The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (50 page)

The gates were open. Our jeep passed through them and stopped at the portico. I noticed a marble slab on the gate that said: ‘The Sinha-Roy Palace’.

Mahitosh Sinha-Roy turned out to be a little different from his photograph. The photo had not done justice to his complexion. He was remarkably fair. His height seemed nearly the same as Feluda’s, and he had put on a little weight since the photo had been taken. His
voice was deep and strong. Enough to frighten a tiger if he simply spoke to it, I thought.

He met us at the front door and ushered us into a huge drawing room.

‘Please sit down,’ he invited warmly. Feluda mentioned his writing as soon as we had all been introduced. ‘The events you describe are amazing enough. But even apart from those, your language and style are so good that from the literary point of view as well, I think you have made a remarkable contribution.’

A bearer had come in and placed glasses of mango sherbet on a low table. Mahitosh Babu gestured at these and said, ‘Please help yourselves.’ Then he smiled and added, ‘You are very kind, Mr Mitter. It may be that writing was in my blood, but I didn’t know it until four years ago when I first started to write. My grandfather and father were both writers. Mind you, I don’t think their forefathers had anything to do with literature. We were originally Kshatriyas from Rajputana. Oh, you knew that, did you? So, once we were in the business of fighting with other men. Then we left the men and turned to animals. Now I’ve been more or less forced to abandon my gun and pick up a pen.’

‘Is that your grandfather?’ Feluda asked, looking at an oil painting on the wall.

‘Yes. That is Adityanarayan Sinha-Roy.’

It was an impressive figure. His eyes glinted, in his left hand was a rifle, and the right one was placed lightly on a table. He looked directly at us, holding himself erect, his head tilted proudly. His beard and moustache reminded me of King George V.

‘My grandfather exchanged letters with Bankim Chandra Chatterjee. He was in college at the time
Devi Chowdhurani
was published. He wrote to Bankim after reading the book.’

‘The novel was set in these parts, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Mahitosh Babu replied with enthusiasm, ‘The Teesta you crossed today was the Trisrota river described in the book. Devi’s barge used to float on this river. But the jungles Bankim described have now become tea estates.’

‘When did your grandfather become a shikari?’ Lalmohan Babu asked suddenly.

Mahitosh Babu smiled. ‘Oh, that’s quite a story,’ he replied, ‘My grandfather was very fond of dogs. He used to go and buy pups from all over this region. There was a time when there must have been at
least fifty dogs in this house, of all possible lineages, shapes, sizes and temperament. Among these, his favourite was a Bhutanese dog. There is a Shiva temple near here called the temple of Jalpeshwar. The local people hold a big fair every year during Shivaratri. A lot of people from Bhutan come down for that fair, bringing dogs and pups for sale. My grandfather bought one of these—a large, hairy animal, very cuddly—and brought it home. When the dog was three and a half years old, he was attacked and killed by a cheetah. Grandfather was then a young man. He decided he would settle scores by killing all the cheetahs and any other big cats he could find. He got himself rifles and guns, learnt to shoot and then . . . that was it. He must have killed around one hundred and fifty tigers in twenty-two years. I couldn’t tell you how many other animals he killed—they were endless.’

‘And you?’

‘I?’ Mahitosh Babu grinned, then turned to his right. ‘Go on, Shashanka, tell them.’

I noticed with a start that while we were all listening to Mahitosh Babu’s story, another gentleman had quietly entered the room and taken the chair to our left.

‘Tigers? Why, you have written so many books, you tell them!’ Shashanka Babu replied with a smile.

Mahitosh Babu turned back to us. ‘I haven’t been able to reach three figures, I must admit. I killed seventy-one tigers and over fifty leopards. Meet my friend, Shashanka Sanyal. We’ve known each other since we were small children. He looks after my timber business.’

There seemed to be a world of difference between Mahitosh Babu and his friend. The latter was barely five feet eight inches tall, his complexion was dark, his voice quiet, and he spoke very gently. Yet, there had to be some common interest to hold them together as friends.

