The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (70 page)

The following day we were supposed to travel down the road to Pune to a level-crossing between Khandala and Lonavala. That was the spot where the final climactic scene was going to be shot. All
told, there were eleven ‘action’ scenes in the film. Pulak Ghoshal was going to start with the last one.

The complete scene could not be shot in a single day. The whole thing would take as many as five days. We had decided to watch the shooting every day—that is, if we enjoyed the first day’s experience. The train would be available on all five days, for an hour between one and two o’clock. But the horses meant for the group of bandits, and a Lincoln Convertible meant for the hero, could be used any time. The scene in question went like this:

The villain had replaced the real engine driver and was driving the train. In one of its compartments the heroine and her uncle were being held, their hands and feet tied. The hero was chasing the train in a motor car. At the same time, the hero’s twin—who had been kidnapped by bandits when he was a baby, and had now become a bandit himself—was riding with his entire gang to attack the train. He would get close enough to the train to jump into it straight from his horse. About the same time, the hero in his car would also catch up with the train, and he would arrive on the scene to see the bandit and the villain (pretending to be the engine driver) having a fight. The villain would be killed. What would happen next? . . . All would be revealed on the silver screen!

Apparently, three different versions of the final scene were going to be shot. Then the director would decide which appeared the best on the screen, and retain it, discarding the other two.

Mr Ghoshal dropped in briefly quite early in the morning. We told him we were ready to go, and all arrangements were in hand. ‘Laluda,’ he said, ‘I can tell just by looking at you that you really enjoyed watching
Teerandaj
!’

Lalmohan babu could be seen smiling to himself from time to time, as he recalled the previous night’s events. Mr Ghoshal had noticed that smile and misunderstood the reason for it. Lalmohan babu laughed loudly and said, ‘Bravo, my boy—to think that a boy from our Gorpar in Calcutta could achieve so much! You have shown them all. . . ha ha!’

Since we were going to be out all day, Feluda told me to take all the edible stuff in our hand luggage. We packed the oranges, biscuits and sweets that Lalmohan babu had bought the day before and put them in the car. Then Lalmohan babu deposited all his cash with the hotel manager and took a receipt from him. ‘Who knows,’ he told us, ‘whether a real bandit or two won’t get mixed up with the actors?’

Feluda went out for a while—to buy cigarettes, he said. He had
run out completely, and the place where we were going might not have a shop within miles. We left shortly after he got back. The car was still smelling of Gulbahar.

Thane station was about twenty-five kilometers from Bombay. The road made a right curve there, joined the national highway and went towards Pune. Khandala was eighty kilometers down that same road. The weather that morning was quite good. Broken clouds were flitting across the sky, driven by a strong breeze—and the sun was peering frequently through them, bathing the city with its light. Mr Ghoshal had already remarked on the weather. It was said to be ‘ideal’ for shooting outdoors. Lalmohan babu was pleased, not just with the weather, but with everything he could see. ‘Now I needn’t worry about going abroad!’ he announced. ‘Bombay is such a wonderful place, who wants to go to England? Have you seen the buses? Not one is overcrowded, not one has people hanging out of it. Oh, what tremendous civic sense these people have!’

It took us nearly an hour to reach Thane, at around a quarter past nine. As we had plenty of time on our hands we stopped at a tea stall and had masala tea. Our driver, Swaruplal, joined us.

Only a few minutes after we left Thane, I realized we were travelling alongside the hills of the Western Ghats. The railway track I had noticed before had disappeared. It had gone towards Kalyan to the north. From Kalyan, it would turn back and go south again, passing through Matheran before going to Pune. Our level crossing was situated somewhere in the middle of that particular stretch.

Our journey was eventless, except for Lalmohan babu choking on some orange pips at one point. Feluda remained silent throughout— it was impossible to tell from his face what he was thinking. I knew from experience that even when he lapsed into silence, it did not necessarily mean that he was worried about anything.

At around half past twelve, we passed through Khandala. Only a mile later, a large number of people came into view. It seemed as if a fair had sprung up by the roadside. As we got closer, I was struck by the number of vehicles I could see. Why should there be so many of them at a fair? Then I noticed something else—horses! Now I realized that the ‘fair’ was Mr Ghoshal’s unit, gathered here to start shooting
Jet Bahadur.
There were at least a hundred people milling about; and there was a lot of equipment and other material . . . cameras, reflectors, lights, large durries . . . it was a huge affair.

Our driver slipped into a gap between an Ambassador and a bus, and parked the car there. Mr Ghoshal came forward to greet us as
soon as we emerged. He was wearing a white cap, and from his neck hung an object that looked like binoculars.

‘Good morning! Everything all right?’ he asked.

