by Satyajit Ray
‘When did this happen?’
‘On the morning of the eleventh. He had arrived in Gangtok on the seventh. Honestly, Mr Mitter, I can hardly believe any of this. If only I was with him . . . we might have avoided such a tragedy.’
‘What are your plans now?’
‘Well, there’s no point in staying here any longer. I’ve spoken to a travel agent. I should be able to fly back to Bombay tomorrow.’ He rose. ‘Don’t worry about this, please,’ he added. ‘You are here to have a good time, so I hope you do. I’ll see you before I go.’
Mr Bose left. Feluda sat quietly, staring into space and frowning. Then he repeated softly the words Mr Bose had uttered this morning: ‘One chance in a million . . . but then, a man can get struck by lightning. That’s no less amazing.’
The Bengali gentleman I had noticed earlier had been sitting at an adjacent table, reading a newspaper. He folded it neatly the minute Mr Bose left, and came over to join us. ‘Namaskar,’ he said to Feluda, taking the chair next to him. ‘Anything can happen in the streets of Sikkim. You arrived only this morning, didn’t you?’
‘Hm,’ said Feluda. I looked carefully at the man. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties. His eyes were partially hidden behind tinted glasses. Just below his nose was a small, square moustache, the kind that was once known as a butterfly moustache. Not many people wore it nowadays.
‘Mr Shelvankar was a most amiable man.’
‘Did you know him?’ Feluda asked.
‘Not intimately, no. But from what little I saw of him, he seemed very friendly. He was interested in art. He bought a Tibetan statue from me only two days before he died.’
‘Was he a collector of such things?’
‘I don’t know. I found him in the Art Emporium one day, looking at various objects. So I told him I had this statue. He asked me to bring it to the dak bungalow. When I showed it to him there, he bought it on the spot. But then, it was a piece worth having. It had nine heads and thirty-four arms. My grandfather had brought it from Tibet.’
‘I see.’ Feluda sounded a little stiff and formal. But I found this man quite interesting, especially the smile that always seemed to hover on his lips. Even the death of Mr Shelvankar appeared to have given him cause for amusement.
‘My name is Nishikanto Sarkar,’ he said.
Feluda raised his hands in a namaskar but did not introduce himself.
‘I live in Darjeeling,’ Mr Sarkar continued. ‘We’ve lived there for three generations. But you’d find that difficult to believe, wouldn’t you? I mean, just look at me, I am so dark!’
Feluda smiled politely without saying anything. Mr Sarkar refused to be daunted. ‘I know Darjeeling and Kalimpong pretty thoroughly. But this is my first visit to Sikkim. There are quite a few interesting places near Gangtok, I believe. Have you already seen them?’
‘No. We’re totally new to Sikkim, like yourself.’
‘Good,’ Mr Sarkar grinned. ‘You’re going to be here for some time, aren’t you? We could go around together. Let’s visit Pemiangchi one day. I’ve heard it’s a beautiful area.’
‘Pemiangchi? You mean where there are ruins of the old capital of Sikkim?’
‘Not just ruins, dear sir. According to my guide book, there’s a forest, old dak bungalows built during British times, gumphas, a first class view of Kanchenjunga—what more do you want?’
‘We’d certainly like to go, if we get the chance,’ said Feluda and stood up.
‘Are you going out?’
‘Yes, just for a walk. Is it necessary to lock up each time we go out?’
‘Well, yes, that’s always advisable in a hotel. But cases of theft are very rare in these parts. There is only one prison in Sikkim, and that’s here in Gangtok. The total number of criminals held in there would be less than half-a-dozen!’
We came out of the hotel once more, only to find that the mist hadn’t yet cleared. Feluda glanced idly at the shops and said, ‘We should have remembered to buy sturdy boots for ourselves. These shoes would be no good if it rained and the roads became all slushy and slippery.’
‘Couldn’t we buy us some boots here?’
‘Yes, we probably could. I’m sure Bata has a branch in Gangtok. We could look for it in the evening. Right now I think we should explore this place.’
