by Satyajit Ray
By the time we left the ghat, the sky had turned a darker shade of grey. Was it going to rain? I looked up, and saw the red and white kite again. Feluda, too, had seen it.
I recognized the house over which the kite hovered. It was the same red house where Shaitan Singh had had to surrender to Captain Spark. Who was standing on the roof? Wasn’t it Shaitan Singh in person? Yes, indeed. It was Ruku’s friend, Suraj. Like us, he was staring at the kite.
Whoever was flying the kite now pulled at the thread. It started to come down rapidly. Suraj threw up his right hand into the air, aiming at the kite. We saw a stone fly past and disappear behind the kite. The stone was tied to the end of a long thread. Suraj had captured the red kite. As he pulled at the thread, the kite began to get closer and closer to him.
We decided to pay our last visit to Mr Ghoshal’s house the same afternoon. It was about 4 p.m. when we arrived.Trilochan saluted us again and opened the gate.
Once again, we found Vikas Sinha coming out to greet us.
‘Any news?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m afraid not. We just roamed all over the city.’
‘Mr Ghoshal and the others have gone out.’
‘Where?’
‘Sarnath. A few more guests arrived today. Quite a large party went out, only a little while ago. They won’t be back for some time.’
‘Has Ruku gone with them?’
‘No, one of his uncles took him to see a film, Tarzan, the Ape Man.’
‘I see.’
‘Would you like to sit in my room?’
‘Yes, but before that I’d like to go up on the roof once more, if I may.’
‘Of course.’
As we went into the house, we found Shashi Babu still engrossed in his work. ‘He’ll finish tomorrow, won’t he?’ Feluda asked.
‘Yes, the poor man’s still got a high temperature, but he hasn’t stopped working for a moment.’
We climbed the steps to the roof. Here was Ruku’s room. I had guessed that it was really this room that Feluda wanted to see. Would he search it thoroughly? Since Ruku was away, this appeared to be just the right time to look for . . . Then I remembered Maganlal’s warning. Feluda must not spend too long in this house.
As it turned out, he found what he was looking for practically immediately. The red and white kite was lying on the floor. We had seen Suraj take it only a couple of hours ago. It was clear that it was damaged in many places. This kite would never fly again.
Feluda picked it up. Now we saw something none of us had noticed before. There was a message written on the kite. No, there were, in fact, two messages written in different places. One said, ‘I have been imprisoned. But all is well, ha ha. Again in the evening. Yours, Capt. Spark.’
The other was more brief: ‘Going to see Tarzan. Tomorrow morning. Capt. Spark.’
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Lalmohan Babu. ‘What are these boys up to?’
Feluda replaced the kite just as he had found it, and said, ‘This is a clear example of what books from your adventure series can do to a young mind.’
We returned to Vikas Babu’s room. Bharadwaj, the old bearer, came in with the tea. It was a fairly large room. The bed was on one side, and opposite it, a table and a chair. Besides these was a sofa for visitors. Feluda took the chair, Lalmohan Babu and I chose the sofa. Vikas Babu sat on the bed.
‘How is Mr Ghoshal’s business doing?’ Feluda asked, sipping his tea.
‘Reasonably well, I should imagine,’ Vikas Babu replied. If he was surprised by the question, he did not show it. ‘The workers do occasionally go on strike, but that happens everywhere, in every business, doesn’t it?’
‘Hm.’ Feluda stood up suddenly and said, ‘Can I see the living room?’
‘Yes, certainly. This way, please.’
We put our cups down and followed Vikas Babu. The living room was across a veranda. ‘Can you show me where Umanath Babu and Maganlal had sat the day Maganlal came visiting?’ Feluda asked.
Vikas Babu pointed at two chairs facing each other.
‘I see. And where do those doors lead to? More rooms? Or is there another veranda?’
‘No, those are rooms’. One of them used to be old Mr Ghoshal’s office. The other was a waiting room for his clients.’
We examined them briefly before going back to Vikas Babu’s room.
‘Where was the Ganesh normally kept?’ Feluda now asked. ‘Was it always here in Varanasi, or did anyone ever take it to Calcutta?’
