The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (56 page)

V
illage: Ghurghutia

P.O. Plassey

Dist. Nadia
3 November 1974

To:
Mr Pradosh C. Mitter

Dear Mr Mitter,
I am writing to invite you to my house. I have heard a lot about your work and wish to meet you in person. There is, of course, a special reason for asking you to come at this particular time. You will get to know the details on arrival. If you feel you are able to accept this invitation from a seventy-three-year-old man, please confirm your acceptance in writing immediately. In order to reach Ghurghutia, you need to disembark at Plassey, and travel further south for another five-and-a-half-miles. There are several trains from Sealdah, out of which the Up Lalgola Passenger leaves at 1.58 p.m. and reaches Plassey at 6.11. I will arrange for you to be met at the station and brought here. You can spend the night at my house, and catch the same train at 10.30 a.m. the following morning to Calcutta. I look forward to hearing from you.

With good wishes,
Yours sincerely,
Kalikinkar Majumdar

I handed the letter back to Feluda, and asked, ‘Is it the same Plassey where that famous battle was fought?’

‘Yes. There is no other Plassey in Bengal, dear boy. But if you think the place has got any evidence left of that historic battle, you are sadly mistaken. There is absolutely no sign left, not even the palash trees in the woods that stood in Siraj-ud-daula’s time. The name “Plassey” came from these trees. Did you know that?’

I nodded. ‘Will you go, Feluda?’

Feluda stared at the letter for a few seconds.

‘I wonder why an old man wants to see me,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It doesn’t seem right to refuse. To be honest, I am quite curious. Besides, have you ever been to a village in the winter? Have you seen how the mist gathers in open fields at dawn and dusk? All that remains visible are tree trunks and a little area over one’s head.
Darkness falls suddenly, and it can get really cold . . . I haven’t seen all this for years. Go on, get me a postcard, Topshe.’

Mr Majumdar was told to expect us on 12 November. Feluda chose this date, keeping in mind that a letter from Calcutta would take at least three days to reach him.

We took the 365 Up Lalgola Passenger and reached Plassey at 6.30 p.m. I saw from the train what Feluda had meant by darkness falling quickly. The last lingering rays of the setting sun disappeared from the rice fields almost before I knew it. By the time we left the station after handing over our tickets to the collector at the gate, all lights had been switched on, although the sky still held a faint reddish glow. The car that was parked outside had to be Mr Majumdar’s. I had never seen a car like that. Feluda said he might have seen one or two when he was a child. All he knew was that it was an American car. Its colour must have been dark red once, but now the paint had peeled off in many places. The hood, too, bore patches here and there and showed signs of age. In spite of all this, there was something rather impressive about the car. I couldn’t help feeling a certain amount of awe.

A car like that ought to have had a chauffeur in uniform. The man who was leaning against it, smoking a cigarette, was dressed in a dhoti and a shirt. He threw away his cigarette when he saw us and straightened himself. ‘To see Mr Majumdar?’ he asked.

‘Yes, to Ghurghutia.’

‘Very well, sir. This way, please.’

The driver opened a door for us, and we climbed into the forty-year-old car. He then walked over to the front of the car to crank the handle, which made the engine come to life. He got behind the wheel, and began driving. We settled ourselves comfortably, but the road being full of potholes and the springs in the seat being old, our comfort did not last for very long. However, once we had passed through the main town of Plassey and were actually out in the country, the scenery became so beautiful that I ceased to feel any discomfort. It wasn’t yet totally dark, and I could see tiny villages across large rice fields, surrounded by trees. In their midst, the mist rose from the ground and spread like a smoky blanket a few feet above the ground. ‘Pretty as a picture’ was the phrase that came to mind.

An old, sprawling mansion in a place like this came as a total surprise. Ten minutes after we started, I realized that we were
passing through private land, for the trees were now mango, jamun and jackfruit. The road then turned right. We passed a broken and abandoned temple, and suddenly found ourselves facing a huge white, moss-covered gate, on the top of which was a naubatkhana (a music room). The driver sounded his horn three times before passing through the gate. The mansion came into view immediately.

