The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (84 page)

Mahesh Chowdhury stopped, looking sadly at the distant hills. ‘I know he will never come back to me,’ he sighed. ‘I will never know any peace. I have been cursed.’

‘What? Since when did you start to believe in curses?’

This was another voice, and it was speaking lightly. We turned to find we had been joined by Akhil Chakravarty.

‘You only looked at my horoscope, Akhil,’ Mahesh Chowdhury complained. ‘You didn’t bother to consider me as a man.’

‘Rubbish. A man and his horoscope are linked together. Didn’t I tell you in 1942 a big change would come over you? Have you forgotten that?’ He turned to Feluda. ‘Would you believe me, Mr Mitter, if I told you this amiable old man that you see today had once pushed his car off a cliff in a fit of rage, just because its engine had died on the way from Ranchi to Netarhat?’

Mr Chowdhury rose slowly to his feet. ‘People change as they grow older. One doesn’t need to be an astrologer to see that,’ he said shortly and walked away, possibly to look for stones.

Akhil Chakravarty took his place. He seemed to be in the mood to tell stories. ‘Mahesh is an extraordinary character,’ he began. ‘I used to be his neighbour. We came from two different worlds. I was only
a schoolteacher, and he was a rising star in his profession. I worked for a while as his sons’ private tutor and got to know him well. He didn’t believe in conventional medicine. If any of his children was unwell, he used to come to me for ayurvedic herbs. Never did he let me feel that we belonged to two different social classes. He treated my son with the same affection that he treated his own. He was devoid of snobbery.’

‘What does your son do?’

‘Who, Adheer? He’s an engineer. He went to IIT Kharagpur, and then to Dusseldorf. He spent ten years there, but he returned home and . . .’

The sound of an explosion made him stop.

‘Uncle’s gun!’ Bibi shouted. ‘Uncle’s killed a partridge. We’ll have it for dinner!’

‘Let me go and find Mahesh,’ Akhil Chakravarty said, getting up. ‘At his age, he shouldn’t go looking for stones. Heaven forbid, but if he slipped and fell near the water, his birthday would . . .’ he moved away.

‘It doesn’t feel like a picnic at all!’ said Neelima Devi. She had put her book away and come over to join us. ‘Why has everyone disappeared?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Feluda reassured her. ‘They’ll all turn up when they’re hungry and it’s time to eat.’

‘Probably. In the meantime, why don’t we play a game?’

‘Cards?’ asked Lalmohan Babu. ‘But all I can play is Screw.’

‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t bring any cards,’ Neelima Devi said. ‘It will have to be something we can play orally.’

‘Let’s try water-earth-sky. Lalmohan Babu could join us quite easily,’ Feluda suggested.

‘How do you play that?’

‘It’s very simple, really. Suppose I look at you and say “water!” or “earth!” or “sky!”—and then start counting up to ten. You have to think of a creature that can be found in it, within those ten seconds.’

‘Is this a very difficult game?’

‘Try it,’ Neelima Devi smiled. ‘Let me ask you the first one.’

‘OK.’ Lalmohan Babu took a deep breath, and sat crosslegged, holding himself straight. Neelima Devi looked at him in silence for a few moments. The she suddenly shouted, ‘Sky! One, two, three, four . . .’

‘Er . . . er . . . er . . .’

‘ . . . five, six, seven . . .’

‘Bafrosh!’

Feluda was the first to break the amazed silence that followed this perfectly weird remark.

‘What, pray, is a bafrosh? A creature of the sky in a different planet, perhaps?’

‘N-n-no. You see, I had thought of a balloon, a frog and a shark. But I mixed them all up!’

‘A balloon? You think a balloon qualifies as a living creature?’

‘Why not? Every living being needs oxygen. So does a balloon.’

‘Really? Well, I must confess I did not know that. I’ve heard of hot air balloons, hydrogen and helium balloons, even balloons that fly with gas made from coal, but this is the first time anyone mentioned oxygen. Perhaps you’d like to . . .’

Neelima Devi raised a hand to stop further argument. As things turned out, she need not have bothered. Something happened at this moment that automatically put a stop to all arguments.

It was Pritin Babu.

A long time ago, Feluda had shown me a painting by Leonardo da Vinci, which showed a man who had both fear and sadness etched in every line on his face. Pritin Babu’s face wore the same expression.

He emerged from behind a bush, took a few unsteady steps, then sat down quickly, trembling visibly. Neelima Devi got up and ran towards her husband, but Feluda had reached him already. Pritin Babu had to swallow a few times before he made an effort to speak.

‘B-b-b-baba,’ he managed finally, pointing at the direction from which he had come.