‘No, it always stayed with Ambika Babu, right here in this house. It is the old man who is much more upset by its loss than his son, though he may not show it. In fact, Umanath Babu hired you mainly to reassure his father, you see.’
Feluda nodded absently. He had picked up the transistor radio that stood on the table, and was turning a knob. Nothing happened until he turned it in the opposite direction. It gave a sudden click, which brought a frown to his face. ‘That’s funny,’ he muttered, ‘your radio had been left on!’
‘Oh, r-r-r-eally?’ Vikas Babu stammered, suddenly looking rather ill at ease. Feluda took out the batteries. ‘These batteries have leaked,’ he observed, ‘which means that your radio stopped working some time ago.’
Vikas Babu remained silent.
‘You are fond of listening to the radio, but you haven’t done so in the last few days. Can you tell me why?’
Still Vikas Babu said nothing. ‘Very well,’ said Feluda, ‘if you won’t speak, I must do all the talking.’ A familiar note of authority and confidence had crept into his voice. ‘You were unable to resist the temptation to eavesdrop when Maganlal came to visit Umanath Babu, isn’t that right? You turned down the volume of your radio and crept up to the door of the living room that opens on the veranda. You heard every word. You knew about Maganlal’s offer of thirty thousand rupees. You heard him threaten Mr Ghoshal.’
Vikas Babu was looking down at the floor. He nodded in silence. ‘Now please be good enough to answer this question, and I want the truth,’ said Feluda, throwing the batteries away into a waste-paper basket. ‘What were you doing between 7.30 and 8.30 p.m. the day the Ganesh was stolen? You could not have been listening to your radio, for it had stopped functioning five days—’
‘Yes!’ Vikas Sinha raised his head, and spoke quickly, almost desperately. ‘I’ll tell you everything. Please try and believe me.’ He took a deep breath and continued, ‘I did hear Maganlal’s threat, and was deeply worried. Every day, I wanted to open the chest in Ambika Babu’s room simply to make sure the Ganesh was still there. But I got the chance to do this only when Mr Ghoshal went with his family to see Machchli Baba. I waited for only ten minutes after they left. Then I went into Ambika Babu’s room, took the key out of the drawer and opened the chest.’
‘What happened next?’ Vikas Sinha did not reply.
‘Tell me, Mr Sinha, what did you see when you opened the chest?’ This time, Vikas Babu raised a white face and spoke in a whisper. ‘I saw . . . I saw that the Ganesh had gone!’
‘Gone?’ Feluda’s frown deepened.
‘Yes. I know you find it difficult to believe this, but I swear the Ganesh had been stolen before I opened the chest. You must realize why I did not mention this before, either to you or the police. To tell you the truth, I cannot begin to describe the state of mind I’ve been in ever since that day!’
Feluda picked up his cup of tea. ‘How often was that chest opened?’
‘Almost never. As far as I know, it was opened once the day after Umanath Babu arrived from Calcutta. He took out some old documents related to their property and had a chat with his father about those. That was all.’
Feluda sat silently. Vikas Babu looked at him, eyes pleading. After about two minutes, he couldn’t contain himself any longer and blurted out, ‘Do you find it impossible to believe me, Mr Mitter?’
When Feluda spoke his voice sounded rough.
‘I am sorry, Mr Sinha, but if someone doesn’t tell the truth in the first
instance, it is rather difficult to eliminate him from the list of suspects.’
Eight
I woke the next morning to find the sky overcast. It was drizzling softly and, judging by the puddles on the road, it had rained fairly heavily during the night.
Feluda was already up, sitting on the balcony, his feet resting on the railing. His famous blue notebook lay open on his lap. He was turning its pages with great concentration, quite oblivious of the fact that his feet were getting wet. A number of people were making their way to the ghat, undaunted by the rain. But I knew that the noise from the street below would do nothing to disturb Feluda.
Lalmohan Babu rose a little later. ‘I had such a strange dream, Tapesh,’ he said. ‘There I was, with knives and daggers sticking out from virtually every inch of my body. And I was standing before my publisher, asking for the proofs of my novel. Do you know what he said to me? He said, “Lalmohan Babu, why don’t you change your pseudonym? Drop Jatayu. Porcupine would be more apt—and your books will sell much better.” Ho!’