The last traces of red had disappeared from the sky, leaving a deep purple hue. The dark house stood against the sky, like a towering cliff. We got out and followed the driver. As we got closer, I realized the whole house could be kept in a museum. Its walls were all damp, plaster had peeled off in several places, and small plants had grown out of cracks in the exposed bricks. We stopped before the front door.

‘No one in this area has electricity, I take it?’ Feluda asked.

‘No, sir. For nearly three years, all we’ve heard are promises. But nothing’s happened yet,’ the driver replied.

I glanced up. From where I was standing, a lot of windows on the first floor were visible. But each room was in darkness. On our right, through a couple of bushes, a light flickered in a tiny hut. Perhaps that was where a mali or chowkidar lived. I shivered silently. What sort of a place was this? Perhaps Feluda should have made more enquiries before agreeing to come.

Light from a lantern fell in the doorway. Then an old servant appeared at the door. The driver had gone, possibly to put the car away. The servant glanced at us with a slight frown, then said, ‘Please come in.’ We stepped in behind him.

There was no doubt that the house sprawled over a large area. But everything inside it seemed surprisingly small. The doors were not high, the windows were half the size of windows in any house in Calcutta, and it was almost possible to touch the ceiling if I raised my arm. ‘This house clearly belonged to a zamindar.’ Feluda remarked. ‘All the houses built by zamindars in the villages in Bengal about two hundred years ago were built like this.’

We crossed a long passage, then turned right to go up a flight of stairs. A strange contraption met my eyes as we got to the first floor. ‘This is called a “covered door”. It’s like a trapdoor, really,’ Feluda told me. ‘These were built to stop burglars and dacoits from getting in. If you shut it, it would cease standing upright. Then it would fold automatically and lie flat, stretching diagonally across, to from a kind of ceiling over out heads. So anyone trying to climb up would
be shut out. See those holes in the door? Spears used to be slipped out of those holes to fight intruders.’

Luckily, the door was now standing wide open. We began crossing another long corridor. An oil lamp burnt in a niche in the wall where it ended. The servant opened a door next to this niche, and ushered us in.

The room we stepped into was quite large. It might have seemed even larger had it not been stuffed with so much furniture. Nearly half of it had been taken up by a massive bed. To the left of this bed was a table and a chest. Besides these, there were three chairs, a wardrobe, and bookshelves that went right up to the ceiling. Each shelf was crammed with books. An old man was lying on the bed, a blanket drawn upto his chin. In the flickering light of a candle I saw that through a salt-and-pepper beard and moustache, he was smiling at us.

‘Please sit down,’ he invited.

‘Thank you. This is my cousin, Tapesh. I wrote to you about him,’ Feluda said. Mr Majumdar smiled again and nodded. I noticed that he did not fold his hands in reply to my ‘namaskar’.

We took the chairs nearest to the bed.

‘My letter must have made you curious,’ Mr Majumdar observed lightly.

‘Yes, it certainly did. Or I’d never have travelled this distance.’

‘Good.’ Mr Majumdar looked genuinely pleased. ‘If you hadn’t come, I would have felt very disappointed, and thought you to be arrogant; and you would have missed out on something. But perhaps you have read these books already?’ Mr Majumdar’s eyes turned towards the table. Four bound volumes were arranged in a pile next to a candle. Feluda got up and picked them up. ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘These are all extremely rare, and they are all to do with my profession. Did you ever . . .?’

‘No, no,’ Mr Majumdar laughed, ‘I never tried to become a detective myself. It has always been a hobby. You see, fifty-two years ago, someone in our family was murdered. An English investigator called Malcolm caught the killer. After speaking to Malcolm and learning something about his work, I became interested in criminology. That was when I bought those books. I was also very fond of reading detective novels. Have you heard of Emile Gaboriau?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Feluda replied with enthusiasm, ‘wasn’t he a French
writer? He wrote the first detective novel, I think.’

‘That’s right,’ Mr Majumdar nodded. ‘I’ve got all his books. And, of course, books by writers like Edgar Allan Poe and Conan Doyle. I bought all these forty years ago. Of late, I believe, there has been a lot of progress, and now there are many scientific and technical ways to catch a criminal. But from what little I know of your work, you strike me as one who depends more on old-fashioned methods, and uses his brain more than anything else, very successfully. Am I right?’