The road that led from the market to the main town went uphill. The number of people and houses grew considerably less as we walked up this road. Most of the passers-by were schoolchildren in uniform. Unlike Darjeeling, no one was on horseback. Jeeps ran frequently, possibly because of the army camp. Sixteen miles from Gangtok, at a height of 14,000 feet, was Nathula. It was here that the Indian border ended. On the other side of Nathula, within fifty yards, stood the Chinese army.
A few minutes later, we came to a crossing, and were taken aback by a sudden flash of colour. A closer look revealed a man—possibly a European—standing in the mist, clad from head to foot in very colourful clothes: yellow shoes, blue jeans, a bright red sweater, through which peeped green shirt cuffs. A black and white scarf was wound around his neck. His white skin had started to acquire a tan.
He had a beard which covered most of his face, but he appeared to be about the same age as Feluda—just under thirty. Who was he? Could he be a hippie?
He gave us a friendly glance and said, ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ Feluda replied.
Now I noticed that a leather bag was hanging from his shoulder, together with two cameras, one of which was a Canon. Feluda, too, had a Japanese camera with him. Perhaps the hippie saw it, for he said, ‘Nice day for colour.’
Feluda laughed. ‘When I saw you from a distance, that’s exactly what I thought. But you see, colour film in India is so expensive that one has to think twice before using it freely.’
‘Yes, I know. But I have some in my own stock. Let me know if you need any.’ I tried to work out which country he might be from. He didn’t sound American; nor did he have a British or French accent.
‘Are you here on holiday?’ Feluda asked him.
‘No, not really. I’m here to take photographs. I’m working on a book on Sikkim. I am a professional photographer.’
‘How long are you going to be here for?’
‘I came five days ago, on the ninth. My original visa was only for three days. I managed to have it extended. I’d like to stay for another week.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Dak bungalow. See this road on the right? The dak bungalow is on this road, only a few minutes from here.’
I pricked up my ears. Mr Shelvankar had also stayed at the same place.
‘You must have met the gentleman who died in that accident recently—’ Feluda began.
‘Yes, that was most unfortunate,’ the hippie shook his head sadly. ‘I got to know him quite well. He was a fine man, and—’ he broke off. Then he said, more or less to himself, ‘Very strange!’ He looked faintly worried.
‘What’s wrong?’ Feluda enquired.
‘Mr Shelvankar acquired a Tibetan statue from a Bengali gentleman here. He paid a thousand rupees for it.’
‘One thousand!’
‘Yes. He took it to the local Tibetan Institute the next day. They said it was a rare and precious piece of art. But—’ The man stopped again and remained silent for a few moments. Finally, he sighed and said, ‘What is puzzling me is its disappearance. Where did it go?’
‘What do you mean? Surely his belongings were all sent back to Bombay?’
‘Yes, everything else he possessed was sent to Bombay. But not that statue. He used to keep it in the front pocket of his jacket. “This is my mascot,” he used to say, “it will bring me luck!” He took it with him that morning. I know this for a fact. When they brought him to the hospital, I was there. They took out everything from his pockets. There was a notebook, a wallet and his broken glasses in a case. But there was no sign of the statue. Of course, it could be that it slipped out of his pocket as he fell and is probably
still lying where he was found. Or maybe one of those men who helped lift him out saw it and removed it from the spot.’
‘But I’ve been told people here are very honest.’
‘That is true. And that is why I have my doubts—’ the man seemed lost in thought.
‘Do you know where Mr Shelvankar was going that day?’
‘Yes. On the way to Singik there’s a gumpha. That is where he was going. In fact, I was supposed to go with him. But I changed my mind and left a lot earlier, because it was a beautiful day and I wanted to take some photographs here. He told me he’d pick me up on the way if he saw me.’
‘Why was he so interested in this gumpha?’
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps Dr Vaidya was partly responsible for it.’
‘Dr Vaidya?’
This was the first time anyone had mentioned Dr Vaidya. Who was he?
