by Satyajit Ray
The story began in Calcutta. It was Sunday, 27 May. The time was 9.30 a.m. My summer holidays had started. Of late, the maximum temperature had hit 100°F, so I was keeping myself indoors, pasting stamps from Bhutan into my stamp album. Feluda had recently finished solving a murder case (catching the culprit by using a common pin as a clue), which had made him quite famous. He had also been paid a fat fee. At this moment he was resting at home, stretched out on a divan, reading Thor Heyerdahl’s Aku-Aku. A minute later, Jatayu turned up.
Lalmohan Ganguli—alias Jatayu—the writer of immensely popular crime thrillers, had started visiting us at least twice a month. The popularity of his novels meant that he was pretty well off. As a matter of fact, he was once rather proud of his writing prowess. But when Feluda pointed out dozens of factual errors in his books, Lalmohan Babu began to look upon him with a mixture of respect and admiration. Now, he got his manuscripts corrected by Feluda before passing them on to his publisher.
Today, however, he was not carrying a sheaf of papers under his arm, which clearly meant that there was a different reason for his visit. He sat down on a sofa, took out a green face towel from his pocket, wiped his face with it, and said without looking at Feluda, ‘Would you like to see a forest, Felu Babu?’
Feluda raised himself a little, leaning on his elbow. ‘What is your definition of a forest?’
‘The same as yours, Felu Babu. Cluster of trees. Dense foliage. That sort of thing.’
‘In West Bengal?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where? I can’t think of any place other than the Sunderbans, or Terai. Everything else has been wiped clean.’
‘Have you heard of Mahitosh Sinha-Roy?’
The question was accompanied by a rather smug smile. I had heard of him, too. He was a well-known shikari and a writer. Feluda had one of his books. I hadn’t read it, but Feluda had told me it was most interesting.
‘Doesn’t he live in Orissa, or is it Assam?’ Feluda asked.
‘No, sir,’ Lalmohan Babu replied, taking out an envelope from his pocket with a flourish, ‘he lives in the Dooars Forest, near the border of Bhutan. I dedicated my latest book to him. We have exchanged letters.’
‘Oh? You mean you dedicate your books even to the living?’ Perhaps I should explain here the business of Lalmohan Babu’s dedications. Nearly all of them are made to famous people who are now dead. The Antarctic Anthropophagi was dedicated to the memory of Robert Scott; The Gorilla’s Grasp said, ‘In the memory of David Livingstone’, and The Atomic Demon (which Feluda said was the most nonsensical stuff he had ever read) had been dedicated to Einstein. Then, when he wrote The Himalayan Hemlock, he dedicated it to the memory of Sir Edmund Hillary. Feluda was furious at this.
‘Why, Lalmohan Babu, why did you have to kill a man who is very much alive?’
‘What! Hillary is alive?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, looking both apologetic and embarrassed, ‘I didn’t know. I mean . . . he hasn’t been in the news for a long time, and he does go about climbing mountains, doesn’t he? So I thought perhaps he had slipped and . . . well, you know . . .’ His voice trailed away.
The mistake was rectified when the second edition of the book came out.
Mahitosh Sinha-Roy might be a well-known shikari, but was he really as famous as all these other people? Why was the last book dedicated to him?
‘Well, you see,’ Lalmohan Babu explained, ‘I had to consult his book The Tiger and the Gun quite a few times when I was writing my own. In fact,’ he added with a smile, ‘I used a whole episode. So I felt I had to please him in some way.’
‘Did you succeed?’
Lalmohan Babu took out the letter from its envelope. ‘Yes. He wouldn’t send an invitation otherwise, would he?’
‘Well, he may have invited you, but surely he didn’t include me?’ Lalmohan Babu looked faintly annoyed. ‘Look, Felu Babu,’ he said, frowning, ‘I know you would never go anywhere unless you were invited. You are well known yourself, and you have your prestige. I am well aware of that. What happened was that I told him that the book had seen four editions in four months. And I also told him—only a hint, that is—that I knew you. So he sent me this letter. Read it yourself. We’ve both been invited.’