By the time Mahesh Chowdhury was brought home, it was half past two. He was still unconscious. Judging by the injury on his head, he had been standing when he fell. The doctor who examined him said it was a heart attack. His heart was not particularly strong, anyway. The attack might have been caused by a sudden shock. His overall condition was critical; the doctor could not hold out much hope for a recovery.

He was found lying in an area behind a large boulder. We could see the boulder from where we sat, but not what lay behind it. None
of us had seen him go there. Pritin Babu, who had climbed up a slope to go into the trees on the top of a hill, found him on his way back, as he came out in the open and looked down. At first, he had thought his father had died. That was why he had rushed to us, looking deathly pale. Feluda felt Mr Chowdhury’s pulse and said he was still alive. His head had struck against a stone the size of a brick. A pool of blood lay around it. Like everyone else, I felt dazed, but couldn’t help noticing two pretty yellow butterflies fluttering around the unconscious man.

A minute later, we were joined first by Arun Babu, and then Akhil Chakravarty. Shankarlal was the last to arrive. He broke down immediately as he realized what had happened. There could be no doubt about his attachment and devotion to the old man.

It was clearly impossible for us to pick him up and carry him across the river. His two sons left at once to go back and get an ambulance. It took them more than two hours to return with a medical team, and another hour to move their father away in the ambulance. All of us returned to Kailash and remained there for a while. Since no one had had any lunch, Neelima Devi served the food that had been packed for the picnic: parathas, aloo-dum and kababs. Once she had got over the initial shock, she had regained her composure fully. I had to admire her.

Little Bibi was the only one who didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation. She kept saying her Dadu had simply had a dizzy spell, and would soon be playing with her again. We waited in the drawing room. Arun Babu remained upstairs with his father, and Pritin Chowdhury came and joined us every now and then. Shankarlal was sitting still like a statue. He hadn’t spoken a single word since we left Rajrappa. Akhil Chakravarty was saying the same thing over and over: ‘I told him not to go out today, but he didn’t listen to me!’

We left at around four o’clock. ‘We’ll come back tomorrow,’ Feluda told Pritin Babu. ‘Please do let us know if we can do anything to help.’

‘Thank you.’

On reaching our own house, each of us had a quick wash before going and sitting on the front veranda. I was still feeling dazed. Feluda wasn’t speaking much, which meant he was thinking hard. I knew he wouldn’t like being disturbed, but there was something I felt I had to ask him. ‘I heard the doctor say Mr Chowdhury’s heart
attack might have been caused by a sudden shock. How could he have received a shock in Rajrappa, Feluda?’

‘Good question. That is what I’ve been thinking. Of course, we don’t know that for a fact.’

‘So all we need to do is wait until Mr Chowdhury gets better. Then the whole thing will become clear,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked.

‘Yes. But will he get better?’ Feluda sounded doubtful.

He was clearly curious about Mahesh Chowdhury. While we were waiting in the drawing room, I saw him looking closely at the books and every other object in the room. He did this very discreetly, but I knew he was making a mental note of everything he saw. The group photograph of all the Chowdhurys seemed to intrigue him the most. He spent at least five minutes looking at it closely.

Drums were beating in a distant village. It suddenly made me think of the escaped tiger. Obviously, it had not been captured, or Bulakiprasad would have told us.

It was now quite chilly outside. Lalmohan Babu pulled his cap tighter and said, ‘It’s significant, isn’t it?’ Perhaps he had expected one of us to ask him what he meant by that; but when we didn’t, he expanded further, ‘When Mr Chowdhury suffered this heart attack, we were with Neelima Devi and that little girl was playing with her doll. But we know nothing of the movements of the others, do we?’

‘Yes, we do,’ Feluda replied. ‘Arun Babu was trying to kill birds, Pritin Babu was recording bird calls, Akhil Chakravarty was looking for his friend, Shankarlal was chatting with a sadhu, and the two bearers were sitting under a cotton tree, smoking beedis.’

‘Yes, I saw them. But what about the others? They were all out of sight. How do we know they’re telling the truth?’

‘There is absolutely no reason to think they are not. I don’t know them well, and I’m not prepared to start by treating them with suspicion.’

‘OK, you’re right, Felu Babu.’

But Lalmohan Babu had more to tell. It came a few hours later, while we were at dinner. I saw him give a sudden start, slap his forehead and say, ‘Oh no, no!’

‘Whatever is the matter, Lalmohan Babu?’ Feluda asked.

‘I forgot to tell you something—something very important. I found another clue, a terrific one this time. As we got close to the spot where the body—sorry, I mean Mr Chowdhury—was lying, I stumbled against an object. It was Pritin Chowdhury’s tape
recorder.’

‘Have you got it with you?’

‘No. I thought I’d pick it up later and give it back to him. But with all the hue and cry and everything, I totally forgot. When we were returning, however, I did remember, but by then it had gone!’