The hippie laughed. ‘It’s a bit awkward, isn’t it, to chat in the middle of the road? Why don’t you come and have coffee with me in the dak bungalow?’
Feluda agreed readily. He was obviously keen to get as much information as possible about Shelvankar.
We began walking up the road on our right. ‘Besides,’ added the hippie, ‘I need to rest my foot. I slipped in the hills the other day and sprained my ankle slightly. It starts aching if I stand anywhere for more than five minutes.’
The mist had started to clear. Now it was easy to see how green the surroundings were. I could see rows of tall pine trees through the thinning mist. The dak bungalow wasn’t far. It was rather an attractive building, not very old. Our new friend took us to his room, and quickly removed piles of papers and journals from two chairs for us to sit. ‘Sorry, I haven’t yet introduced myself,’ he said. ‘My name is Helmut Ungar.’
‘Is that a German name?’ Feluda asked.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Helmut replied and sat down on his bed. Clearly, he didn’t believe in keeping a tidy room. His clothes (all of them as colourful as the ones he was wearing) were strewn about, his suitcases were open, displaying more books and magazines than clothes, and spread on a table were loads of photographs, most of which seemed to have been taken abroad. Although my own knowledge of photography was extremely limited, I could tell these photos were really good.
‘I am Pradosh Mitter and this is my cousin, Tapesh,’ said Feluda, not revealing that he was an amateur detective.
‘Pleased to meet you both. Excuse me,’ Helmut went out of the room, possibly to order three coffees. Then he came back and said, ‘Dr Vaidya is a very interesting person, though he talks rather a lot. He stayed here in this dak bungalow for a few days. He can read palms, make predictions about the future, and even contact the dead.’
‘What! You mean he can act as a medium?’
‘Yes, something like that. Mr Shelvankar was startled by some of the things he said.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He left for Kalimpong. He was supposed to meet some Tibetan monks there. But he said he’d return to Gangtok.’
‘What did he tell Mr Shelvankar? Do you happen to know anything about it?’
‘Oh yes. They spoke to each other in my presence. Dr Vaidya told Mr Shelvankar about his business, the death of his wives, and about his son. He even said Mr Shelvankar had been under a lot of stress lately.’
‘What could have caused it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Didn’t Shelvankar say anything to you?’
‘No. But I could sense something was wrong. He used to grow preoccupied, and sometimes I heard him sigh. One day he received a telegram while we were having tea on the front veranda. I don’t know what it said, but it upset him a good deal.’
‘Did Dr Vaidya say that Mr Shelvankar would die in an accident?’
‘No, not in so many words; but he did say Mr Shelvankar must be careful over the next few days. Apparently, there was some indication of trouble and bad times.’
The coffee arrived. We drank it in silence. Even if Mr Shelvankar’s death had been caused truly by a freak accident, I thought, there was something wrong somewhere. It was evident that Feluda was thinking the same thing, for he kept cracking his knuckles. He never did this unless there was a nasty suspicion in his mind.
We finished our coffee and rose to take our leave. Helmut walked with us up to the main gate.
‘Thank you for the coffee,’ Feluda told him. ‘If you’re going to be here for another week, I’m sure we shall meet again. We’re staying at the Snow View. Please let me know if Dr Vaidya returns.’
In reply, Helmut said just one thing: ‘If only I could find out what happened to that statue, I’d feel a lot happier.’
Three
Although the mist had lifted, the sky was still overcast, and it was raining. I didn’t mind the rain. It was only a faint drizzle, the tiny raindrops breaking up into a thin, powdery haze. One didn’t need an umbrella in rain like this; it was very refreshing.
We found a branch of Bata near our hotel. Luckily, they did have the kind of boots we were looking for. When we came out clutching our parcels, Feluda said, ‘Since we don’t yet know our way about this town, we’d better take a taxi.’
‘Where to?’
‘The Tibetan Institute. I’ve heard they have a most impressive collection of tankhas, ancient manuscripts and pieces of Tantrik art.’
