looking for is a man called Bhavani Upadhyaya.’

‘Upadhyaya? But he’s no longer here!’ exclaimed Mr Bhargav. ‘I
came here simply to write a story on him. When I reached Haridwar, I heard he had come here. So I came here, and discovered he had gone to Kedarnath. That’s why I decided to follow him there. Now that the road is open again, I intend leaving tomorrow morning. He’s a very interesting character.’

‘Is he? I’m looking for him because I believe he treats the sick, and can work wonders. You see,’ Feluda lowered his voice, glancing rather pointedly at Lalmohan Babu, ‘this friend of mine is mentally disturbed. He behaves quite normally most of the time, but just occasionally, his problem flares up. He starts talking absolute gibberish, and can even get violent at times. A lot of doctors have seen him in Calcutta, but nothing has worked. So when I heard of Upadhyaya, I thought he might be able to help. At least it’s worth a try, don’t you think?’

After the first few seconds of stunned disbelief, Lalmohan Babu caught on quickly. In order to prove Feluda right, he tried to bring an expression of wild insanity to his face, but succeeded only in looking like the Nepali mask that hangs in our drawing room.

Mr Bhargav nodded sympathetically. ‘Then you, too, must look for him in Kedarnath. He didn’t go to Badri, for I didn’t find him there. But I hear he has become a sanyasi, so he may have changed his name.’

At this moment, an American car drew up outside the gate. Three men got out of it and came walking towards us. The leader of this team was easy to recognize, for we had all seen the photo Mr Puri had given Feluda. It was Pavandeo Singh of Rupnarayangarh. The other two were obviously his chamchas. Pavandeo took a cane chair and sat down on the veranda. We were sitting only a few feet away, drinking tea. ‘No luck,’ Pavandeo said, shaking his head, ‘we’ve just been to Badri. Upadhyaya isn’t there.’

‘What amazes me,’ Mr Giridhari remarked, ‘is that everyone in this rest house is looking for Upadhyaya for a different reason. You want to include him in your film, Mr Bhargav wants to write a story on him, and Mr Mitter wants to get his friend treated.’

Pavando’s men were carrying television equipment. He was holding a camera with a huge lens.

‘A tele lens?’ Feluda asked.

‘Yes. I took it with me to film the melting snow on the peaks of Badrinath. Actually, the main equipment I am using is compact enough for one person to handle. That includes sound. My friends
will go with me as far as Gaurikund. I will film the rest of it myself.’

‘Does that mean you are going to leave for Kedarnath tomorrow?’

‘Yes, first thing in the morning.’

‘Will you be interviewing Upadhyaya if you can find him?’

‘Yes, certainly. This film is being made for an Australian television company. I will naturally show the mountains and the snow and all the rest of it, but the interview with Upadhyaya will get a lot of footage. He’s such an amazing character. What he did to my father was nothing short of a miracle.’

I watched Pavandeo Singh closely. This man bore little resemblance to what Umashankar Puri had told us. Feluda, I noticed, did not mention Mr Puri at all.

We left the rest house shortly afterwards, to go and have our dinner in town. When the waiter came to take our order, Lalmohan Babu suddenly banged a fist on the table and demanded an omelette. ‘An armadillo’s egg! That’s what I want!’ he said loudly. Feluda was obliged to explain to him that his insanity was something he didn’t have to prove all the time, particularly when nobody from the rest house was in sight. If he kept behaving strangely without any reason, the chances of getting thrashed were very high.

‘Well, you’re right,’ Lalmohan Babu conceded, ‘but if I get a suitable opportunity, don’t think I’m going to miss it.’

We returned straight to the rest house as we wanted an early night. Pavandeo’s room was not far from ours. The sound of clinking glass and loud laughter told us he was with his two friends and Mr Giridhari, having a good time.

‘I must admit one thing, Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu said, stretching out on his bed. ‘In spite of what Mr Puri told us about Raja Chandradeo’s younger son, he struck me as a most amiable man.’

‘Surely you’re aware that looks can be deceptive? Besides, nature often bestows cruelty and beauty in the same creature. Can you think of an animal more beautiful than the Royal Bengal tiger? Then consider the peacock. A creature of incredible beauty, right? Just think of the damage one peck of its beak can cause. You have seen it for yourself, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s true.’ Lalmohan Babu rose, grabbed his alarm clock and began twisting its switch viciously, a wild look slowly creeping into his eyes.

Clearly, he felt he had to do full justice to his role.