‘Mr Sengupta mentioned something about a man-eater. Has there been any further news?’ Feluda asked.

Mahitosh Babu moved in his chair. ‘A tiger doesn’t become a man-eater just because a few people choose to call it so. I would have known, if I had been here and could have seen the body. However, the good news is that whatever animal attacked that poor boy has not yet shown further interest in human flesh.’

Feluda smiled. ‘If indeed it was a man-eater, I am sure you would
have dropped your pen and picked up your gun, at least temporarily,’ he remarked.

‘Oh yes. If a tiger went about eating men in my own area, most certainly I would consider it my duty to destroy it.’

We had finished our drinks. Mahitosh Babu said, ‘You must be tired after your journey. Why don’t you go to your room and have a little rest? I’ll get someone in the evening to take you around in my jeep. A road goes through the forest. You may see deer, or even elephants, if you are lucky. Torit, please show them the trophy room and then take them to their own.’

The trophy room turned out to be a hall stashed with the heads of tigers, bears, wild buffalo and deer. Crocodile skins hung on a wall. There was hardly enough room for us all. I felt somewhat uncomfortable to find dozens of dead animals staring at me through their glassy eyes. But that wasn’t all. The weapons that had been used to kill these animals were also displayed on a huge rack. None of us had ever seen so many guns: single-barrelled, double-barrelled, guns to kill birds with, guns for tigers, and even some for elephants. There seemed to be no end to them.

‘Have you ever been on a shikar?’ Feluda asked Torit Sengupta, looking at the various weapons. Mr Sengupta laughed and shook his head. ‘No, no, not me. You are a detective. Can’t you tell by looking at me I have nothing to do with killing animals?’

‘One doesn’t have to be physically very large and hefty to be a shikari. It’s all to do with a steady nerve, isn’t it? You do not strike me as someone who might lack it.’

‘No, my nerve is steady enough. But I come from an ordinary middle-class family in Calcutta. Shikar is something I’ve never even thought of.’

We left the trophy room and began climbing a staircase. ‘What is a man from a city doing in a place like this?’ Feluda asked.

‘He is simply doing a job, Mr Mitter. I couldn’t find one in the city, when I finished college. Then I saw the advertisement Mr Sinha-Roy had put in for a secretary. I applied, came here for an interview and got it.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Five years.’

‘You like walking in the forest, don’t you? I mean, even if you’re not a shikari?’

Mr Sengupta looked at Feluda in surprise. ‘Why, what do you
mean?’

‘There are scratch marks on your right hand. Bramble?’

Mr Sengupta smiled again. ‘Yes, you’re right. You are remarkably observant, I must say. I got these marks only yesterday. Walking in the forest has become something like an addiction for me.’

‘Even if you’re unarmed?’

‘Yes. Normally, there’s nothing to be afraid of,’ Mr Sengupta replied quietly. ‘The only things I have to watch out for are snakes and mad elephants.’

‘And man-eaters?’ Lalmohan Babu whispered.

‘If a man-eater’s existence is proved one day, I suppose I shall have to give up my walks.’

There was a door at the top of the stairs, beyond which lay a long veranda. There were several rooms running down one side. The first of these was Mahitosh Babu’s study. Mr Sengupta worked in it during the day. The veranda curved to the left a little later, taking us to the west wing of the building. Our rooms were among the ones that lined this section of the veranda.

‘Are all these in use? Who stays in these rooms?’ asked Feluda. ‘No one. Most of these stay locked. Mr Sinha-Roy and his brother live in the eastern side. Shashanka Sanyal and I are in the southern wing. Two rooms in our side of the house are always kept ready for Mr Sinha-Roy’s sons. He has two sons. Both work in Calcutta. They come here occasionally.’

Now I noticed another figure standing on the opposite veranda: a man wearing a purple dressing gown, leaning against the railing and staring straight at us. ‘Is that Mahitosh Babu’s brother?’ Feluda asked. Before Mr Sengupta could reply, the man spoke. His voice was as deep as his brother’s.