Feluda came back into the room a few minutes later, as Lalmohan Babu and I sat sipping our first cup of tea.
‘Tell me, Mr Jatayu,’ he said, ‘do any of your books mention sending messages through a kite?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Lalmohan Babu shook his head regretfully. ‘I rather wish I had thought of that. As far as I can see, Ruku got the idea from a book by another writer.’
‘Perhaps I should not have laughed at your adventure series. Considering the impact it’s had on Ruku’s mind, it deserves to be taken a bit more seriously. Oh, by the way, can you tell me a number between one and ten?’
‘Seven.’
‘Did you know that seventy per cent of people would say “seven” if asked the same question?’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. And they’d say “three” if you asked them to choose a number between one and five. Try asking them to name a flower, and they’d say “rose”.’
We went down to breakfast at eight. About half-an-hour later, one of the waiters came looking for Feluda. ‘There is a phone call for you,’ he said, ‘in the manager’s room.’
Phone call for Feluda? Who would be ringing him so early in the morning? But there was nothing for me to do, except wait patiently until he came back and explained. He reappeared only a few minutes later.
‘That was Tiwari,’ he said. ‘Neither Prayag nor Haridwar could confirm that anyone by the name of Machchli Baba had been seen or heard of in recent times.’
‘How interesting! Does that mean the man here is a fraud?’
‘He might be, but that does not bother me. I mean, there are scores of people who claim to have magical powers. What we have to establish is that there is no sinister motive behind Machchli Baba’s little deception.’
‘Didn’t Mr Tiwari say anything else?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Feluda replied. ‘Three weeks ago, a man escaped from the Rai Bareli jail. He was serving a sentence for deception and fraud. His description fits Machchli Baba somewhat, although he is reported to be clean-shaven and not quite so dark.’
‘He might have used make-up,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked. ‘Why don’t we go and have a good look at him in broad daylight? We could wait for him at the ghat. Surely he’d go to Dashashwamedh, or perhaps Kedar?’
‘Not a chance. He receives visitors only in the evening. His days are spent behind a closed door. I believe he doesn’t step out of his room at all. No one but Abhay Chakravarty is allowed to go in. His meals are served in his room. He doesn’t even bother with having a bath.’
What! A supposedly great sadhu like him went without a bath every day?
‘Did Mr Tiwari tell you all this?’
Feluda turned his head to give me a cold look. Then he shook his head sadly and said, ‘Failed. You have just failed in an observation test. Didn’t you notice my wet clothes hanging on the line on the balcony upstairs? If you did, didn’t that tell you anything? Have you ever heard of anyone getting drenched without stepping out?’
I couldn’t say a word. Feluda was right, of course. I should have been more observant. But why had he gone out anyway?
He explained. ‘I got up at four this morning and went to Kedar Ghat to wait for Abhay Chakravarty. He turned up at 4.30. It wasn’t difficult to start a conversation with him. He’s a very good, kind, simple man, just as Niranjan Babu had said. I learnt about the Baba’s habits from him. When he mentioned the Baba didn’t have a bath, I must have wrinkled my nose or something, for he said, “Does it matter, son, when his mind is clean and pure? After all, it’s just a matter of ten days. He rose from the water, didn’t he, and he will go back to it.” I didn’t dare ask if he smelt! I believe a man comes in every morning with a basket full of fish scales. These are distributed in the evening. I stayed on at the ghat after Abhay Chakravarty left, and spoke to a panda called Lokenath, who also comes to the ghat every day. Lokenath said he had actually witnessed the first meeting between Mr Chakravarty and Machchli Baba, though by the time he arrived, the Baba was fully conscious. Apparently, he called Lokenath by his name and told him a few startling things. Even if he is a crook, he must have a very clever and efficient manager.’
‘Could that perhaps be Abhay Chakravarty himself?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.