‘I do not know how successful I’ve been, but you’re certainly right about my methods.’

‘That is why I asked you to visit me.’

Mr Majumdar paused. Feluda returned to his chair. After a while, Mr Majumdar resumed speaking, staring straight at the flame of the candle. ‘I am not only old—I crossed seventy some years ago—but also ailing. God knows what’s going to happen to my books when I die. So I thought if I could give you a few, they’d be appreciated and looked after.’

Feluda looked at the books in the shelves in surprise. ‘Are all of those your own?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I was the only one in my family with an interest in books. Criminology wasn’t the only subject that held my interest, as you can see.’

‘Yes, of course. I can see books on archaeology, painting, gardening, history, biographies, travelogues . . . even drama and the theatre! Some of them appear to be new. Do you still buy books?’

‘Oh yes. I have a manager called Rajen. He goes to Calcutta two or three times every month. I make him a list of books, and he goes and gets them from College Street.’

Feluda looked once more at the books kept on the table. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘You don’t have to. It would have given me a lot of pleasure if I could actually hand them over to you myself, but both my hands are useless.’

Startled, we stared at him. His hands were hidden under the blanket, but I would never have thought that that had a special significance.

‘Arthritis,’ Mr Majumdar explained, ‘has affected all my fingers. My son happens to be visiting me at the moment, so he’s looking after me now. Usually, it is my servant Gokul who feeds me every day.’

‘Did you get your son to write the letter to me?’

‘No, Rajen wrote it. He takes care of everything. If I need to see a doctor, he fetches one from Behrampore. Plassey doesn’t have good doctors.’

I had noticed Feluda casting frequent glances at the chest kept near the bed while he was talking to Mr Majumdar. ‘That chest appears to be different from most,’ he now said. ‘I can’t see any provision for a key. Does it have a combination lock?’

‘Correct,’ Mr Majumdar smiled. ‘All it has is a knob, with numbers written around it. The chest opens only if you move the knob to rest against some specific numbers. These areas were once notorious for armed burglars. You knew that, didn’t you? In fact, my ancestors became wealthy enough to buy masses of land chiefly by looting others. Years later, we ourselves were attacked by dacoits, more than once. So I thought a chest with a combination lock might be safer than any other.’

Mr Majumdar stopped speaking, and frowned for a second. Then he called, ‘Gokul!’

The old servant appeared almost instantly. ‘Bring that bird over here,’ his master commanded. ‘I’d like these people to see it.’

Gokul disappeared and came back a minute later with a parrot in a cage. Mr Majumdar turned to it and said softly, ‘Go on, sweetie. Say it. Shut the door . . . say it!’

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the parrot spoke in an amazingly clear voice. ‘Shut the door!’ it said. I gave a start. I had never heard a bird speak so distinctly. But that wasn’t all. ‘O big fat hen!’ the bird added. This time, I saw Feluda turn his head sharply. Before anyone could say anything, the parrot said both things together, very rapidly: ‘Shut the door, O big fat hen!’

‘What does it mean?’ Feluda asked after a moment’s pause. Mr Majumdar burst out laughing. ‘I am not going to tell you. All I can say is that what you just heard was a code, and it has to do with that locked chest over there. You have twelve hours to work it out.’

‘I see. May I ask why the bird has been taught to say it?’

‘You may indeed, and I am going to tell you why. Age does strange things to one’s memory. About three years ago, one day, I suddenly discovered that I couldn’t remember the combination that would open the chest. Can you believe that? After using the same numbers for years, almost every day, it had simply vanished from my mind, just like that. All day, I tried to remember the numbers. Then, finally,
it came back in a flash, in the middle of the night. I could have written it down, but didn’t want to, in case it fell into the wrong hands. It was far better to keep it in my head, but now I realized I could no longer depend ort my memory. So the next morning, I made up that code and taught my parrot to say it. Now it says it every now and then, just as other parrots say, “Radhey Shyam” or “how are you?”’

Feluda was still staring at the chest. I saw him frown suddenly and get up to peer at it closely. Then he picked up the candle and began examining its lid.

‘What is it?’ Mr Majumdar asked anxiously. ‘What have you found? Do your trained eyes tell you anything?’