We nodded. ‘Listen,’ he went on, ‘I have a message from Mr Gore. He’s gone to Matheran—I think to talk to some railway officials, and perhaps make some payments. He will make his own way here, either on the same train that we’re going to use, or by car. You will be told the minute the train gets here. In any case, whether or not Mr Gore arrives on time, you three should get into the first-class compartment. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Feluda.

We met some of the other workers as we waited. I had no idea so many Bengalis worked in the Bombay film industry. It was hardly surprising that one of them should recognize Feluda. The cameraman, Dashu Ghosh, wrinkled his brows upon hearing Feluda’s name. ‘Mitter? Are you the detec—?’

‘Yes,’ Feluda said hurriedly, ‘but please keep it to yourself.’

‘Why? You are our pride. When that statue in Ellora—’

Feluda placed a finger on his lips. Dashu Ghosh lowered his voice, ‘Are you here on a case?’

‘No, no. I am here on holiday, with this friend of mine.’

Dashu Ghosh had lived in Bombay for twenty-one years. Even so, he read Bengali books regularly, and had read two or three books by Jatayu. There were two other cameramen working with him that day. They came from other parts of India. Two of the four assistants who worked with Mr Ghoshal were Bengalis. But among the actors, none came from Bengal. Apart from Arjun Mehrotra, there was Micky playing the villain. He was just Micky, without a surname. He was considered the best amongst villains who were on their way up in Bombay at the moment. It was said that he had signed contracts for thirty-seven films, but twenty-nine of those were being rewritten, simply to reduce the number of fights. Thank goodness
Jet Bahadur
had only four fights. If it had more, Mr Ghoshal and Mr Gore would have been in big trouble.

We learnt all this from the production manager, Sudarshan Das. He was from Orissa. Like Dashu Ghosh, he had been in Bombay for many years; but as soon as
Jet Bahadur
was completed, he planned to return to Cuttack and start directing Oriya films.

Feluda had walked over to another group. All the actors who were going to play the bandits were being made up and dressed for the big scene. Suddenly, I noticed one of those men chatting with Feluda.
Curious, I went forward and realized, as I heard his voice, that it was none other than the kung-fu master, Victor Perumal. He was made up to look like the hero’s twin. It would be his job to jump from a galloping horse and land on the roof of the train. Then he would have to walk over as many as six coaches and enter the engine to fight with Micky, the villain, and kill him. That would be followed by a dramatic clash with the hero, who had been separated from his twin twenty years ago.

Lalmohan babu saw the elaborate arrangements and sank into silence. He really ought to have been pleased since all that action was centred around
his
story. He told me of his feelings: ‘I feel kind of peculiar, Tapesh,’ he explained. ‘At times, it’s giving me a sense of power, you see, to think that
I
wrote the story that’s led to so much work, such complex arrangements, so much expense! Yet, sometimes, I feel a little guilty for causing a lot of headache to a lot of people. And I cannot forget that the writer gets no recognition here. How many people in this unit know Jatayu’s name, tell me?’

I tried to comfort him. ‘If the film is a success, everyone will learn your name!’

‘I hope so!’ Jatayu sighed.

The bandits who had finished their make-up were already on their horses, running around. All the horses were initially gathered under a large banyan tree. There were nine of them.

A minute later, a huge white Lincoln Convertible turned up, its tinted glass windows rolled up. It contained the hero and the villain. There was no need for the heroine that day, as the scenes in which she would appear, with her hands and feet tied, would be shot later in a studio. It was just as well, I thought. The two male stars caused enough sensation in the crowd. The presence of the heroine would only have made matters worse.

Sudarshan Das had given us some tea. We were in the process of returning the empty cups, when suddenly a raucous voice could be heard on a loudspeaker: ‘The train is coming! Train’s here! Everybody ready!’

An old-fashioned engine came into view, huffing and puffing, blowing thick black smoke. Behind it were eight coaches. It stopped at the
level crossing at exactly five minutes to one.

Even from a distance, we could see that there was only one first-class compartment. Other coaches already had passengers in them— they had been planted there when the train left Matheran. There were men, women and children, both young and old. Mr Ghoshal became extremely busy as soon as the train arrived. We could see him rushing from one camera to another, from the hero to the villain, and from one assistant here to another assistant there. Even Lalmohan babu was forced to admit that it wasn’t simply the producer’s money that made a film.

Arjun Mehrotra—the hero—was ready. He was at the wheel of his car, wearing sunglasses. Beside him sat his make-up man, and two other men, possibly hangers-on. A jeep with an open top was ready, too. In it stood a camera on a tripod. Victor and his men had already departed with their horses. They would wait for a signal from the moving train, and then ride down a particular hill. Then they would be seen galloping alongside the train. I saw Micky go towards the engine, accompanied by one of Mr Ghoshal’s assistants.