‘Maybe Pritin Babu himself had picked it up?’

‘No. He most definitely did not go anywhere near it. Besides, it was lying under a bush. I wouldn’t have seen it myself if my foot hadn’t actually struck against it.’

Feluda started to make a comment, but was stopped by the phone ringing.

It was Arun Babu. Feluda spoke briefly, put the phone down, and turned to us.

‘We must go back to Kailash. Mr Chowdhury has regained consciousness, and is asking for me.’

It took us only a minute to reach their house by car. Everyone was gathered around his bed, with the exception of Bibi. Mr Chowdhury was lying in his bed with a dressing on his head, his hands folded and resting on his chest, his eyes half closed. His lips parted in a faint smile as he saw Feluda. Then he slowly raised his right hand and straightened his index finger.

‘A j-j-j-’ he tried to speak.

‘A job for me?’ Feluda asked anxiously.

Mr Chowdhury gave a slight nod. Then he raised his middle finger as well.

‘We . . . we . . .’ he folded his fingers and raised his thumb, shaking it.

With an effort, he then moved his head and looked at the bedside table. Muktananda’s photograph rested on it. As he tried to stretch his arm towards it, Arun Babu picked it up and offered it to him. Instead of taking it, Mr Chowdhury looked at Feluda. Arun Babu passed the photo to Feluda without a word. Mr Chowdhury sighed and raised two fingers again. He tried to speak once more, but no words came.

After a while, he gave up trying and just stared in silence.

We had returned to our room. The passport-size photograph of
Muktananda was now with Feluda. I could not imagine why Mr Chowdhury had given it to him and told him he had a job. Lalmohan Babu, however, ventured to hazard a guess.

‘I think he asked you to become a follower of Muktananda,’ he observed.

‘Then why did he raise two fingers?’

‘Maybe he meant . . . as a follower of Muktananda, your skills at your job would double themselves? Mind you,’ Lalmohan Babu added sadly, ‘I cannot figure out why he then shook his thumb at you!’

Early in the morning, Akhil Chakravarty rang us to say that Mahesh Chowdhury had breathed his last two hours after we had left his house the previous night.

By the time the funeral was over, it was past eleven o’clock. On our way back from the cremation ground, Lalmohan Babu asked, ‘Where do you want to go now, Felu Babu? To Kailash, or back home?’

‘I don’t think we should spend any more time in Kailash, just at this moment. They are bound to receive a lot of visitors. I won’t get any work done.’

‘What work do you mean?’

‘Gathering information.’

After lunch, Feluda took out his blue notebook and began scribbling in it. When he finished, he let us see what he had written:

1. Mahesh Chowdhury: Born 23 November 1907; died 24 November 1977 (Natural causes? Heart attack? Shock?). Fond of riddles, stamps, butterflies, rocks. A valuable stamp album given by Dorabjee—lost (how?). Attached to second son. What about his feelings towards the other two? Deep affection towards Shankarlal. No snobbery. Violent temper in the past; drinking. A changed man in later years, amiable. Why a curse?

2. His wife: Dead. When?

3. First son: Arunendra. Born (approx.) 1936. Deals with mica. Travels between Calcutta and Hazaribagh. Fond of shooting. Doesn’t talk much.

4. Second son: Birendra. Born (approx.) 1939. Very bright, a rebel. Left home at nineteen. Admired Col. Suresh Biswas. Wrote to father until 1967. Alive? Dead? Father thought he had returned

5. Third son: Pritindra. Younger than Arunendra by at least nine years (basis: family photo), i.e. born (approx.) 1945. Electronics. Bird calls. Talks a lot, chiefly about himself. Left tape recorder in Rajrappa.

6. Pritin’s wife: Neelima. Age twenty-five/twenty-six. Intelligent, smart, collected.

7. Akhil Chakravarty: Age (approx.) seventy. Ex-schoolteacher. Mahesh’s friend. Astrology, ayurveda.

8. Shankarlal Misra: Born (approx.) 1939. Same age as Biren. Mahesh’s chowkidar Deendayal’s son. Deendayal died in 1943. Question: why did he go into the forest? Mahesh raised Shankarlal. Owner of bookshop. Griefstricken by Mahesh’s death.

9. Noor Muhammad: Age between seventy and eighty. Serving Mahesh for over forty years.

Feluda was right in thinking there might be a lot of visitors. When we arrived at Kailash long after lunch, we were told the last of them had just left. Mr Chowdhury’s two sons and Akhil Chakravarty were in the drawing room. Pritin Babu seemed more restless than ever. He was sitting in a corner, fidgeting and cracking his knuckles. Akhil Babu was sighing and shaking his head from time to time. Only Arun Chowdhury seemed calm and composed. Feluda addressed him directly.

