The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (61 page)

‘I
bought a new television, but it didn’t do me any good,’ Lalmohan Babu complained. ‘There’s really nothing worth seeing. I tried watching the
Mahabharata,
but had to switch it off after just five minutes.’

‘It’s a pity you’re not interested in sports,’ Feluda said. ‘If you were, you could have watched some good programmes. Tennis, cricket, football . . . everything’s covered, games played both here and abroad.’

‘Doordarshan had written to me recently, saying they’d like to make a TV serial from one of my stories.’

‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose so, though I cannot imagine who might play Prakhar Rudra, my hero. Can you think of an actor in Bengal who might suit the part? I mean, it’s not like America, is it? They even found someone to play Superman! He looks as though he’s climbed out of the pages of the comic!’

Durga Puja had started. A song from a Hindi film was being played on a loudspeaker. We could hear it clearly from our living room. When he had finished complaining against Doordarshan, Lalmohan Babu tried singing the same song, but had to give up soon. His grandfather was supposed to have been a classical singer, but he himself could not sing even a single note without going out of tune.

We had already had tea, but were wondering whether to have a second round, when a car stopped outside our house. The door bell rang a moment later.

I opened the door to find a tall and handsome gentleman. His complexion was as fair as a European’s.

‘Is this where Pradosh Mitter lives?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please come in.’

I showed him into our living room. Dressed traditionally in a dhoti and kurta, he had a sophisticated air about him.

‘Please sit down,’ Feluda offered. ‘I am Pradosh Mitter.’

Our visitor took a sofa and looked enquiringly at Lalmohan Babu. ‘He is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli,’ Feluda explained. Lalmohan Babu said ‘namaskar’, but our visitor did not respond. He appeared somewhat preoccupied. There was a few seconds’ silence.

‘I heard about you from one of your clients,’ he said finally. ‘Sadhan Chakravarty.’

‘Yes, I worked for him last year. How can I help you? Is there a particular problem?’

‘I don’t even know whether it merits being described as a problem. You must decide that. But yes, there is something bothering me.’

He took out an envelope from his pocket. In it was a photograph. He brought it out carefully and handed it to Feluda. I peered over Feluda’s shoulder and saw two young boys—seventeen or eighteen years old—standing together, smiling at the camera. Both were dressed in shirts and trousers. It was an old photo and its colour had faded considerably.

‘Can you recognize any of these boys?’ our visitor wanted to know.

‘The one on the left is you,’ Feluda replied.

‘Yes, that’s the one I can recognize too.’

‘The other one must be your friend.’

‘Presumably, but I have no idea who he is. I found this photo only recently, while going through some old papers in a drawer. There’s only one thing I’d like you to do: find out who this boy is. I mean, I need to know where he is now, what he does for a living, how did he and I happen to meet, the lot. I will, of course, pay your fee and any other expenses.’

‘Haven’t you made enquiries on your own?’

‘Yes, I’ve shown the photo to a few old classmates who now go to the same club as me, but none of them could remember that other boy. If you look at the photo carefully, you’ll see it’s impossible to tell whether the boy is Indian or not.’

‘Well, his hair is dark, but his eyes seem light. Why, did you know many foreigners when you were young?’

‘I spent five years in England as a young boy. Four of those years were spent in school, then I did one year of college. My father was a doctor there. Then we returned to India. The problem is, I had a serious accident before we left. I fell off my bicycle and fractured my skull. As a result, I suffered partial loss of memory. Even today, I cannot recall anything of the years I spent in England.’

‘Surely you know which school and college you went to?’

‘My father told me, many years ago. I went to a college in Cambridge. I don’t remember its name, nor could I tell you the name of the school.’

‘Have you received any treatment to bring back this lost memory?’

‘Yes. Conventional medicine hasn’t helped. Now I am trying ayurvedic stuff.’

‘What happened when you returned from England?’

‘I was admitted to St Xavier’s College here in Calcutta. My father made all the arrangements. I wasn’t fully recovered.’

‘Which year was that?’

‘1952. I joined the intermediate year.’

‘I see.’

Feluda stared at the photo for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Do you think this other boy is related to some special incident? Some particularly significant event in your life?’