‘No. Mr Chakravarty is undoubtedly sincere. I asked him if he didn’t find it difficult to believe that a man could swim all the way from Prayag. To this he replied, “Nothing is impossible, my dear, if your dedication and faith is strong enough.” It is people like Abhaycharan Chakravarty who have kept the spirit of Kashi alive. Their belief in ancient values will never change. No, Lalmohan Babu, he cannot be an accomplice.’
The rain stopped around half past four in the evening. We left at five. Feluda was a full-fledged tourist today. A camera hung from his shoulder. ‘Let’s go and have some rabri,’ he said. Lalmohan Babu and I readily agreed.
Kachauri Gali wasn’t far from the temple of Vishwanath. Feluda found the right shop easily enough. We sat on a bench, and were handed the most delicious rabri in small earthen pots. Lalmohan Babu had just stuffed a spoonful into his mouth, remarking, ‘The discovery of this heavenly stuff is no less important than the discovery of the telephone, don’t you think?’ when I saw the same man who had been following us the day before. He was standing with his back to us, talking to someone.
I had been trying all day to forget about Maganlal and what he had said. But the sight of this man brought back all the horror of that meeting vividly. However, I forced myself to concentrate on eating and not dwell upon unpleasant thoughts.
‘Let’s go,’ said Feluda. I gave my spoon one last lick and came out with him and Lalmohan Babu.
From Kachauri Gali, we made our way to Godhulia. In the last couple of days, these streets had become quite familiar to me. We walked slowly, with Feluda stopping occasionally to take a picture. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if the man was still following us, but he appeared to have vanished. Feluda saw what I was doing and said, ‘Where did you get the idea that Maganlal appointed just that one man to cover our movements?’
I kept my eyes straight ahead after this.
There was the hardware shop I had seen before. Abhay Chakravarty’s house was only a few steps from here.
‘Mr Mitter! Pradosh Babu!’ called a voice from behind us. All of us wheeled around.
Two Bengali gentlemen stood before us, smiling politely. We had not met them before.
‘We went to your hotel to look for you,’ said one of them.
‘Is anything the matter?’ asked Feluda.
‘We are from the Bengali Club. My name is Sanjay Roy, and this is Gokul Chatterjee. We came to invite you to our play, the day after tomorrow.’
‘Kabuliwala?’
‘You knew?’ Both men sounded pleased and surprised. ‘Didn’t you invite Mr Ghoshal a few days ago?’
‘My God, you seem to know everything!’ said Sanjay Roy. ‘That’s not surprising
, is it?’ Gokul Chatterjee laughed. Feluda’s reputation as a sleuth was obviously not unknown to the members of the Bengali Club.
‘We left the card with Niranjan Babu. You must all come. We’ll expect you.’
‘Thank you very much. We’ll be there, if I don’t get involved in anything important, that is.’
‘Involved in something important? Why, are you . . . I mean, here?’
I looked at Feluda. His lips had parted in that mysterious smile which, I knew, he reserved for situations like this. It could mean ‘yes’, or it could mean ‘no’; it could even mean ‘maybe’. Neither Mr Roy nor Mr Chatterjee wanted to look foolish. So both nodded vigorously, indicating that they had fully grasped his meaning, and took their leave.
We resumed walking. It was getting dark. The streetlights had come on. They sky had started to change from royal blue to blue-black, and a transistor had been turned on at full blast in a shop. The voice of Lata Mangeshkar began to compete with the blare of rickshaw horns. At this point, Feluda announced that his heart was suddenly awash with a wave of bhakti, and he couldn’t possibly go back without another look at Machchli Baba.
We arrived at Abhay Chakravarty’s house to find a larger crowd, possibly because the Baba was going to leave in five days. ‘Stand still,’ said Feluda to me, placing his camera on my shoulder. Then he took a photograph of Machchli Baba using his telephoto lens. I couldn’t see Maganlal anywhere. Maybe he didn’t come every day. We left in five minutes.
A right turn took us into a new lane. A large cow stood blocking the way. Lalmohan Babu gave a small cough and stopped. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Feluda.
‘Er. . . what do you suppose its height is?’
‘Why?’
‘I was once quite good at high jump. I even had a record in school. But, a few years ago, an attack of dengue . . . I mean, my knees are no longer . . .’