The last few lines of Mahitosh Sinha-Roy’s letter said, ‘I believe your friend Pradosh Mitter is a very clever detective. If you can bring him with you, he might be able to help me out in a certain matter. Please let me know if he agrees to come.’
Feluda stared at the letter for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Is he an old man?’
‘What do you mean by old?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, his eyes half-closed.
‘Say, around seventy?’
‘No, sir. Mr Sinha-Roy is much younger than that.’
‘His writing is like an old man’s.’
‘How can you say that? This writing is absolutely beautiful.’
‘I agree. But look at the signature. I think the letter was written by his secretary.’
It was decided that we would leave for Laxmanbari the following Wednesday. We could go up to New Jalpaiguri by train. After that we’d have to go by car to Laxmanbari, which was forty-six miles away. Mahitosh Babu had already offered to send his own car to collect us at the New Jalpaiguri station.
It came as no surprise to me that Feluda agreed to visit a forest so readily. My own heart was jumping with joy. The fact was that one of our uncles was a shikari as well. Our ancestral home was in the village of Shonadeeghi, near Dhaka. My father was the youngest of three brothers. The oldest worked as the manager of an estate in Mymansinh. He was renowned in the area for having killed wild deer, boars and even tigers in the Madhupur forest to the north of Mymansinh. The second brother—Feluda’s father—used to teach mathematics and Sanskrit in a school. However, that did not stop him from being terrific at sports, including swimming, wrestling and shooting. Unfortunately, he died very young after only a brief spell of illness. Feluda was nine years old at the time. Naturally, his father’s death came as an enormous shock to everyone. Feluda was brought to our house and raised by my parents. My own father has never shown any interest in anything that calls for great physical strength, but I do know that his will power and mental strength is much stronger than most people’s.
Feluda himself has always been fascinated by tales of shikar. He has read every book written by Corbett and Kenneth Anderson. Although he’s never been on a shikar, he did learn to shoot and is now a crack shot. There is no doubt in my mind that he could easily kill a tiger, should he be required to do so. He has often told me that the mind of an animal is a lot less complex than that of humans. Even the simplest of men would have a more complex mind than a ferocious tiger. Catching a criminal was, therefore, no less difficult than killing a tiger.
Feluda was trying to explain this to Lalmohan Babu in the train. Lalmohan Babu was carrying the first book Mahitosh Sinha-Roy had written. The front page had a photograph of the writer, which showed him standing with one foot on a dead Royal Bengal tiger, a rifle in his hand. His face wasn’t clear, but it was easy to spot the set of his jaws, his broad shoulders and an impressive moustache under a sharp, long nose.
Lalmohan Babu stared at the photo for a few seconds and said, ‘Thank goodness you are going with me, Felu Babu. In front of such a personality, I’d have looked like a . . . a worm!’ Jatayu’s height was five foot four inches, and at first glance his appearance suggested that he might be a comedian on the stage or in films. Anyone even slightly taller and better built than him made him look like a worm. Certainly, when he stood next to Feluda, the description seemed apt enough.
‘What is strange,’ he continued, ‘is that although this is his first book—and he began writing at the age of fifty—it reads as though it’s been written by an experienced writer. He has a wonderful style.’
‘He probably turned to writing when hunting as a sport was banned by the Indian government,’ Feluda remarked. ‘Many other shikaris have proved to be skilful writer
s. Corbett’s language is wonderful. Perhaps it’s something to do with being close to nature. Think of the sages who wrote the scriptures. Didn’t they live in jungles?’
I had noticed lightning ripping the sky soon after we left Calcutta. By the time we reached the New Farakka station, it was past midnight. I woke when the train stopped to find that it was pouring outside, and there was frequent thunder. However, when we alighted at New Jalpaiguri in the morning, there was no evidence of rain, although the sky was overcast.