We didn’t know what to do. There was no sign of Mr Gore. Was he on the train? There was no way to tell.

The crowd had dispersed by now, but no one had told us what to do. Lalmohan babu began to get restless. ‘What’s going on, Feluda babu? Have we been totally forgotten?’ he asked.

‘Well, we were told to get into a first-class compartment, and there is only one such coach. So we should get into it . . . but let’s wait for two more minutes.’

Before those two minutes were up, the engine blew its whistle, and we heard Sudarshan Das call out to us: ‘I say, gentlemen! This way!’

We ran towards the first class carriage, clutching our bags. Mr Das went with us up to the door to the carriage. ‘I knew nothing of the arrangements,’ he said. ‘Someone just told me Mr Gore will arrive in half an hour. After the first shot, this train is going to return here.’

We got into the compartment, to be greeted by a large flask standing on a bench, together with four white cardboard boxes. The name of the Safari Restaurant was printed on every box. In other words, it was our lunch. I was surprised by Mr Gore’s care and attention, in spite of his being so busy.

There was another whistle, then the train started with a jerk. All of us got ready to watch the activities outside. This was going to be a totally new experience, so I was feeling quite excited.

The train was now gathering speed. A road ran by the track on the right hand side. On our left, very soon, we’d see hills. The bandits would arrive from the left, and the hero from the right.

A little later, when the train was running faster, the jeep with the camera could be seen, travelling down the road. It was followed by the hero’s car. Now the hero was alone, his companions had gone. The camera was facing him. Apart from the cameraman, there were three other men in the jeep. One of them was Mr Ghoshal’s assistant. He was speaking through a microphone, instructing the hero: ‘Look to your left!’ and ‘Now to your right!’

Mr Ghoshal himself was handling the second camera, which was placed inside one of the carriages. The third camera was on the roof of the last coach, towards the rear of the train.

The hero wasn’t driving all that fast, which I found somewhat disappointing. But Feluda pointed out that, in the film, it would appear fast enough as the speed of the camera had been reduced to shoot this particular scene.

‘Besides,’ he added, ‘that car isn’t moving as slowly as you seem to think, because it’s running to keep pace with our train; and the train is moving pretty fast, isn’t it?’

True. I hadn’t thought about that.

In a few minutes, the hero’s car and the jeep passed our compartment and went further down the road. Since it was an old-fashioned carriage, there were no bars on the windows. I wanted to lean out and see how the remaining scene was being shot, but Feluda stopped me. ‘How do you suppose you’d feel if you went to see
Jet Bahadur
at a cinema, and found yourself on the screen, leaning out of a train?’

I had to resist the temptation to poke my head out. Then I decided to get up and sit near a window on the opposite side. The scent of Gulbahar hit my nostrils as soon as I got to my feet.

Suddenly, I realized that Feluda was no longer by my side. He had sprung up and moved to the opposite end of the carriage. His eyes were fixed on the door to the bathroom, and his hand was in his jacket pocket.

‘It’s no use, Mr Mitter. Don’t take out your gun—a revolver is already pointed at you!’ said a voice.

The door on our left opened. A man entered and stood blocking the exit. In his hand was a revolver. Where had I seen him before? Oh, of course, this was Mr Red Shirt! But today he was wearing
different clothes, and there was a vicious expression on his face that had been absent that day when we’d seen him at the airport. Looking at him now, I had no doubt in my mind that this man was a killer, and he would kill without the slightest qualm. His revolver was aimed straight at Feluda.

The door to the bathroom, which was ajar, opened fully and the whole compartment was filled with the scent of Gulbahar.

‘San . . . San . . .’ muttered Lalmohan babu, then his voice trailed away. His whole body seemed to have shrunk with fear.

‘Yes, I am Sanyal,’ said the stranger, ‘and my real business is with you, Mr Ganguli. You have brought that packet here, haven’t you? Open your bag and give it to me. I needn’t tell you what’s going to happen if you don’t.’

‘P-p-packet. . .?’

‘Surely you know which packet I am talking about? I did not meet you at the airport that day in Calcutta just to hand you a copy of your own book, did I? Come on, give me the real packet.’

‘You are mistaken. That packet is with me, not Mr Ganguli.’

The train was making such a lot of noise that everyone had to raise his voice to be heard; but Feluda spoke slowly and steadily. Even so, his words reached Sanyal’s ears and his eyes lit up behind his glasses.

‘You destroyed so many pages of
Life Divine.
Did that bring you any special gain?’ Feluda was still speaking calmly, his words were measured.

‘Nimmo,’ Sanyal gave a sidelong glance at the hooligan and spoke harshly, ‘finish this man off if he creates any trouble. Keep your hands raised, Mr Mitter.’