‘Have you seen Raju? Where is he?’

The question was clearly meant for us. He moved closer quickly. There were visible resemblances between the two brothers, specially around the jaw. Mr Sengupta answered on our behalf, ‘No, they haven’t seen him.’

‘No? What about Hussain? Have they seen Hussain?’

His eyes were odd, unfocussed. His hair was much thinner than his brother’s, and almost totally white. He might have been just as tall, but he stooped and so appeared shorter.

‘No, they haven’t seen Hussain, either,’ said Mr Sengupta and motioned us to go inside our room. ‘They know nothing,’ he added
firmly, ‘They are only visiting for a few days.’ Devtosh Babu looked openly disappointed. We slipped into our room quickly.

‘Who are Raju and Hussain?’ Feluda wanted to know. Mr Sengupta laughed.

‘Raju is another name for Kalapahar. And Hussain is Hussain Khan, who used to be the Sultan of Gaur. Both of them destroyed several Hindu temples in Bengal. The head of the statue in the temple of Jalpeshwar here was broken by Hussain Khan.’

‘Were you a student of history?’

‘No, literature. But Mr Sinha-Roy is writing the history of his family. So, as his secretary, I am having to pick up a few details here and there about past events in this area.’

Mr Sengupta left. For the first time since our arrival, we were left by ourselves. I could now relax completely. The room was large and comfortable. There were two deer heads fixed over the door. Spread on the floor was a leopard skin, including the head. Perhaps it had not been possible to accommodate it anywhere else. There were two proper beds, and a smaller wooden cot, which had clearly been added because there were three of us. All three beds had been carefully made, with thick mattresses, embroidered bedsheets and pillowcases. Mosquito nets hung around each bed. Feluda looked at the cot and said, ‘This one was probably once used as a machaan. Look, there are marks where it must have been tied with ropes. Topshe, you can sleep on it.’

Lalmohan Babu seemed quite satisfied with what he saw. He sat down on his bed and said, ‘I think we are going to enjoy the next three days. But I hope Devtosh Babu won’t come back to ask about his friend Raju. Frankly speaking, I feel very uncomfortable in the presence of anyone mentally disturbed.’

The same thought had occurred to me. But Feluda did not appear concerned at all. He began unpacking, stopping only for a moment to frown and say, ‘We still don’t know what kind of help Mahitosh Babu is expecting from me.’

Mr Sengupta could not go with us in the evening as he had some important work to see to. Mahitosh Babu’s friend, Shashanka Sanyal, came with us instead. Having lived in these parts for many
years, he, too, seemed to have learnt a lot of about the local flora and fauna. He kept pointing out trees and plants to us, although it was quickly getting dark and not very easy to see from the back of the jeep. He had lived here for thirty years, he said. Before that, he was in Calcutta. Mahitosh Babu and he had attended the same school and college.

Our jeep stopped by the side of a small river. The sun was just about to set.

‘Let’s get down for a while,’ Mr Sanyal said. ‘You’ll never get the feel, the real atmosphere in a forest from a moving jeep.’

I realized the minute we stepped out how dense and quiet the forest was. There was no noise except the gently rippling river and the birds going back to roost. Had there not been a man carrying a rifle, I would certainly have felt uneasy. This man was called Madhavlal. He was a professional shikari. When shikaris from abroad used to come here, it was always Madhavlal who used to act as their guide. Apparently, he knew everything about where a machaan should be set up, where a tiger was likely to be spotted, what might it mean if an animal cried out. He was about fifty, tall and well built without even a trace of fat on his body. I was very glad he had been sent with us.

We walked slowly over to the sandy bank and stood on the pebbles that were spread on the ground like a carpet. After chatting with Mr Sanyal for a few minutes, Feluda suddenly asked, ‘What is the matter with Devtosh Babu? How did he happen to . . .?’

‘Heredity. There is a history of madness in their family. Mahitosh’s grandfather went mad in his old age.’