‘Yes, the thought has indeed crossed my mind. Sometimes, I feel as if I can recall a few things vaguely. This boy’s face keeps coming back to me, but for the life of me I cannot remember his name, or where I met him. It’s an extremely awkward situation. We must have been close friends. I’d be very interested to learn if he’s still around somewhere and whether he remembers me, I realize it won’t be a simple task to trace him, but perhaps you won’t mind the challenge?’

‘Very well, I’ll take the job. But obviously, I cannot tell you how long it might take to finish it. Suppose I have to go to England to make enquiries?’

‘If you do, I will pay for you and your assistant to go and stay there. I will also get you the foreign exchange you’ll be allowed to take from here. That must tell you how keen I am to get to the bottom of this mystery.’

‘Is your father still alive?’

‘He’s no more. He died five years after we returned from England. My mother died ten years ago. I have a wife and a daughter. My daughter’s married. She lives in Delhi. Here’s my card.’

I looked curiously at the card. Ranjan K. Majumdar, it said. The address given was 13 Roland Road, followed by a telephone number.

‘Thank you, I’ll be in touch. I may well need to ask you more questions.’

‘I will do my best to answer them, Mr Mitter, but I’ve already explained the basic problem. Shall I leave the photo with you?’

‘Yes, I’ll get a copy made and return the original to you. Oh, by the way, I need to know where you work. I mean, what do you do for a living?’

‘Sorry, I ought to have told you myself. I am a chartered
accountant. I did B. Com from St Xavier’s. My firm is called Lee & Watkins.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Thank
you,
Mr Mitter. Goodbye.’

With a general nod in our direction, Mr Majumdar left.

‘A unique case,’ Lalmohan Babu commented when he had gone. ‘No doubt about that. I don’t think I’ve ever handled a case like this.’

‘May I see the photo?’

Feluda handed him the photo of the two boys. Lalmohan Babu looked hard at it, frowning. Then he shook his head.

‘Mr Majumdar was right. It’s impossible to tell whether that boy is English or Indian. How on earth will you proceed, Mr Mitter?’

‘I’ll think of a way. Leave it to me, Mr Ganguli.’

Feluda knew a chartered accountant called Dharani Mukherjee. He rang him the same day. Mr Mukherjee said he knew Ranjan Majumdar very well since both were members of the Saturday Club. On being asked what kind of a man Mr Majumdar was, Mr Mukherjee said he was quiet and reserved, and did not speak to many people. Usually, he was seen sitting alone. He drank occasionally, but never in excess. Mr Mukherjee knew that he had spent a few years in England in his childhood, but could tell us nothing more.

The next day, Feluda got hold of a list of students who had attended the intermediate year at St Xavier’s in 1952. ‘I think I’ve heard of one of them. He’s a homeopath,’ said Feluda, quickly scanning the list. ‘Topshe, see if you can get me the telephone number of Dr Hiren Basak.’

I found his number in two minutes. Feluda rang up and made an appointment to see him the next morning at half past eleven.

Lalmohan Babu turned up the next day to find out if we had made any progress. We went to Dr Basak’s chamber in his car. The crowded waiting room bore evidence of the doctor’s popularity. His assistant greeted us and took us straight into the consulting room.

Dr Basak rose as he saw us, a smile on his face.

‘What brings you here, Mr Mitter? You don’t fall ill often.’

‘No, no, it isn’t illness that’s brought me here today, Dr Basak. I’ve come only to ask you some questions as a part of my investigations.’

‘Yes?’

‘Were you a student at St Xavier’s?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Will you please look at this photo and tell me if you can recognize these boys?’

Feluda took out the photo from its cellophane wrapper and gave it to Dr Basak. He had already returned the original to Mr Majumdar. This was a copy he had had made. The doctor frowned as he looked at it. ‘I seem to recognize one of them,’ he said after a while. ‘He used to be in my batch. I think his name was Ranjan. Yes, that’s right. Ranjan Majumdar.’

‘And the other one? I am more interested in him.’

‘No, sorry, Mr Mitter. I never saw the other boy in my life.’

‘Didn’t he go to St Xavier’s? I mean, wasn’t he in your batch as well?’

‘No, I am certain of that.’

Feluda put the photo away.

‘Would there be any point in speaking to any of your other batchmates?’