‘Aren’t you taking a very big risk?’ Feluda asked. ‘You will not release us, will you, even if you get what you want? You’re going to finish us off, anyway. But what’s going to happen to
you,
once the train comes to a stop? Have you thought about that?’

‘That’s easy,’ Sanyal’s face broke into an evil grin, ‘No one knows me here. There are so many passengers on this train—you think I couldn’t just disappear amongst them? Your corpses will lie here, and I will move to another compartment. It’s that simple.’

Feluda and I had faced many tricky situations before and that had taught me not to lose my nerve easily. But, right at this moment, although I was trying very hard to stay calm, one thing kept making me break into a cold sweat. It was the figure of Nimmo. I had only read about such characters. The look in his eyes held pure malice. He
had closed the door and was now leaning against it. The fine cotton embroidered shirt he was wearing was fluttering in the breeze; his right arm was shaking a little because of the train’s movement, but the revolver was still pointed straight at Feluda.

Sanyal advanced slowly. My nostrils were burning with the scent. His eyes were fixed on Feluda’s bag. It was an Air India bag, placed on a bench in front of Sanyal. Lalmohan babu was standing behind me, so I couldn’t see the look on his face. But, in spite of the racket the train was making, I could hear him breathing heavily, wheezing like an asthma patient.

The train was speeding on its way. It meant that the shooting was going ahead as planned. Did Mr Gore have any idea just how badly he had messed things up?

Sanyal sat down, grabbed the bag and pressed its catch. It did not open. The bag was locked.

‘Where’s the key? Where is it?’ Sanyal’s entire face was distorted with impatient rage. ‘Where the hell did you put it?’

‘In my pocket,’ Feluda replied coolly.

‘Which pocket?’

‘The right one.’

That was where Feluda kept his revolver. I knew it.

Sanyal rose to his feet, still looking livid. After a few uncertain moments, he suddenly turned to me. ‘Come here!’ he roared.

Feluda looked at me. I could tell he wanted me to do as I was told.

As I began moving towards Feluda, a different noise reached my ears. It wasn’t just the noise of the train. I could hear galloping horses. Unbeknown to me, the train had reached the hills, which were now stretched on the left. By the time I could slip my hand into Feluda’s pocket, the gang of bandits was moving swiftly down a hill, throwing up clouds of dust.

My fingers first found the revolver, then brushed against the key.

‘Give it to him,’ Feluda told me.

I passed the key to Sanyal. Feluda’s hands were still raised. Sanyal unlocked the bag.
Life Divine
was resting on top of everything else. Sanyal took it out.

There was the sound of hooves quite close to the window. Not one, but several horses had sped down the hill and were now galloping beside the track, keeping pace with the train.

Sanyal leafed through the pages quickly until he got to the point where many of the pages were stuck together. Then he did something
most peculiar. Instead of turning the pages, he began scratching and clawing at them. At once, one of the pages tore, revealing a square ‘hollow’. A certain section had been cut out from the centre of several pages to create that hollow.

Sanyal peered into it—and the expression on his face changed at once. It was really worth watching. God knows what he was expecting to find, but what the hollow contained were about eight cigarette stubs, a dozen used matches and a substantial quantity of ash.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ said Feluda, ‘but I couldn’t resist using that as an ash-tray.’

Now Sanyal shouted so loudly that I was sure the whole train could hear him.

‘You think you can get away with this? Where’s the real stuff?’

‘What stuff?’

‘You scoundrel! Don’t you know what I’m talking about?’

‘Of course. But I want to hear you spell it out.’

‘
Where
is it?’ Sanyal roared again.

‘In my pocket.’

‘Which pocket?’

‘The left one.’

The bandits were now just outside the window. The hill was much closer. A lot of dust was coming in through the window.

‘You there!’

I knew I would be ordered once more.

‘Don’t just stand there—get it from his pocket!’

I had to slip my hand into Feluda’s left pocket this time. The object that I found was something the like of which I had never held in my hand before. It was a necklace strung with pearls and studded with diamonds. Such an amazing piece of jewellery was fit to be handled only by kings and emperors, I thought.

‘Give it to me!’ Sanyal’s eyes were glinting once more, not with rage, but with greed and glee.

I stretched my hand towards him. Feluda kept his hands raised. Lalmohan babu was groaning. The bandits were . . .

CRASH!

Something heavy had made an impact against the carriage, making it shake a little. In the next instant, Nimmo was rolling on the floor. A pair of legs had slipped in through the window and kicked him hard. The gun in his hand went off, hit a light fixed to the ceiling and shattered it. In a flash, Feluda lowered his hands and took out his own revolver.

Then the door on the left opened again, and a man dressed as a bandit climbed into our carriage. He was known to all three of us.

‘Thank you, Victor!’ said Feluda.