‘Really? Did he have to stop hunting?’

‘Oh yes. Every firearm was removed out of sight. But, one day, he found an old sword hanging on the wall in the drawing room. He grabbed it and went into the jungle to kill yet another tiger. Rumour has it that he wanted to do what Sher Shah had done. You must have been told in your history lessons in school how Sher Shah got his title: “In his later years, he is said to have beheaded a tiger with one stroke of his sword, which earned him the title of Sher Shah”. In a fit of madness, Adityanarayan wanted to do the same.’

‘And then?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, his eyes round and his voice hushed.

‘He never returned. This time, the tiger won. There was virtually nothing left, except his sword.’

An animal called loudly from behind a bush. Lalmohan Babu nearly jumped out of his skin. Mr Sanyal laughed. ‘Mr Ganguli, you are a writer of adventure stories. You shouldn’t get frightened so easily. That was only a fox.’

Lalmohan Babu pulled himself together. ‘Er . . . you see, it is because I am a writer that my imagination is livelier than others. We were talking about tigers, weren’t we, and then I heard that animal. So I thought I could actually see a flash of yellow behind that bush.’

‘Well . . . something yellow and striped may well start moving behind bushes if we hang around,’ Mr Sanyal remarked, suddenly lowering his voice.

‘What!’

‘Was that a barking deer?’ Feluda whispered.

A different animal had started to call. It sounded like the barking of a dog. Feluda had told me once that if a tiger was spotted close by, barking deer often called out to warn other animals. Mr Sanyal nodded in silence and motioned us to get back into the jeep. We crept back and took our places in absolute silence. It was now appreciably darker. My heart started thumping loudly. Madhavlal, too, had moved closer to the jeep, clutching his rifle tightly. Lalmohan Babu touched my hand briefly. His palm felt icy.

We waited in breathless anticipation until six o’clock; but no animal came into view. We had to return disappointed.

It was totally dark by the time we reached our room. To our surprise, we realized that in this short time, large thick clouds had gathered in the western sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning spread its roots everywhere in the sky, dazzling our eyes. We were all staring out of the window, watching this spectacle, when someone knocked at the door. It had been left open. We turned around to find Mahitosh Sinha-Roy standing there.

‘How was your trip to the forest?’ he asked in his deep voice. ‘We almost saw a tiger!’ Lalmohan Babu shouted, excited like a child.

‘If you had come here even ten years ago, you would certainly have seen one,’ said our host. ‘If you failed to see one today, I must admit I—and other shikaris like me—are to blame, for shikar was considered to be a sport. Even in ancient times, kings used to go on hunting expeditions which they called
mrigaya
. So did Mughal badshahs, and in modern times, our British masters. It became a tradition, which we followed blindly. Can you imagine how many
animals have been killed in these two thousand years? But that isn’t all, is it? Just think of the number of animals that are caught every year for zoos and circuses!’

None of us knew what to say. Was a famous shikari now sorry for what he had done? Feluda offered him a chair, but he declined. ‘No, thank you,’ he said, ‘I didn’t come here to stay. I came only to show you something. Let’s go to my grandfather’s room. I think you’ll find it interesting.’

Adityanarayan’s room was in the northern wing. ‘We heard how he had lost his mind in his old age,’ Feluda said as we began moving in that direction.

Mahitosh Babu smiled. ‘Yes, but until that happened, till he was about sixty, there were few men with his intelligence and sharpness.’

‘Do you still have the sword he had taken to kill a tiger?’

‘Yes, it’s kept in his room. Come, I’ll show you.’

Bookshelves occupied three sides of Adityanarayan’s room. Each of them was packed with books, papers, manuscripts and stacks of old newspapers. The fourth side had two chests and a glass case. It is impossible to make a list of its contents that ranged from tigers’ nails and a rhino’s horn to metal statues and jewellery from Bhutan. The collar that his favourite dog had worn was also there. It was studded with stones, like all the Bhutanese jewellery. Apart from these, there was a silver pen and ink-well, binoculars from Mughal times and two human skulls. All these things occupied the top two shelves. The bottom two contained only weapons: a three hundred year old carved pistol, eight daggers and kukris, and the famous sword. Only a madman could think it would be enough to kill a tiger, for it was neither very big nor heavy. The swords I had seen in Bikaner fort that had once belonged to Rajput rulers were much more impressive.