‘Are you going to be here for a few days?’ he asked.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I need your help. Your father gave me a job to do, although he was in no condition to explain the details. What I want to know is this: did any of you understand his meaning?’

Arun Babu smiled slightly. ‘Few of us could understand his meaning even when Baba was alive and well. A serious man in many ways, there was a childish streak in him, which you probably saw for yourself. I don’t think there is any need to pay too much attention to his last words.’

‘But his last words did not strike me as totally without meaning.’

‘No?’

‘No. But obviously, I could not understand the significance of each little gesture. For instance,’ he turned to Akhil Chakravarty, ‘I do not know why he wanted me to have that photograph. Perhaps
you can help me there? Didn’t you give it to him?’

Akhil Chakravarty smiled sadly. ‘Yes, I did. Muktananda once came to Ranchi, and I went to see him. He struck me as a genuine person, so I said to Mahesh: “You have never believed in sadhus and gurus, but if you keep a photo of this one with you, it cannot do any harm. He is worshipped in three continents, his influence can only do you good.” But I had no idea he had kept it in his bedroom. I never went into his bedroom until yesterday.’

‘Do you know anything about it?’ Feluda asked Arun Babu, who shook his head.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘In fact, I didn’t even know he had such a photograph. I saw it yesterday for the first time.’

‘I don’t know anything either,’ Pritin Babu piped up before anyone asked him.

‘Very well. But may I request you to give me two things? They would help me a great deal.’

‘What are they?’

‘The first thing I’d like are the letters and postcards your brother Biren sent your father.’

‘Biren’s letters?’ Arun Babu sounded very surprised. ‘What do you need those for?’

‘I believe your father wanted me to give that photo to his second son.’

‘How strange! What made you think that?’

‘Well, your father asked you to pass the photo to me, and then raised two fingers. All of you saw that. It could be that he meant to say “deuce”. Isn’t that what he called Biren? I could be wrong, of course, but I must proceed—at least for the present—on that assumption.’

‘But how will you find Biren?’

‘Suppose Mr Chowdhury was right? Suppose he has returned?’ Arun Babu forgot himself for a moment and burst out laughing. ‘Mr Mitter, do you know how many times in the last five years my father claimed to have actually seen Biren? He wanted to believe he had returned. If he had, wouldn’t he have got in touch? Besides, how could anyone expect to recognize him after twenty years, if they saw him from a distance? Particularly an old man like my father, with failing eyesight?’

‘Please don’t get me wrong, Arun Babu. I am not saying he came back. That was a suggestion made by your father. However, even if
he is living abroad, I still have to fulfil my responsibility. I must try to find out where he is and arrange to send him the photo.’

Arun Babu seemed to relent a little.

‘Very well, Mr Mitter,’ he said. ‘I will separate Biren’s letters from my father’s correspondence and give them to you.’

‘Thank you. The other thing I want are Mr Chowdhury’s diaries. I’d like to see them, if you don’t mind.’

I had expected Arun Babu to object to this, but surprisingly, he did not.

‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘My father’s diaries are no secret. But you are going to be disappointed.’

‘Why?’

‘I doubt if anyone ever kept diaries that could be as dry, mundane and boring as my father’s. You won’t find anything except the most ordinary record of his daily life.’

‘I don’t mind. I am perfectly willing to risk being disappointed.’

‘All right, so be it. You may take the diaries right now, if you like. I will let you have the letters tomorrow.’

We thanked him and came out a little later, all three of us carrying heavy packets wrapped with newspapers. There were seven of these, each containing Mahesh Chowdhury’s diaries. Feluda would get very little sleep tonight, I thought, for the total number of diaries was forty and he had promised to return them the next day.

As we emerged out of the house and reached the driveway, we saw Bibi roaming in the garden, playing with her doll. She appeared to be looking for a flower to put in her doll’s hair. She turned her head to face us, and spoke unexpectedly.

‘Dadu didn’t tell me!’ she complained.

‘What didn’t he tell you?’ Feluda asked her.

‘What he was looking for.’

‘When?’

‘The day before yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.’

‘Three days?’

‘I saw him looking, but I asked him only one day.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said: “What have you lost, Dadu?” because he was in his room, and he was moving his books and all the papers on his table and everything else, and he wouldn’t play with me . . . so I asked.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said . . . a pier, that which opens and . . . and that which shuts.’

‘What utter nonsense!’ Lalmohan Babu muttered under his breath.

Feluda ignored him. ‘Did he tell you anything else?’

‘No. No, he said he’d explain later, and he’d tell me everything . . . but he didn’t. He died.’

Bibi had found a flower for her doll. She lost interest in us, and turned to go back inside. We came away.