‘Are you beginning to get suspicious?’ I asked, though I wasn’t at all sure that Feluda would give me a straight answer.
‘Why? What should I be getting suspicious about?’
‘That Mr Shelvankar’s death wasn’t really caused by an accident?’
‘I haven’t found a reason yet to jump to that conclusion.’
‘But that statue is missing, isn’t it?’
‘So what? It slipped out of his pocket, and was stolen by someone. That’s all there is to it. Killing is not so simple. Besides, I cannot believe that anyone would commit murder simply for a statue that had been bought for a thousand rupees.’
I said nothing more, but I couldn’t help thinking that if a mystery did grow out of all this, it would be rather fun.
A row of jeeps stood by the roadside. Feluda approached one of the Nepali drivers and said, ‘The Tibetan Institute. Do you know the way?’
‘Yes sir, I do.’
We got into the jeep, both choosing to sit in the front with the driver. He took out a woollen scarf from his pocket, wrapped it round his neck and turned the jeep around. Then we set off on the same road which had brought us into town. Only this time, we were going in the opposite direction.
Feluda began talking to the driver.
‘Have you heard about the accident that happened recently?’
‘Yes, everyone in Gangtok has.’
‘The driver of that jeep survived, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’s very lucky. Last year there had been a similar accident: The driver got killed, not the passenger.’
‘Do you happen to know this driver?’
‘Of course. Everyone knows everyone in Gangtok.’
‘What is he doing now?’
‘Driving another taxi. SKM 463. It’s a new taxi.’
‘Have you seen the accident spot?’
‘Yes, it’s on the North Sikkim Highway. Three kilometres from here.’
‘Could you take us there tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sure. Why not?’
‘Well then, come to the Snow View Hotel at 8 a.m. We’ll be waiting for you.’
‘Very well, sir.’
A road rose straight through a forest to stop before the Tibetan Institute. The driver told us that orchids grew in this forest, but we didn’t have the time to stop and look for them. Our jeep stopped outside the front door of the Institute. It was a large two-storey building with strange Tibetan patterns on its walls. It was so quiet that I thought perhaps the place was closed, but then we discovered that the front door was open. We stepped into a big hall. Tankhas hung on the walls. The floor was lined with huge
glass cases filled with objects of art.
As we stood debating where to go next, a Tibetan gentleman, clad in a loose Sikkimese dress, came forward to meet us.
‘Could we see the curator, please?’ Feluda asked politely.
‘No, I’m afraid he is away on sick leave today. I am his assistant. How may I help you?’
‘Well, actually, I need some information on a certain Tibetan statue. I do not know what it’s called, but it has nine heads and thirty-four arms. Could it be a Tibetan god?’
The gentleman smiled. ‘Yes, yes, you mean Yamantak. Tibet is full of strange gods. We have a statue of Yamantak here. Come with me, I’ll show it to you. Someone brought a beautiful specimen a few days ago—it’s the best I’ve ever seen—but unfortunately, that gentleman died.’
‘Oh, did he?’ Feluda feigned total surprise.
We followed the assistant curator and stopped before a tall showcase. He brought out a small statue from it. I gasped in horror. Good heavens, was this a god or a monster? Each of its nine faces wore a most vicious expression. The assistant curator then turned it in his hand and showed us a small hole at the base of the statue. It was customary, he said, to roll a piece of paper with a prayer written on it and insert it through that little hole. It was called the ‘sacred intestine’!
He put the statue back in the case and turned to us once more. ‘That other statue of Yamantak I was talking about was only three inches long. But its workmanship was absolutely exquisite. It was made of gold, and the eyes were two tiny rubies. None of us had ever seen anything like it before, not even our curator. And he’s been all over Tibet, met the Dalai Lama—why, he’s even drunk tea with the Dalai Lama, out of a human skull!’
‘Would a statue like that be valuable? I mean, if it was made of gold—?’
The assistant curator smiled again. ‘I know what you mean. This man bought it for a thousand rupees. Its real value may well be in excess of ten thousand.’