The man who had been sent to meet us turned out to be Mahitosh Babu’s secretary, Torit Sengupta. He was under thirty, thin, fair, wore glasses with thick black frames, and his hair was dishevelled. He greeted us politely, but without any excessive show of warmth. I told myself hurriedly that it might not necessarily mean he was displeased to see us. Feluda had warned me often enough not to jump to conclusions or judge people simply by their outward behaviour. But Mr Sengupta was clearly an intelligent man, for he didn’t have to be told who amongst us was Lalmohan Ganguli, and who was Pradosh Mitter.
We stopped for ten minutes to have toast and omelettes. Then we climbed into the jeep waiting outside. Our luggage consisted only of two suitcases and a shoulder-bag. There was plenty of room in the jeep to sit comfortably. ‘Mr Sinha-Roy sent his apologies for not being able to receive you himself,’ Mr Sengupta said before we started. ‘His brother has not been keeping well. So he had to stay home because the doctor was expected.’
This was news to us. None of us knew Mahitosh Babu had a brother.
‘I hope it’s nothing serious?’ Feluda asked. I could tell he wasn’t happy about staying in a house where someone was ill. Our visit might well turn into an imposition on our host.
‘No, no,’ Mr Sengupta replied, ‘Devtosh Babu—that’s his brother—doesn’t have a physical problem. His problems are mental, and he’s been . . . well, not quite normal . . . for many years. But don’t get me wrong. He isn’t mad. In fact, he seems fine most of the time. But occasionally he gets very restless. So the doctor has to put him on sedatives.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Sixty-four. He’s older by five years. He was once a very learned man. He had . . . has . . . an extensive knowledge of history.’
I looked out of the jeep. To the north were the Himalayas. Somewhere in that direction lay Darjeeling. I had been there three times, but never to Laxmanbari. It wasn’t very warm as there was no sun. The scenery changed as soon as we left the town. We passed a few tea estates. Now I could see mountains even to the east.
‘Bhutan,’ Mr Sengupta said briefly, pointing at these. The tea estates gave way to forests soon after we crossed the river Teesta. At one point, we saw a herd of goats emerging from a wood. Lalmohan Babu got very excited, and shouted, ‘Look, deer, deer!’
‘At least he didn’t say tigers. Thank heaven for that!’ Feluda muttered under his breath.
‘There is a forest called Kalbuni within a mile of where we live,’ Mr Sengupta informed us. ‘It was once full of tigers, many of which were killed by the Sinha-Roys. Now, I’m not sure if any Royal Bengals are left, but about three months ago there were rumours of a man-eater in Kalbuni.’
‘Rumours? How do you mean?’
‘Well, the body of an adivasi boy was found in the jungle. There were scratches on it that suggested it had been attacked by a tiger.’
‘Just scratches? Didn’t the tiger eat the flesh?’
‘Yes, the flesh was partially eaten. But a hyena or a jackal may have been responsible for that.’
‘What did Mahitosh Babu have to say?’
‘He wasn’t here at the time. He had gone to visit his tea estate near Hasimara. The officers of the Forest Department thought it might be a tiger, but when Mr Sinha-Roy got back, he said that couldn’t be. A lot has been done in these few months to find that tiger, without success whatsoever.’
‘I see. No one else was attacked after that one incident?’
‘No.’
The very mention of a man-eater gave me goose pimples. But Mahitosh Babu must have been right. Lalmohan Babu said, ‘Highly interesting!’ and began staring at the trees, a frown across his brows.
We crossed a small river, went past a village and another forest, and turned left. The road was unpaved here, so our ride became noticeably bumpy. It did not last for very long, however. Only five minutes later, I saw the top of a building, towering over the trees. The rest of it came into view in a few moments. The trees thinned out to reveal a large mansion that stood behind tall iron gates. Once it must have been white, but now there were black marks all over its walls, making the whole house look as if it had been attacked and left badly bruised. Only the window panes glowed with colour. Not a single one from the colours of a rainbow was missing.
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’.
Two
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.’