‘No, I don’t think so. It’ll only be a waste of time.’

‘Even so, I’d be very grateful if you could do something for me.’

‘I am willing to do what I can.’

Feluda took out the list of students. ‘Please go through this and tell me if you know how any of these men might be contacted.’

Clearly, he was not going to give up easily. Dr Basak ran his eyes over the list and said, ‘I know one of them. He’s a doctor, too; but he practises orthodox medicine. Dr Jyotirmoy Sen. He lives in Hastings. You’ll get his address from the telephone directory.’

‘Thank you. Thank you very much, sir.’

We came out and got into the car. ‘Look, Felu Babu, why are you assuming that the other boy was a classmate?’ Lalmohan Babu asked as we drove off. ‘One can make friends anywhere, surely? Not one of my present set of friends had ever studied with me.’

‘You’re right. I think in the end we’ll have to put in an advertisement in the press with the photo, but in the meantime let’s see what this other doctor has to say.’

Dr Jyotirmoy Sen was not available for the next three days. But he
agreed to see us in his house on the fourth day, at half past nine. He normally left for his clinic at ten, he said. He had heard of Feluda, and appeared duly impressed.

Lalmohan Babu collected us in his car, and we reached Dr Sen’s house on the dot of nine-thirty. His house was large and well kept, so presumably here was another doctor with a thriving practice. A bearer showed us into his drawing room. ‘The doctor will be with you shortly,’ he said and disappeared.

‘Who will you ask him about? Ranjan Majumdar, or the other boy?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, lowering his voice.

‘Let’s see if we can get anything more on Ranjan Majumdar. We don’t know a great deal about our client, do we? As for the other boy, I don’t think Dr Sen can help.’

The doctor arrived as soon as Feluda finished speaking.

‘You must be Pradosh Mitter,’ he said, taking a chair, ‘although you’re better known as Feluda, aren’t you? And you two must be Tapesh and Jatayu. Everyone in my family devours the stories Tapesh writes, so all of you are quite familiar to me. How may I help you?’

‘Take a look at this photograph. Can you recognize either of these boys?’

‘Yes, one of them is Ranjan Majumdar. I remember him pretty well. I don’t know the other one.’

‘He wasn’t in your class?’

‘No. I’d have remembered him if he was.’

‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about Ranjan Majumdar.’

‘Go ahead. We were close friends in college. We attended lectures together, went to movies together. If he missed a class, I stood in for him at roll-call, and he often did the same for me. But now we’ve lost touch.’

‘What was he like as a person?’

Dr Sen frowned slightly. ‘A little eccentric. But we didn’t really mind that.’

‘Eccentric? Why do you say that?’

‘Well, he had very strong nationalistic feelings. I mean, no young man of that age ever spoke or felt like that about the country. Perhaps this was something he had inherited from his grandfather, Raghunath Majumdar, who was a terrorist once. He fought very hard against the British. Ranjan’s father went to England, but came back because of some disagreement he had had with an Englishman.
The whole family had this funny trait.’

‘Mr Majumdar went to school in England, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but he never spoke about it. He had a terrible accident in England. I assume you know about it?’

‘Yes, he told us.’

‘As a result, he lost his memory. He couldn’t remember anything of his life in England. Five years—or more—were totally wiped from his mind.’

‘Supposing he had made a friend there, or met someone special, is there any way one could find out?’

‘I can’t see how, unless his lost memory came back. That has been known to happen in many cases. But let me tell you this, Ranjan was not an ordinary young man. I don’t know how he lived in England, or what he did as a student there, but when I met him in college, I could tell he was different from all the others. He had a distinct personality of his own, even at that young age.’

We went to Mr Majumdar’s house the next day.

‘Any progress?’ he asked.

‘Well, we’ve established that your friend in the photo did not go to college with you here in Calcutta. Now I wish to take a step that requires your approval.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d like to publish the photo of this other boy and see if anyone can recognize him. If it came out in papers in Calcutta and Delhi, I think that should be enough.’

Mr Majumdar thought for a minute.

‘Will my name be mentioned anywhere?’

‘No, not at all. All I’m going to say in the notice is that if anyone can recognize the boy, they should contact me, at my address.’

‘Very well. You must do what you have to for your investigation. I have no objection, Mr Mitter.’