While we were examining these objects, Mahitosh Babu had opened one of the chests and brought out a small ivory box. Now he took out a folded piece of paper from it and said, ‘Detectives, I believe, have a special gift to unravel puzzles and riddles. See what you make of this one, Mr Mitter.’

‘A riddle? I was once interested in things of that sort, but. . .’ Mahitosh Babu passed the piece of paper to Feluda. ‘You said you wanted to spend three days here. If you cannot figure it out in that time, I am prepared to give you another three days; but no more than that.’

His tone changed as he spoke the last few words, as did the look in
his eyes. I realized with a shock that our genial host had a streak of cold sternness—perhaps even ruthlessness—in him. Obviously, there were times when this side to his character was exposed. Feluda asked quickly, even before Mahitosh Babu’s eyes could lose their cold, remote look: ‘And what if I succeed?’ His own tone was light, and there was a hint of a smile around his lips. But it was clear that Feluda didn’t lack the ability to deal with Mahitosh Babu, no matter how stern he might be.

Mahitosh Sinha-Roy laughed, his good humour restored. ‘If you succeed, Mr Mitter, I will give you a whole tiger skin, taken from one of the biggest tigers I have killed.’

This was quite generous, I had to admit. The value of a whole tiger skin today was not to be laughed at.

Feluda now looked at the piece of paper and read aloud the riddle:

Old man hollow,
pace to follow,
people’s tree.

Half ten, half again,
century.

Rising sun,
whence it’s done,
can’t you see?
Between hands,
below them stands,
yours, it be.

‘Hidden treasure,’ Feluda murmured.

‘You think so?’

‘Yes, that’s what the last line seems to indicate. I mean, “yours, it be” could only mean finding something after solving that riddle and being rewarded for it. It has to be money. But what we must consider is whether your grandfather was the kind of man who’d hide his wealth and then leave a coded message for its recovery. Not many people would think of doing such a thing.’

‘My grandfather would. He was very different from ordinary men, I have told you that. He loved practical jokes, and having a laugh at the expense of others. When he was a child, I believe one day, he was cross with all the grown-ups for some reason. So he stole their shoes in the middle of the night and hung them in bundles from
the highest branches of a tree. Yes, I can well believe—what is it, Torit?’

None of us had noticed Torit Sengupta come into the room. He was standing near the door. ‘I came to return a dictionary I had taken from that shelf,’ he replied quietly.

‘Very well, put it back. And . . . have you finished with those proofs?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you must take them with you tomorrow. And ask them why there were so many errors even in the second proof. Don’t let them get away with it!’

Mr Sengupta slipped the book he was carrying into an empty space on a shelf, and left.

‘Torit is going to Calcutta tomorrow for a week. His mother is ill,’ Mahitosh Babu explained. Feluda was still staring at the rhyme.

‘Who else knows about this riddle?’ he asked.

Mahitosh Babu switched the light off and began moving towards the door. ‘We found it only ten days ago. I was going through old papers and correspondence as I want to start writing the history of our family. Many of my grandfather’s personal papers were found in an old steel trunk. That ivory box was hidden under a pile of letters. Only three people know about it: Shashanka, Torit and myself. But none of us have the required skill to decipher the message. One needs to know about words—one single word can have different meanings, can’t it? Do you think you can crack it, Mr Mitter?’

Feluda returned the piece of paper of Mahitosh Babu.

‘What! Are you giving up already?’ he cried in dismay.

‘No, no,’ Feluda smiled, ‘I can remember all the words. I’ll go and write them down in my notebook. That paper belongs to you and your family. It should stay with you.’